I

I recently started a new job
at a local Japanese restaurant
which from the back-alleyway
looks out into the ocean, which
has been especially wavy in these
turbulent times, and my own personal
uncertainty looms no less than
the common lot of my generation—
working long hours for pittance wages,
moreso when adjusting for inflation,
which scarcely was the stuff of everyday
conversation, unless you go back
100 years to the many manufactured
financial crises which rose and fell
in the pendulum swing of history.

I do not mind the work—
it is skilled labour but does not
take away much from me. I
meditate with no less of myself,
enjoy two square meals a day,
and even get a couple of hours
in the afternoon to read and write.

And each day, without fail,
these pigeons peek their heads
in, calmly, in silence, making their way
like little tramps, happily shooed
away, but not always in one go.
Today, for example, I found that
as soon as I had waved one
of them off, another tipped its
way in as if through a revolving door,
pecking at a crumb that had fallen
in the hustle and bustle
of the afternoon.

II

It is hard for me to judge,
being only so immersed
in the world of restaurants
, but it feels like what we
make is a fast food version
of this culinary culture.
Everything from bags,
or frozen, none of the skimming
of bones or simmering broth for
days on end. I basically run the
fry station, a job which in a more
militant kitchen nearly killed me.

But is it possible I’ve retained
some dignity here? The collective
mood certainly is a bit more at ease.
I have at several points thrown
away food which has been
on the ground that without
my intervention would almost
certainly have ended up on
someone’s plate. These little
rebellions are not unwelcome,
as it is always fair game to ask
if some batch is past its usage,
if even the staff would eat it,
to say nothing of the customers.

The thoughts of what I deserve
and what I will accept turn in my
head. I have, in my day, shaken 
hands with the prince of [RE-
DACTED], and shown up in
the photocell of Vogue online.
Like Thomas Mann, I have hob
-knobbed with dignitaries (although
not in any really significant historical
context, but my own), and when I
go home, the plaque by my shared
property reads ‘Mansion.’ It is with
no conceit that I imagine Goethe,
who Carlyle describes as “standing,
not like a culprit to plead for himself
before the literary plebeians, but like a
high teacher and preacher” at the point
“when the study of poetry came to be
persecuted.” And the ouroboros continues
to eat away at its own tail, so that us vanguards
of the art wonder if the creature will just disappear
with our passing. Goethe, that wise dove who wore
an earthly veil, might have squeezed his wits from
dialectic, showing how the scope of poetry
transcends all limitation. And I myself, like
a drunken mathematician or petulant
child shifting the rules of a fickle game,
do assert that poetry is indeed infinity
plus one—that it is not only this—
but also this.

III

This pen is out of ink
So how shall I write? 
A flashing reticle commands 
That word follow word, 
As if to convey my silence.

Waiter K. Is a sadist, rail thin 
With a face like a surgeon's wife
All chiseled and inexpressive, a 
Passive contempt as he sends his
Dishes back with pride, and will not 
Settle for less than what his heritage 
Has known. So I learn texture and color 
Of tempura, and read between the lines 
From this foreign language as K.-sama 
Mimes a chicken wing and says "tebasaki"
The accent makes it hard to follow, and any
-one might mistake "nori" for "muli" with 
The way it's spoken here. 

Although the food is healthy, I bloat with 
Heat and stress, and soy sauce that no 
One else indulges. The days are fired 
In hot oil and a broiler I could live without. 
This order in calls for a hamachi kama
And I ask Sama K. if it means fin, as that is
The part which he wraps with care in foil 
After the shank is defrosted in the microwave,
And he pulls two hands up to his neck and mimes
"Gills." I accept the order and drop another 
Breaded chicken to be coated in curry. 
Katsu must mean breaded, and Katu here means
Breaded without accompaniment. 
Curry can be pronounced as Kare,
And I hold back from speaking Komen
When I make a mistake, hands clasped 
And head bowed ever so slightly. 

Kafka made a living with words not to the point
, as well, and I sharpen my knives imagining 
His fantasies of death, sliced up like a roast ham 
And sent along his way to the indestructible. 
He could praise his work as valuable even 
If it brought him no value, am I so brave? 
It hurts to compare Herr Doktor to myself,
Newly graduated with a doctorate in oblivion
Or that which yet transcends this word. 
If I should not be the axe against a frozen
Sea, I nonetheless wield my blade and rip
Into dead flesh, to check that it has given 
Itself entirely to the pressure of my flames,
Burning gas which flies a silent course 
Out into the back alley, where a throng 
Of shrieking birds awaits their scraps 
With steady focus, not a moment lost 
To time.

