by Terry Watada
the passers-by hopeful
of tomorrow’s sunshine
which
spreads out and down into the park a-
cross to the cityscape into
the dissent and dissipated
into
St James Town
into
Regent Park into Rosedale into the
Jarvis Street blues
by a riverbank, labelled
“Medical Waste”—yellow plastic
bags
like so much garbage tossed
mindlessly
into
water.
Naked babies
below
the Guangfu River bridge
and the Shandong Broadcasting
Co.
expressed con-
cern over the area’s drinking water
lapping, restless
waves - rocking the babies
to
sleep
without comfort or dreams
the Don River takes
a wicked right crashing onto the beaches of
East York’s
landscape
and Mike’s ghost opens his mouth like
he has something
to say
but
he totalled the car
as he backed down
the street while
his nerve endings frayed
and his brain
bled memories
like the mouths of
babies open
just beneath the surface like
tea cups
filled with the
muddy water of indifference
and
cruelty
of a people trying to save money
turquoise identity
bands
the only blue of
the water.
and the chinese government
calls it an “environmental problem”
away from the river
and in-
to
the sterility of the roads
criss-
crossing and
inter- secting
on the red.
The East York bungalow
low-risers trying
for respectability hiding
secrets
from the river where no
one can hear the crying-screams
of
a seven-year-old
from
the rotting
mouths of babies
in
the river.
All the worldsadness on the radio as Mike &
me listen
in the ’69 Chevy machine.
A Period of Glowing Life and [Happy]-ness
the longer I
live the more life
takes
away.
i remain its chronicler
•
the kitchen that’s the best
memory—
a breakfast nook
where we all sat a-
round.
a dull light overhead
Mike, Carol, Michelle,
Phil,
Bobby.
names laughing with human frailty,
of dreaming at what was hoped to be
Mrs Shin tall, lanky and beautiful
in her love of life
buzzing
around, making sure
we were
all fed
Stephen flying in and out as if
dancing
—his profession in years
to come
and the men Miki
and Mr Shin wise and Buddha-like
on the couch
enjoying
the Pro Am
or Masters or
British Open
I take it all in:
the gossip,
the advice,
the opinion
and cigarette smoke
always cigarette smoke.
I reveled in
the sense of family
in
the noise of family
in the [Happy]-ness of
fam-
ily
and then June
joined . . .
a highschool loyalty born to
her beauty
a charm
in her love
of Mike
and razor wit in
her outlook on life so young
to be so cynical yet
conventional in
suburban ex-
pectations
in degree of involvement
they all had that: college education, job, marriage, kids
two weeks’ vacation a year promotion prosperity
in a ranch-style/split level house barbecues, swimming pool,
luxury cars (2 of course) four weeks’ vacation retirement bliss
with grandchildren
but working class neighbourhoods
left
in
our past and present were filled
with love as companion with blood
con-nect-ions
as
joy
and all their moves to
the near boroughs
[a white-walled split-
back-flat-house
with garage and driveway
luxury
but the ever-present
breakfast
nook still
held us in a half-circle of
family of the stories,
laughter and back-slaps
we had
come to expect to
en-joy
and then the migration
the move to the distant suburbs out-
side the city
barbecue’d and mortgaged
that’s all my life’s been
the allure of
prosperity the trappings of
wealth a labyrinth house with
unfinished basement,
[a future project]
3-car garage friends nearby
the nearness of
relatives as help
and comfort
daycare centres
handle me with care night school
and Mike fell into himself
gripped by silence day by
day
parents evaporated into nothing
city friends
abandoned for the FTD
[not the florist but fronto-temporal-dementia—
a silent disease i nor anyone had heard of—
a
killer by stealth in the night]
sister, brother-in-law, nephews, nieces
embroiled
in disorienting and
crushing legal torts and threats
in Chancery
yet the circle of conversation
continues
in the half hug of the
breakfast nook.
