The Game of 100 Ghosts Read online

  as the light disappears

  at

  the sunset horizon

  like all sensation

  save your

  sadness

  persisting as perfume on

  a hot

  summer’s day

  come with me

  to be together among

  the black

  stars and

  celestial dreams

  come with me.

  I still have

  my son his child-

  ren my brothers and

  sister & the memory of

  another to bless, kiss and hold

  I stay

  in divine

  supplication.

  no? I shall wait for you then.

  Last Dream

  in a courageous fight . . .

  he slipped a-

  way

  peacefully in his sleep

  do we dream as

  numbing death

  crawls up the legs? do we

  writhe

  in the pain of

  enlightenment

  or drift into shining joy does peace thaw

  frozen death

  like a warm

  rain?

  Or does regret drizzle the mind

  with black paint

  until sunlight crashes

  into the

  western horizon of

  the Buddha’s gaze with no end question

  on the

  lips?

  a last dream:

  the crying blue ocean below a young

  blue sky

  above

  balancing on a railing between while

  oka cleans the rice of grain swish and swirl

  like white pebbles

  caught

  in a Naruta whirlpool.

  a sea creature erupts the surface

  a monster spirit’s

  guttural

  voice

  belches forth and

  I fall

  into the blue below

  gasping for the blue

  above drowning in

  water until

  a tender callous’d hand

  grips my collar

  and pulls me

  up

  to the indigo sun.

  a last dream:

  ayoung boy

  dances or tries to dance

  to the scratchy records

  on the RCA

  the rough-

  hewn splintered walls of an

  internment prison

  rumble

  with the shuffling feet

  and sweaty hands

  on

  the backs of frayed summer

  dresses a handprint,

  a stain

  but the couples glide to the music

  “My son Hideki he had first time dance to-night at Hotel.

  He said to mama, ‘Mama, I made dance to-night’ and he was very joyful. We are just smile.”

  matsujiro watada, Minto, BC 1942

  the walls fall a-

  way as the recordsong

  crescendos

  and the forest

  trees march to

  the musicmarchinginside to hug

  the

  children in

  a leafy embrace.

  the last dream:

  a cat, a grey-brown cat

  mewing goodbye

  as their truck pulled away

  from

  the camp

  he sees it through tears

  and the cat melts before his

  dreameyes

  did he dream a

  last

  dream? did okasan

  in her coma? did

  dad

  in the ambulance on

  his way

  to the morgue?

  dark thinking eyes closed

  for the last time

  and

  dreams evaporated.

  The Dinner

  a hollow

  pocket

  hovered

  around the dining-room

  as dinner was served.

  my

  brother

  loved to play host

  back in the day

  he always brought out

  an adequate bottle

  of wine

  my father called

  him kitsui with money

  he always stored away the bottles

  any one

  brought as a gift.

  kitsui

  but i should have appreciated

  his little gestures his pockets of

  generosity

  but too little much too late now

  his wife sat

  in his son’s renovated kitchen

  to eat by herself in the company

  of turkey carcass

  stuffing, canned cranberry

  sauce and sushi

  in the company of her grief.

  a flutter of spirit hands

  in

  hushed room-

  corners

  he

  once asked her

  to come with to where

  he was going

  she

  refused of course

  but i wonder

  if he is calling her

  towards his

  grave their names are together

  on his tombstone

  her facial muscles

  slacken as her sadness

  emerges into the

  light

  and

  her legs

  drag

  as if gripped in place

  by gravity or hands

  grasping

  her ankles.

  i wonder as she

  refuses direct eye-contact

  as only the perfunctory

  spills

  out of

  her mouth

  every time, every occasion

  she blames me

  (i know) for his passing

  how i

  refused

  his demands of money

  of property of title

  kitsui until

  i held his outstretched

  hand as he poured out

  his regrets, his guilt, his

  sorrows in rebellious tears,

  defiant

  tears

  enraged tears

  with

  black tears

  but did i forgive?

  his wife pushed me aside

  to comfort to stop the

  drizzle of

  a crying

  rainfall

  i could only watch tearless

  — my self lacking pity

  i carried his coffin of stones

  to his final resting place

  a place

  a fair distance from our

  parents only scorn and rejection

  as his last act on this earth.

