I want to write you a letter. Email me three words at austinrbeaton@gmail.com and I will.
This poem is a part of Japan6, available for purchase in July. Read another sixth of the set here.
2.5 weeks of Tokyo is really quiet. And metal coins of 500 yen. And they love and I love their 7-Elevens (almost as much as I love you, Rite Aid). Learn more, in the first poem before five more:
Paid Time Off
Is worried it’s being a failure.
Person I’ll never see again spins
for her Dalmatian
so the leash won’t wrap
like barber poles blue white red revolve
on one cyclone-ing planet. All the same
atoms change my mood. Any toddler
coughs in a language some call
God. Here and there businessmen
neck-tied to bark to sell oil
for frying protein and miles driving.
Different shaped letters etch one story:
single incision of a woman she can’t escape
katakana. I feel the ape inside
of me breakdance. Grunts, fists.
Only one deep scar gashed
on a good woodsman. Silly to ever think
vacationing from being
carbon could get purchased.
This battle I spend
is where I barely hold my head
above it.