Takashi Hiraide
from FOR THE FIGHTING
SPIRIT OF THE WALNUT
translated from
Japanese by Sawako Nakayasu
The rounded back of
that lonesome wrecking professional, I wonder if it isnÕt there, the true
identity of a line of poetry. Hiding his true face further within the dust that
sprays back like an enemyÕs blood, enjoying the intensifying, post-destruction
sunshine as if the damage were his own – the narrow back.
ŌBECAUSE ALL
THEORIES ARE IMPLICATIONS SLIGHTLY TOO LARGE FOR THEIR SUBSTANCE, THEY SHOULD, WITH NEITHER REJECTION NOR
ENCOURAGEMENT, BE RUBBED WITH CARE
AND SINCERITY, SPAT UPON AS THE TRANSFERRED IMAGE SPAT OUT BY--THE WAYSIDE IN BYGONE DAYS. IN THIS WAY, THY LOST, SOFT SKIN, RATHER
THAN THE DRAWING, COMES TO BE DRAWN IN
THIS MOVEMENT OF THE RUBBING FINGERS. SUBSEQUENTLY
IT IS TO BE HIT BY A STONE, DRIED BY THE SUN,
AND IF THOU SHOULDST SCRAPE AT IT ROUGHLY WITH--SHARPENED
FINGERNAILS OR A HIGONOKAMI KNIFE, EVEN THE DUST OF IMPLICATION SHALL APPEAR TO DANCE A--SMALL TEMPEST—AND THAT IS AN
ESPECIALLY JOYFUL THING.Ķ
The swirling has started
after all. Just look at that keel tip, wavering at the directive approaching
from up ahead. Just try looking through that empty memory of yours. Tied
together, the bells which report their whereabouts dance, and between these
dancing bells, look, the swirling has started after all.
The blood plasma
seeping into the pavement. Sturdy arms that squeeze tight. The murky light of
the city quietly pins me down, thrashes me, breaks me apart. I am a construction
site in July, spreading upon a hazy brow. I lash out. Into the rumpled interval
of sun. At the someone in the center. Tears belonging to no one well up, and
wash, as if hitting, the pit of my stomach, sunken into the pavement.
Why not use your
fluttering tongue to wipe the sweat off of that starling who is trying to strip
off her wings. ItÕs so distant of you, my arboreal lover on the outskirts of
town. From the shadow of the clothes hanging in a thrift shop, a single
antelope watches you. Steel-colored eyes of contempt.