haibun

For the third night (and day) the homeless person sits on the same bench by the ball cage. It's impossible to say whether it's a man or a woman. Heshe is covered in so many layers of clothes. Heshe eats, drinks, smokes, read books as I do in the 3rd story flat from where I watch himher on and off. I stand (sleepless) in the early hours of the morning in my undies smoking a cigarette, heshe sits among hisher countless bags sometimes erecting a sky blue parasol as cover for … the world, I guess. At one point a drunk man sat beside himher smoking. I couldn't see if they talked at all. The field in the ball cage is red. Not like grass at all.

                                         at times

                         the upside down tree in the pond

                                         is enough

127th barefoot glass ball

flesh

of

their

flesh

                                     this might be

I age with them

                                     the last night

                                     this year

though

on a

distance

                                     for bare feet

126th chain of lights

halfways

and a bit

(the usual

erroneous

perception)

now

                                            cutting up an Atlas

the night train becomes

                                             really makes

an allegory

carrying

blue faces

                                             no difference

some fragments

my eyes are bound (or dogs)

takes it off slowly and becomes | I cough

revolving again the blood pressure controller app

not long after the ocean who could have known

this is the fun thing there's still something beneath beneath

a matter of darkness I live in one place and dream of pastry

my father was a boy when he was younger he cast shadows when the sun was out

why mention dead things' aggressiveness? I'm a lake

it's Monday and I'm expelled from the room of pleasant separateness

a stick-on kigo and everything's o.k.

soup powder and a nightmare about cherry trees what can a bloke do

headache today I'm not that ball of yarn

replicacophony

125th resigning stream

a sleeping

          (and ghostly white)

first

finger

                                            every now and then

the autumn sun

exposes

                                            a stream tires

                                                 of flowing

my realm

of dust

                                           and tries to announce

                                           the age of stones

a burp

Strange, wherever I turn or whatever I turn to there's always someone wanting to take control and organize, formulate and re-shape what I'm doing. Well, not precisely what I am doing but what a lot of people in general are doing by themselves. (What they would do anyway). Writing, for instance. A couple of thousand people write daily observations of the world around them, of the borderland between their inner and their outer world and/or observations of the actual birthplace of reality: how both these spheres actually are one. Either as a "training" purpose or as a way of becoming less self-absorbed, I guess.

eyes like nightfall the mirror remains empty

At times these organizer people create platforms and forums for all us scattered writers - and I raise my hat to their efforts and (seemingly) altruistic use of their time - and we seem to get in a cosy mood where we more or less begin to look alike. At some point a certain sense of uniformity sneeks in and the topics for our writing become toothless and unaspiring.

the usual spring not one frog goes "oink"

At some point an ideology, a philosophical or religious framework appears. The faulty notion of the "objective sketch", the "real reality", the mythical "now" which seems to still haunt Western haiku writers for whom "observations" has become a mantra of babble and utter emptiness become an excuse for flaunting an undemanding hobby-buddhism (only the nice and romantic aspects though). Ach, the easily seduced Westerners so insecure that they'll escape to traditions not their own thinking it's a sign of spiritual progress ... not knowing the hollowness and falseness of these inventions. When a religious idea or a philosopical idea comes in the flow dies.

the water's not frozen "you have an old soul", she tries

... and they forget that the idealized reality they're searching doesn't have anything to do with their own inescapeable real life and conditions from where all they write arise. So, how honest can your wrriting be if you start out with a lie ...

sakura? I pick up a dandelion and sneeze

So, what's the point of this lengthy "burp"? My "stones" on this blog will no longer be "stones" as the name is an invention of two people who so much want to be the "spiritual parents" of all those writers mentioned within a tea and cake friendly buddhist framework ... they'll be "belly-button fluff", rubber swans, ear-wax giants or whatever

124th ex-stone now belly-button fluff

my hands

doing

their thing(s)

                                          I heard that!

I stay in bed

                                something creaked

                                                (or squeaked or screeched)

for another hour

                                          by autumn

                                e q u i n o x

                                          (equine ox?)

123rd kissing stone

it's a tree

                       I have walls

                       and floors

and

it's

get

ting

                                               to kiss ...

more

and

more

naked

                     oh, and raindrops

                     to count

122nd stone in perspective

he watched

the skin

                                   ”you're not halal”

                            the youngster yells

fall off

people

                                   flushing gangster gear

                                  and selling dope -
                          (but it's to infidels, so ...)

then it became

shamefull

                                 October gets into gear

haibun

Watched a documentary about a Japanese man who survived both A-bombs dropped in -45. He had bottled everything, all the horrific experiences of the blasts and the consequences, up till he reached the age of 90. For the family's sake. Then he began talking and writing and crying. Talking, writing, crying. I cried as well.

By the all-night petrol station a gang of self-exiled youngsters play some stupid hip-hop at top volume and it's 30 minutes past midnight. They have a tough time in an expensive Audi and fully fashionable gear.

October moon

the night is full of

empty mirrors