IV

I have swept the floor and perhaps it is a fantasy 
Spawned from a heat-oppressed brain, but I think
Of Jung who sat on the rock in his youth and 
Could not tell which was which, and culled his 
Doubts with faith drawn from his lineage, that Faust-born 
Author of chaotic passion, doubt in all save 
The very essence, self, projected into 
All directions as birds fly south with no 
Need for navigation, and return on instinct
Where the iron is hot, and yields its bounty 
Upward. 

Little O. Seems far too young, and does attest as such
That in this enterprise he shared more profit
Than the government allows. He doesn't need to work
But for a worried father, who would have him earn 
That inheritance which would be rightly his without. 
He speaks of some billionaire whose son he has befriended, 
All modest for the hours here set to labour, reminding me
Where dishes are to be set once they're dry, and 
Which plates accompany which course, set 
Fast for your consumption. He asks with no credulity 
Why I haven't instead chosen a job where 
My degree would come in use, and I have no answer
That is not false, blank-faced like the birds onlooking 
At a small, but well-earned meal. 
I say there are two professorships in all 
Of the south, and I have applied for one,
But scarcely have much hope or prospects that are
Not circumscribed by professional experience, here 
With what others may call my inheritance of poverty
Which no education may dispel, despite all 
Trivial pursuits and resonant allusions. 
But I do not think it true, or wonder
If it is true but only to a fault, and its
Dialectic opposite exists a priori 
Despite my intellectual convictions 
To be the force of hands upon the 
Slate of literary rancour. Distilled 
The sum of poetry to thoughtful 
Observation, curated experiences
And a feast of the senses, which
I do provide, and if the appearance 
Is the same I know my own theories 
Well enough to see the differences
In real time, projected against the walls
Of this prison cave, boiling to deter 
What I've determined, douse the frozen 
Noodles in the boiling pot, and take a break 
When I am called away from the toil, as Sisyphus
Must have enjoyed those moments in the interim. 

O. points out the owners who have dropped in,
Eating at the staff food to make inquiry of the batch 
We have settled for, distorted point of contact. 
I cannot care less, and offer the kind entrepreneur 
A day old cake given to me at the coffee shop 
Where I write my fate, to watch her quiescent 
Giving in, taking from my plate, and forcing herself
To trust in me, though she decries the gesture,
saying she's quite full, but still succumbs, and
I love the feeling of her culture rubbing against mine.

She is sitting with B. Who looms over us all 
With stern judgement, a posh aura more out
Of place than any of us. I wonder if Japanese 
Pigeons take a bow after picking up their scrap:
If that is their inheritance, as this, my dear, is mine. 
And the substance of this poetry like the Sorrows 
Of my dear Werther, yet to make their mortal name. 

V 

I take an empty sack of coffee beans 
From the cafe a few doors down and 
Walk to the beach where I may write,
Although it has been my preference
To write with a brew in hand. There is 
Only a pound or so to my name so that 
Is out of the question, though I am owed
More than this and feel essentially at ease,
Swelling, even thankful for my body keeping
The score to know when to hold steadfast in 
Case of insecurity. It is a mitzvah for an anorexic 
To be able to look on such circumstances and 
Still cling to life; and anyway the uniform conceals
And I wear it well, even tightening my belt 
When duty calls. And when I met Y. the other 
Day she seemed quite charmed, asking a question 
I thought quite innocuous but which waiter K. 
Found amusing, chuckling at her gall to ask 
My age upon first meeting. She was a year younger 
And wears it well, and I could have said as much
But only asked her origin and smiled to say that 
I had made plans to visit one day, and even would
Have but for the global pandemic which is still 
The stuff of cultural legend, mixing dead persons 
With the torrential rain of this frozen spring. 

In a town like this, the feeling of being myself 
Is ubiquitous, and perhaps better achieved by 
Others who have compromised themselves with 
Worldly wisdom. These petty bureaucrats are afforded 
Whatever fast fashions make their genders, where
I look no part, and disappear among the petty multitude
Reach deep into my empty pockets for my inspiration. 