there was a
period of glowing
life and [
happy-ness] now broken
by absence
and the tragedy
of disease
of misunderstanding
of accusations and recriminations
of poetry and love songs
old songs I once heard
I am not a relative
barely a friend
but
there was a time . . .
while listening to Van Morrison
the
wind rivered
across
and
through the whiteroom
like his voice was spilling out
of
the stereo console.
he seemed angry
secretive,
mystic
and eternally Celtic.
the music a strange
under-
pinning for Mike lying
in bed
his eyes clouding
blind
like water as it freezes
yet his
fixed stare remains
without
thought
as time
drips to a slow meaning-
lessness
memories of children,
wife,
relatives and
friends gone
but his father lingers
his image of
emaciated arms kindling thin
only good for
burning/cremation
fell like
ashes
the image of
the last
long
cigarette
dangling from the mouth
he unable to take it to
flick the ashes unable
to take it
out of the mouth
to say goodbye.
but Van sang
coolly of
astral weeks
careening
through the spiritual
skies
and finding
stars of eternalnothingness
Mike’s mind turns crystal
unable to form concepts unable
to hear the echoes of
a slipstream
unable to
drive along
the California coast as
we once did
so long ago
tears well in my eyes
but
they don’t run
as all his dreams
come
tumbling
down
as was his beautiful vision.
The Vanishing Point
call him James Dean, Brando,
Cool Hand Luke Bullitt;
just don’t call him Michael.
we’re driving towards coolsville
with Waits groaning with a
hang
over
on the Blaupunkt
i see the blonde smile
in
the shrine of the
sun
rain fell
like liquid sun-light
she came from Coolsville
a
mythic town of ancient
dreams but i saw her
her burnished legs
shown
off
by a miniskirt
and i fade away as Mike
goes on
his one-arm around June,
his best girl as she smokes listening
to Whitney on the radio
his other arm
on the steering wheel of
his dad’s Oldsmobile
but then even she evaporates
as the white lines
converge &
point
towards a lonesome expresslane
and Kowalski smiles
as
super soul
on KOW 980 screams
out the eulogy:
the last American hero
the golden driver of the golden west
ripped apart the last beautiful free
soul on this planet.
Coolsville is just round the bend
and up the road a bit
•
the one hundredth
story told the one hundredth
candle
snuffed
darkness falls with a thud
can’t
you see?
can
you not see?
a ghostly visitation
A Visitation
Take the last lit candle
in hand
& realize
everything is burning
ask yourself—What is burning?
Desire
gaze at the flame
(enter the self,
blow
out the light
and sink into the darkness of
Nirvana
a presence gathers the cling
of
rosewood & ashes
he appears with piteous
raiment of the past:
silent
remote
reproachful
“what is it like?
death, I mean.”
my first sensations in the great divide beyond
were open to the summit possibilities of atmic
visions
watery like
looking in a glass
darkly in a Lewis Carroll
fantasy entertainment
i like
being
dead Of the world
there’s no cold there’s
no hate
there’s no pain.
only peace
in life i committed the three sins
greed: i tried
to steal from you because
i was the first son
anger: i resented the fact of you
my
parents insulted me dismissed me
belittled me allowed you to be very lucky
ignorance:
i
thought i did not love my parents
i did not love you.
Stupid became my name.
i wish i
would’ve been generous, compassionate and wise
i had so much family, home & love so much to give
scenes from a deathbed:
as my father said to me
when okasan died:
“we only have each other now”
Oniisan
burst into
tears as he reached for my hand
to say goodbye.
I had a brother once more
(at least, for a time)
don’t cry te-bozu
my
love is still with you that is
what
remains of me
Of
the world
listen to the words of our past
& realize the gift you have been given:
[Death has no meaning;
when I think of the moment
of my death,
I grow sad at the loss of
warm family memories.]
our ojiichan
Iwakichi Takehara fe
b 1944
[Last night I dreamed
