LORCA IN SHINJUKU
Tokyo of wires and death: What green wind in the olive groves tells the truth where kimonoed shopkeepers greet the little bullfighters with plastic smiles and a dagger in the heart. Irashaimase. In my hands Ive got holes from the nails, the nails that were sticking up, then got hammered down. Along the narrow street, six maidens are handing out tissues advertising a new love hotel. The Cardinal Archbishop of Toledo arrives by limited express with two singing altar boys. At dawn the whole sky emptied onto Shinjuku West Exit as we stumbled to an all-night ramen stand beside elevated railroads of the weeping guitar. The Tokyo dawn has a hurricane of black doves that grieve where the neon lights of Kabukicho illuminate pachinko parlors bright as a fluorescent orange grove. Among sweet basil and mint one missing finger yakuza orders Dotor breakfast sets for a hundred ponies fertilizing dug up sewer lines. With a pair of shrieking chopsticks, he scooped out the eyes of crocodiles and spanked the bottoms of howling Canadian hostesses. Through the suburbs sleepless people stagger unable to afford taxis when the trains stop running in a midnight full of butterflies. Nippon drowns itself in machines and lament. Foreigners pass sobbing with a million grey salarymen; the politicians provide their mistresses small illuminated Toyotas, and Life is not noble, but everyone gives 110%.Tokyo Tues 06/25/02