A ruined pier just downwind from the rollicking 
Tourist trap is the lengua franca of this experience. 
I sit beneath an unused life preserver for shade 
Like some indigenous peasant, keeping time 
With the passing shadow, once the faded sun 
Taps at my eyes it is time to return to my humble 
Station. But I am learning to enjoy what at another 
Point I may have only been resigned to, feigning 
Busy at the off hour when the boss walks through, 
Cleaning the same spot in a circle, awash like 
So much poetry in the ambiguities of the hygiene 
Standards. Demitasse saucers with large batch
Sauces for some special guest, no less or more than 
Any of the others, and only my diverted individuality
Can filter through the host of detail oriented preparations:
This time the tofu is too large, but it is no matter,
And next time it may be uniform. Wash your hands
As much or as little as you may, for management
Does not consider that a relevant metric for
Removal or retainment. 

Although I am here, removed within the multitude,
I ponder if the matter is one dove among the pigeons
Or rather still the runt of a litter overspread 
Across the greater world, with no means 
To discern the differences but to a specialist
Who would not think in terms like ours to 
Speak their observations.

VI 

It is synchronicity that is on my mind
The term of art Jung used to make
Sense of the senseless, unrivalled 
Parallels breaching all certainty, from 
Without. The way I seem to move in 
Time with K.-sama, bending my back 
Down the narrow passageway into 
The basement labyrinth. Picking up 
Our mugs in time to an unknown rhythm. 

The waves give forth to lulls, a passing 
Hour. Count the boiling water to demarcate 
The units. Chip away the work when precious 
Moments reach the fore. Elements of imagination 
Wavering under the disjoint, quavering fire, turning
Its pulse and color at my command, and underneath 
My fingernails debris collects from many days. 
I brush against the differences, surprised to find
Equivalence in gesture and how I unwittingly shift 
My cadences to a pidgin beat, dropping articles 
To  be better understood in this strange context
I look around and see that I am the only native speaker
And by extension more Anglo than the others
Is this the scope through which I live my dream?
To pass for what remains unresolved within my origins? 

K. sama has to turn his head to listen, sometimes, anyway, 
No less than I would if I tried to speak his native cantonese
A faster drawl than normally is pronounced, and I 
Discover he is from Hong Kong, where so many cooped
Up persons claw for a living in the harried multitude. 
Nonetheless, he is just a home cook,
Given a uniform and second chance in this breezy
Coastal city, far away from the mounting fissure 
Of his native culture. The jackdaw afternoon 
Gives way to a quiet and unsettled dinner rush.
He buys a dictionary after break, where he asks
Me to write down my degree and university.
The words mean something I cannot fathom.
The next day he brings me a pen, and says,
This is your weapon. You are a professional writer,
You need always keep a pen on you.
And in the moment of demure silence which follows
I choke up, imagining this short man as a father figure,
Lost to me some distant ways away.
I use the pen for writing labels all afternoon,
And click it closed after the gray
Birds finally stop lingering in the alley.

VII

A little float
The eye of Sauron
Buoys on the shore
Among the seagulls
More common in 
The thoughts of
Tourists who now
Begin to trickle
Into the city at
The weekends,
Where I have time
To give to my recuperation
And squat among the frolicking
Pigeons from the alley, who must
Also take pardon come Saturday.
Everyone speaks here of habits
Which are cultivated against
The weight of years, holding
The wok with the iron ring
Which keeps the fire, up
And contained in its circle
Cage, at times flickering
Out into visible space,
To keep the weight off
Of your shoulder, as B.
Advises while clumsily
Moving through the kitchen,
Squirting teriyaki sauce onto
A filet of salmon without properly
Glazing it first. K.-sama and I
Share a glance and wait until
He is gone to chuckle. That
Weary knowledge of our routine
Broken for a moment at the
Point of intersection, sharp
Blades close by in case
Of a foul word from the alley,
Or vagrant middle class man
Who is looking for Charlie, but
In the wrong hothouse, for it
Is only boiling oil and water
Here, as far as I can tell, and
The short walk to the burned
Out pier and sky-bound platform
From which the entire city can be
Seen by those flying in crooked
Arches overhead.