• Rouge burns up the skyline tapestry consuming Tokyo with dusty colors at six am.

    I'm a moth diving from the sky,
    crash-landing on the lamp-posts below.
    The lights fade like dim constellations --
    Orion's belt tightens around my mouth
    and my round eyes are like spotted targets,
    perfect for the arrows of Sagittarius.

    My father is always back to the hotel
    when the clock give in and traffic begins,
    but he counts his blessings.
    Having faith that Jesus will meet me
    at the noodle shop down the road
    and let me star in the world's radio show.

    Sorry Lord, I can't make the date!
    The vending machines of used panties
    and Yakuza river-dancing in the streets
    amuse me more than a man who walks on water.

    He sighs --, laughing polietly
    well puffing smog and cancer sticks,
    stumbling over something to say.
    The butt-end is thrown and the embers spiral down,
    fizzling out when it joins the cigarette choir
    of phone call girls below.

    Downing midori sours and s**t-colored Sapporo
    with the work-boys makes him fade into the morning,
    the air is like television static,
    "The wings are flames" he said
    and I said, "Let them weave us in."