Little Italy Parts 1 and 2
EvilToasterElf
Posts: 1,119
Little Italy: Part I
Shidax, the karaoke box, the North Star
of Tokuyama, sheds Saturday drunks
like a wet dog shaking itself dry.
The drops scatter and laugh and fall,
But the tributaries converge at Yatai.
On the wide sidewalks in the heart
Of town, three Ramen stalls cast
Their steam into the streets, hissing
a siren call to we lost sailors
In summer the humidity can climb
to the high 90’s, we swim through
the air, and find dry land, wooden
benches at Giovanni’s mobile kitchen
He is not Italian, he’s never been to Italy,
but he loves us like a drunk uncle,
He fills and refills our tiny cups,
from huge glass bottles of Asahi,
until we fall off the bench, or rise
out of it. If he were an anime character
He’d be drawn with a round face, bright red
cheeks, and large bags under his eyes,
this is how they animate alcoholism,
though the Japanese have no word for it.
Before the sun has started climbing,
he’s drunk, “Call me Cappuccino!”
the words escape around a single
front tooth. “Five years ago,” says a Brit,
a refugee from a broken Manchester home,
“Everyone called him Antonio.”
I’ve never changed my name, but I think
about how many times I’ve changed myself,
re-invented, upgraded, adjusted, identity
tailors would probably make a great deal
of money. After all this, I wonder, why
is it that I feel more at home as a foreigner,
in the company of strangers? ”Cappuccino!”
He looks at the bill in my outstretched hand,
“No, no money,” Some of us see home, in a glance,
acknowledging simple pleasures, like falling in love
with a painting, that drifts out of view, distorted
by the last belch of furnace, simmering a pile
of noodles, food for the stray cats.
Little Italy: Part II
When it was revealed to us, I was with a friend
who never says goodbye, but always says, peace.
Our main drag, this four lane artery connecting
our weekend retreats was called, Heiwa Dori
Peace Street
The look in his eyes showed surprise, but the smirk
said he’d known it all along. As if the name
was released from a magic lamp under the pavement,
rubbed into life by his feet, ambling toward Yatai.
Three wishes condensed into one, flowing down
the rims of little glasses, life, to make enough
memories that we can happily forget, to fill
those vacant spaces, those black retreats
from thought with something solid enough
that it can vanish. As we sit down, a woman stares.
A minute later, a man grabs his gawking mistress
throws her into a black car, and fades into red
tail lights. We learn that drunk, is Yoparai,
and that laughter has no language. Peace,
as he stumbles into a cab, and I linger
under the streetlights, following the chirps
of crosswalk signals back home. An old man
with no customers cleans up his kitchen,
and his strong arms roll it two kilometers,
whistling an old fight song around his tooth
though he doesn’t know it, carpe diem
canters through his brain, in letters I can’t read
and sounds I can’t pronounce. In little cities,
small men move mountains, and nomad kitchens
are more permanent than graves.
Shidax, the karaoke box, the North Star
of Tokuyama, sheds Saturday drunks
like a wet dog shaking itself dry.
The drops scatter and laugh and fall,
But the tributaries converge at Yatai.
On the wide sidewalks in the heart
Of town, three Ramen stalls cast
Their steam into the streets, hissing
a siren call to we lost sailors
In summer the humidity can climb
to the high 90’s, we swim through
the air, and find dry land, wooden
benches at Giovanni’s mobile kitchen
He is not Italian, he’s never been to Italy,
but he loves us like a drunk uncle,
He fills and refills our tiny cups,
from huge glass bottles of Asahi,
until we fall off the bench, or rise
out of it. If he were an anime character
He’d be drawn with a round face, bright red
cheeks, and large bags under his eyes,
this is how they animate alcoholism,
though the Japanese have no word for it.
Before the sun has started climbing,
he’s drunk, “Call me Cappuccino!”
the words escape around a single
front tooth. “Five years ago,” says a Brit,
a refugee from a broken Manchester home,
“Everyone called him Antonio.”
I’ve never changed my name, but I think
about how many times I’ve changed myself,
re-invented, upgraded, adjusted, identity
tailors would probably make a great deal
of money. After all this, I wonder, why
is it that I feel more at home as a foreigner,
in the company of strangers? ”Cappuccino!”
He looks at the bill in my outstretched hand,
“No, no money,” Some of us see home, in a glance,
acknowledging simple pleasures, like falling in love
with a painting, that drifts out of view, distorted
by the last belch of furnace, simmering a pile
of noodles, food for the stray cats.
Little Italy: Part II
When it was revealed to us, I was with a friend
who never says goodbye, but always says, peace.
Our main drag, this four lane artery connecting
our weekend retreats was called, Heiwa Dori
Peace Street
The look in his eyes showed surprise, but the smirk
said he’d known it all along. As if the name
was released from a magic lamp under the pavement,
rubbed into life by his feet, ambling toward Yatai.
Three wishes condensed into one, flowing down
the rims of little glasses, life, to make enough
memories that we can happily forget, to fill
those vacant spaces, those black retreats
from thought with something solid enough
that it can vanish. As we sit down, a woman stares.
A minute later, a man grabs his gawking mistress
throws her into a black car, and fades into red
tail lights. We learn that drunk, is Yoparai,
and that laughter has no language. Peace,
as he stumbles into a cab, and I linger
under the streetlights, following the chirps
of crosswalk signals back home. An old man
with no customers cleans up his kitchen,
and his strong arms roll it two kilometers,
whistling an old fight song around his tooth
though he doesn’t know it, carpe diem
canters through his brain, in letters I can’t read
and sounds I can’t pronounce. In little cities,
small men move mountains, and nomad kitchens
are more permanent than graves.
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