  his parents were never

  my

  parents

  he never sat at holiday

  dinner tables unless he came

  late

  and then ate
by himself

  in the company

  of turkey,

  stuffing, chow

  mein

  perhaps i should have been the brother

  reaching out for

  the sake

  of family

  but i was not.

  the holiday table is laden

  with heavy

  dishes of thanks the relatives

  laugh

  with joy and remembrance

  stomachs soon swell with dis-

  comfort

  and satisfaction

  he would have been happy pontificating

  on

  some obscure opera while his wife

  turned a deaf ear while others sat with

  eyes glazed over

  but that was us for a time

  now we partake of plenty

  while pockets of guilt, pockets of

  shame

  pockets of sorrow

  grow into the shadows

  and corners of disappearing family.

  virgin moon

  in its

  first quarter

  the clear (liquid) light

  droplets

  of light

  bounce

  and splatter the companion

  gameroom

  with a wish (as we all

  wish):

  to talk one last time,

  for a day, for an hour, a minute

  to sweat

  out

  answers to hear why

  he hated me

  why

  he loved me

  and as the revelations seep

  into me

  perhaps i’d

  find it was my fault

  or that nothing ever was the case.

  a third of the candles extinguished

  and

  the

  conversation draws near.

  100 Ghosts

  In the corners and cross-roads of the Big Smoke

  (thank you Bunji)

  A Silent Rain

  When a sliver of light

  becomes a dagger of night,

  the hour of cantrips

  and incantations glows bright.

  the Big Smoke sings

  a kind

  of Blues in the key of Waits:

  against the steady choir

  of

  traffic and sirens,

  I

  slumber

  in the breezy dark,

  but not asleep, never asleep.

  life is too short

  (claims the cliché) for Poe’s

  slices of death to interrupt

  and the rain comes beating

  on the roof in waves of

  tranquility and sadness

  against the glass

  dripping over eaves and

  soaking in-

  to

  the ground

  sinking in—

  to

  the plateau of fantastic streets,

  i escape the self-doubt, self-

  loathing, the knife of

  self:

  (the fear of being found out,

  the

  vanity of the hack writer)

  images of melting colours, barking dogs, a loving

  baby

  touching my shoulder in an effort to comfort

  the hour of cantrips

  and incantations begins.

  crying, absolute breakdown, without motherly

  love

  kiss the

  mouth of phantom lovers

  (wide open

  eyes squeezed & tight)

  rivulets streaming

  across

  the contours of

  cheeks, nose and

  chin

  with the realization

  of what is and

  what

  shall be, i

  awaken

  to the rain gone

  silent

  I am alone in bed

  with the memory

  of magic and

  the streets

  continue

  to sing.

  Suicide City

  On a copasetic night

  of cop beatings,

  street meanderings

  and wanton love-

  making out

  against a moist brick wall

  osamu jumped

  from

  the Bloor Viaduct

  hitting the asphalt

  not surviving even

  a moment of

  clarity.

  Tim Horton’s at

  2 a.m. dave

  thinks

  about

  what he will do

  tomorrow

  she’s in a coma

  the stillness of a stroke

  in her brain

  no chance of survival

  no glimmer in the eyes

  it’s best

  one shot to the head

  and she’s gone

  and then dave is gone

  moments later

  lives become headlines

  you want to die?

  I am 60 a declaration

  of time dwindling

  only

  20 years left anyway.

  I am alone what’s the

  use?

  the paralysis

  of analysis

  a philosophical desire

  for nothingness

  to sleep. to feel nothing. to

  see nothing to be no-

  thing

  but your dreams?

  loneliness

  looks for company

  in

  a city of 5 million

  the coldness of

  skyscraper white & black

  buildings the decrepit lowrise

  and tired

  Victorians

  featherlight garbage flying down

  anonymous ominous alleyways

  the bodies pile high be-

  hind

  the small prim hotel

  behind

  Dundas & eternity (a portal to another

  reality)

  to die of exposure is a kind of suicide

  on wintry

  nights

  of cop searches and social

  worker pity

  when loneliness provides a reason

  to leave. to feel nothing

  not even a

  dream

  Lisa

  As she

  lay

  die-

  ing,

  her mother, as

  all Nisei mothers

  tend to do,

  en-

  treat-ed

  her to choose

  a religion

  “You’ve got

  to have a funeral somewhere . . . ”

  all the relatives

  will be coming all

  the friends I’ve got to make

  arrangements:

  food, flowers, the minister . . .