Monday, January 5, 2015


We are like Him when our minds are in frame. Not to know meditative from non-meditative state. Frame narrows as it loses focus. The word in Japanese for “great” meant “tired” in plantation lingo. They knew she was Okinawan, because her hands were covered in tattoos. Women disfigured themselves so soldiers would not rape them. Focus is not frame but launch pad. When I closed my eyes I saw his block print behind the lids; they closed over my eye like a screen. I couldn't read the words, but that seemed not to matter. It was pattern, the stink of dust and mold, imprint of light until the notebook closed like an eye. What we do not see is sometimes not a crime. What we hear is our boots on volcanic ash, sickled koa leaves. To lose focus is to see more: snow on the mountain, observatories like white pustules at the top. Selfsame land blemished, bleached as the tree tripped by lava flow. Sangha found a white tag with the number five scrawled on it, among the dead trees.

for Kevin & Miho in Volcano
--5 January 2015

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