In Shinjuku’s Jazz Village
While drinking thick, bitter coffee
I was listening to Bird
Having just then come from quitting my job
I realized
There are other things I should do now
No matter what I do, I am a grasshopper and
Will never become a worker-ant

Just writing.
I’m just writing.
Have never called myself a poet,
So I’m happy.
Still fussy about the word,
Poem.
Callous youth,
I’m happy I didn’t call me
A poet
To challenge you.

Arcosanti appears abruptly amid the desert 110km north of Phoenix, the metropolis of Arizona. It is an experimental town which has been under construction based on a philosophy propounded by Paolo Soleri, an architect from Tulin Italy, called Arcology, a concept which pursues coexistence of architecture and ecology.

On March 5, 2006 I was pushing my way through a crowd of shoppers along the busy Melrose Avenue, heading for an alley behind it.

In January 1984, snowy New York, I visited an apartment of Allen Ginsberg on 12th St. between 1st and A Ave., where junkies wonder aimlessly, on the verge of Manhattan. As I called out for his name outside of an apartment, a familiar face I’ve seen in pictures all these years appeared from a window. The lionesque hair I’ve seen in those pictures had become little shorter and whiter. Out of the blue he threw the key of the entrance, looking as if he did not care for accustomed greetings.

-To George W. Bush, The 43rd President of the United States of America
(March 20,2003)
Anywhere you get a guy who sucks.
But George,
That cannot be a reason for
Dropping bombs and missiles,
Blowing up arms and legs,
Mincing the flesh of a family, and
Pulling down daughters and wives, soaked in blood.
You see, George.