sitting on a gifu street corner at 9 a.m. on a saturday, thinking about john lent
& sweating, hot already but blue sky
after a week of rain & lightning, the paw strokes
of typhoons to the south. My corner: the northern edge of
Kogane Park—across the street is the Gekijo-Dori
entrance to Yanagase, which is a covered shopping area
containing restaurants, bars, a department store,
shoe shops, clothing stores, the store
where I buy my incense, the shop where I buy & fix
my glasses—also the wrestling bar where I drank
with my father & Tom last time, two years
ago, a ring right in there, the wrestlers friendly
signing stuff for us after—or Irish bar Losers
with a wall full of Beatle album covers, my kinda place.
Construction clanging across the street, new apartment/
shopping complex going up, over
the white fencing around it I can see cranes,
machinery, hear construction rumbles—& a pretty
girl in silver high heels & holding a small electric fan
walks past, or maybe not pretty, who knows, everybody’s
pretty with a mask on, even me. —I am here
in my body, my mind as it is. —This part
of Kogane Park is tiled, has an ornamental
pond & an elevator to the underground parking
& a grimy public toilet—once goofed with my gang
of the time at frisbee here, at night, all of us
zooming on mushrooms, still available over
the counter in those days at the Village Vanguard at
Nagoya Port—Paul & I rode subways
out there & bought ‘em & brought ‘em
back & Rob said Good lads—Paul & Rob
gone now back to Canada & UK, think I’m the only
one from that night still here in good old
Gifu, my little provincial backwater, will I ever
leave? —Sun now cresting
the buildings to my right, hot on the right
side of my face which either is or is not
my good side, can’t remember, mebbe never knew. —Who
was it said Don’t look at buildings,
watch them? Dunno, some guy, but I know it was John Lent
who wrote try to remind myself of the continuously
repetitive miracle of the mercy of my body that leaves me
open sometimes to receiving gifts of overlapping interesting
fields of time. That’s from The Ordinary’s Incense, which
I’m carrying in my bag. —Wearing a CBC t-shirt
Natasha sent me from Toronto, vintage design,
the exploding yellow orange & red C. —Think
I was uneasy that night in the park on mushrooms,
mushrooms make me uneasy ever since that
apocalyptic afternoon with Hiroko in Amsterdam
about which I won’t say too much except
it was comprehensively & pyrotechnically awful. —Natasha
& I made out exactly once, still friends two decades later.
—Here in my body, parked in my mind. —I used to get
rides from John Lent back to Vernon after night
classes, after his poetry class, & John so funny
I’d scream with laughter the whole way, both
of us smoking like fiends, like fish, the ashtray
a catastophe, & beyond us in the dark
the lake, lakes, & inside me laughing out smoke
& John doing his hur-hur-hur chuckle, telling incredible
stories that, thinking back, were always sorta ordinary
actually, nothing spectacular, no explosions or apocalypses
but just little things that happened, self-deprecatingly
told, & the punchline would be something like
Where’s the toaster? & me breathless
laughing, laughing, young & breathless, less than half
the age I am now sitting in my body on this nowhere Gifu
corner, Saturday morning, my sons at baseball
practice, my wife at work, construction ongoing, people
going by, one pigeon squatting in the park, lights
changing, the light changing, no throb of ecstasy
up my spine but a calm non-racket instead, in all my
parts, my body as it is, & now the pigeon’s gone. —John
probably won’t live forever, hope I’ll get
to see him again before all the usual tragedies. —The Ordinary’s
Incense reminds me of Zen hints, the moment,
mind as it is, morning as it is—the reminder to be
in your body, man, but stay open to that possible
overlap, the freedom, the slips—riding with John—mushrooms
in the park with pals—drinks in Losers—kissing
Natasha in my house in Toyoake—my day & time—all
my days & times—mind & body—this morning
is my morning—this universe
mine—time to quit
writing poetry & go buy pen cartridges in Don Quixote
which should be open by now. —And a weird little bus
goes by, Gifu Monolith written on the side.
ode to body
I like a good underbite, sweetheart, &
a scar from crunching off your bunkbed
at camp or splashing off your 10 speed. Arm
caught on barbed wire. Teenage crash.
Carpenter’s dream or pneumatic meat,
mismatched & hair-haunted with
inversions, or vein-throttled, ok, your long
blue veins, traceable with my crooked tongue.
Cross-eyed & concussed or the many hassles
displayed in your snaggle & chip. Wrinkles
galore & way too many swaybacked moles.
Ceaseless rashes, plus a stack of amputations, fine.
And I like a good knee-knock, darling, yes,
& the ancient burn on the top of your foot
& your little monkey stump. Maybe a
stutter. And—do I dare?—a whole wobble of limp.
Ah, you’re delicious. You’re perfect. Come here
& let me kiss your kyphotic back. Take my plunging
heart in your hands & love me, dearest, do,
so I can sing my spree at the centre of you.
gifu pharmacy
powdered lotus root wrapped in ancient paper
taped over your nipple
for hangovers catastrophic
slap this ceramic Buddha on the belly
with your diamond palm
to prevent or cause earthquakes
volcano dust & exploding mud
& a blowjob in the bathroom
in case of undergrowth & decay
slit your memory’s throat
with a machete of shallow-end blue
& throw a throb of joy up your spine
ashes of your typewriter
mixed with old village moonshine
for homesickness & botch
Jason Emde is a teacher, writer, and undefeated amateur boxer with an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia. The author of My Hand’s Tired & My Heart Aches (Kalamalka Press, 2005) and little bit die (forthcoming in 2023 from Bolero Bird Books), he is also the creator and host of the Writers Read Their Early Sh*t podcast. He lives in Japan.