on buying a book of secondhand
poety with a dedication to
the President of a Publishing
house.
you gave him a present of poems
and the president of the publishing
house, may have looked at them,
but in the back of his mind of course,
was whether he would break even,
which is doubtful with translations,
to save you from embarrassment
the president bowed and accepted
the gift of your stars in the heaven,
moon above the gray gravelled
gardens of zen Buddhist temples,
and those lovely intimate examples
of when you and your late partner
cuddled then kissed, he gave a coded
look at his staff to put the book on a
book shelf somewhere out of reach
like his inside feelings that are retracted
like the balls of a buddha, a glow of
niceness and warmth that emanates
from his round face, hides embezzlement,
and those times he ties up young girls
in a gentleman's club, the president
takes your arm and he will show you
a poem, a leak of black calligraphy
and dutifully inform you this is Basho
while in his head he is thinking of baseball
that is playing right now, you fall
for the exterior, the cherry blossom,
geisha, kimono, samurai, zen deal
that is sold and packaged in an exchange
of politeness, everything so precious
even if it is crap, just look at them
and you lap up every grain,every morsel,
and after this scene, like one out of total
recall, you return to the US, a stranger
comparing everything with Japan,
while the President with a smile
orders an office girl he once groped
to take your "exquisite" book of poetry
to the requisite depository, a book store,
your moons and stars, your kitchen, your
late partner, your life, your words, your
gratitude, all there, on top of a "bore"
of out-of-date science books, a German
bibliography of research on human anatomy
and I scooped up for two hundred and fifty yen
your book, your life, and the smile of the President.
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