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ichido shikai nai life (this one-chance life)

we still have time to catch the bus going to the ocean
i feel that we shouldn’t miss it this time.

I i. the lost crayon
her cape was red in my colouring book
but the red crayon had slipped off
somewhere on his own
along the way.
i wondered if he had perhaps rolled
to the back of the bus,
or if he was only teasing me.
a week later
i filed a missing persons report
and i almost lost
after receiving a call
regarding my lost pencil crayon
from the posters i had placed on
telephone poles
around town
and the three advertisements
i paid for in the newspaper.
when i arrived
i burst into tears,
for he had been snapped
in half.
I ii. pulling at the ends of the earth
for miles the grass grew to my knees
in all four directions
the horizon was visible
the clouds climbed like stairs, skyward.
free from its enclosure,
a chestnut brown horse
flew across the countryside.
in the mud
a scarecrow stuck out of the earth,
a single stick
connecting it to the world.
I iii. washing away the past
when i awoke
i heard the steady, solemn beat
of the rain
against the house.
out the window
the leaves on bushes
were splashed
with droplets of rainwater.
the rural roadside
was wet
with remorse
as if trying to absolve
the decline of the stock market
and a single
withered red rose.
i smiled
as nature lapped at herself,
like a cat's soft sandpaper tongue
cleaning its fur,
until she told me
that the rain was flooding
the river
and that the water
was a breeding ground
for mosquitoes.
after all,
we can never
wash away our sins
with tears.
II i. temporary sleeping methods
sleep came easy to my feet
tucked under my underside.
i squandered all my circulation
on happiness
and soon thereafter began to tingle.
my right foot itched
like pinpricks making an intrusion
reminding me of the time
that we fell asleep
in your car,
when i awakened
my arm had lost all feeling
while my other hand
was clasped in yours.
when you finally woke up at 6 AM
we hardly spoke at all.
before i left
i kissed you on the cheek.
II ii. the rusty painting of a mongolian army
the drums smashed and noisemakers
as the men marched
against the dawn,
their swords in hand,
and bright green bannered uniform tails
flapping wildly in the wind,
barefoot, with ankle bracelets
and masks of tribal paint
they moved across the sand.
terrifying and brilliant
like an army of angels
in the sky
fighting for heaven
they leered down
at the mortals
who were as inconvenient
and insignificant
as the grains of sand
beneath their feet.
III i. the life of velcro
green blue of leaves
difficult making out in dark
waiting for-
a flash!
it escaped...
scramble back
into bushes.
green blur
pad up to bowl
tongue stretches out
lap at water
crook head
gnaw on
crunch-crunch, crunch-crunch
crunch-crunch, crunch...
lie down
in the sun.
in getting stomach rubbed
soft meow.
III ii. a brand new fence
we resurrected the old fence,
murdering the old wood,
knocking it to pieces with a hammer,
the dragged its still-screaming corpse
out of the blood covered earth.
we stitched it back up
with rope and
sewing needles
and held hot wax
to its legs,
then plunged it back
into the molten ground,
welding it with elastics,
sardonic eyeballs
and cathartic sardines.
and so we proved
that resurrection is possible.
III iii. life of a mosquito
bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz... splat.
III iv. law of the forest
out by the edge
where the land plateaus
and meets the threes,
where the last reaches of the sun
stretch out to touch the forest floor.
the monarch butterfly flips opens its wings
to reveal a second face
of orange, black and white,
a halloween mask
to terrify all other animals.
III v. life of velcro (part 2)
the tawny orange cat
dragged the pathetic
and tiny mouse,
blood bursting from its broken ear
which had been mangled
by those feline fangs.
the cat then began
to bang the still squirming
and squeaking rodent
against the glass door,
the animal wildly flailing
until at last
it fell limp.
IV i. conquest of the great world
to the man
who first crossed those aching rivers
and lurching valleys,
who trekked to the top
of one mountain,
and then the next
to the man who ventured
from his home
by foot
and horse
with only a walking stick
to keep him company
through the cold, wintry nights,
and slept under the stars.
to the man,
who blew the rockies
to smithereens
blasting a path
and paving it
with cement and concrete
and to the man
who painted the stripes on the road
by hand
and the man
who molded the railroad,
his fingers burning eternally
into the track
etching his soul
into that shining metal
to that man,
i salute you,
and though it is by car
that i see your efforts-
no, your lives' works,
your great masterpieces,
though i whiz by
at 140 km per hour
i appreciate
the rustic beauty of the only souvenirs of your lives
but still i smile in secret
at the greater beauty
of those vast and enigmatic
rocky mountains,
as they climb toward the sky:
immovable, immutable, and omniscient,
the source of which,
just as mysterious
as the feeling inside of me.
IV ii. tale of the two hitchhikers
two men stood
at the edge of the road
in the dark
waiting for their saviour,
thumbs knotted from the strain
of standing,
arms outstretched
in the greeting signal,
the universal symbol,
which inspires
in all inhabitants of the road
holy reverence.
after many long hours
of wandering through the night,
the stream of cars running dry,
emerged two violent white headlights,
sightless, glowing eyes
that blinded the travelers.
as the old black vehicle
pulled to a stop
the young men waited anxiously
for a window to roll down
or a door to open
and the driver to step out;
instead, with a squeal
and a creak
the back door eased open.
the pair of men,
gathering their bags stumbled inside
not knowing their driver
nor their destination.
they drove for a long time,
never seeing their mysterious benefactor,
when at last, the car came
to a dead stop
in a cemetery.
IV iii. decline of the mountain goat
here we stand
on the winding road
somewhere between points A and B,
but not really sure
what direction to take.
and part way on our journey,
atop the mountainside,
horns curled up alongside their heads,
the goats run in groups.
quite suddenly one loses its footing
and for that brief second
it is all flailing
limbs tumbling over each other,
and in the next moment
it is very still.
IV iv. our happiness lies with the river
in the water our joy is buried,
and the trees conceal our sorrow;
to technology we are married,
it does not look bright for tomorrow.
we have created our every worry,
drawn our own yellow line;
we keep ourselves in a hurry,
tell ourselves we’re doing fine.
but every time i hear water trickle
over the hammer and the sickle,
i find it such a pity
that i can’t escape the city.

17 Jul 05

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Liked IV iv alot.
 — junky

Good for you junky
 — unknown

Thanks, "matey"
 — junky

Inuki... I know you've worked hard and long on this, so you're not going to like everything I have to say, so please don't get offended before you really read my comment? Bene?

To my understanding and in my reading, this just reaches for more than it can hold. It's too scattered, too many facets to look at. While the individual sections are generally consistently very good, there's not enough connective fiber, whether it be thematic or structural or by pattern or whatever to justify their inclusion together. And if you personally do feel there is, you may have to consider the problem of accessibility. The connection between sections may seem natural or even clear to you, but as (if I may) an occasionally astute reader, I cannot find enough thread to connect them. Unless you have no regard for the reader, you may have to consider what is here and what is not and what needs to be.

Details & Specifics:

One of the two themes that seems prevalent, but not consistent is nature. I'm seeing it in   Iii, Iiii, IIIiv and onwards, but only as a palette, not as a point. That is to say, it's there but it's still not connected, except that you seem to be using the same imagery.  I'd like to see more of consistency. I'm not asking for strict narrative qualities or to have everything spelled out (that'd be somewhat hypocritical) but a reader needs something to connect with.

The other theme is of loss. I see it in Ii, Iiii, IIi, IVi and IViv, but it's not consistent in portrayal. That'd be fine, I could see it in terms of contrast and comparision, except that I am so distracted and thrown around by what seems like unrelated themes and lack of pattern that I can't see well enough.

That's what I have for now. Talk to me if you want more specifics. As soon as I can and probably in several increments, I will analyze each section and comment. As I said, I think individually they're mostly excellent, but simply don't work as one. I will be back.
 — dandy

heheha i like
 — unknown