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The Intelligent Are So SadA cascade of words parade around,
with thoughts of atoms and connotation.
She is brilliant, they say,
but she knows she is lost.
Numbers are her companion,
she understands their mean, average.
Words can twist her brain,
she loves the wonder they bring.
She is intelligent, they say,
she doesn't feel clever enough.
Sometimes she feels clever too much.
Excusez-moi, in perfect French,
but nothing is gained by perfect word tense.
She is clever, they say.
But she is not clever the way they know.
She sees things as they are,
and she prefers her thoughts to the world.
She knows she loves them more than they in return,
and her friends will be there until they wont.
Friends reassure her, you'll be okay,
she puts a smile on her face.
She loves them as much as any,
even though there aren't many.
They bring out the best in her,
the happy girl,
not swamped by words.
The one who isn't drowning in formula.
Test scores and numbers don't mark you smart,
she knows this now,
engraved in her
Karasu - Part 7
Like all monks, the tengu of the mountain temple valued cleanliness. The grounds had been equipped with a communal bath, its walls and floors lined with pale cedar planks. Because the mountain lacked a natural hot spring, a fair amount of firewood was required to keep up with their bathing habits. Steam filled the warm room, contrasting the frozen, moonlit landscape surrounding the building. Filling a shallow bucket, Shichi poured the water over his head, letting it rinse away all evidence of his day’s labors. Shusei was already submerged up to his throat, resting his head back on the edge of the large tub.
“It’s too bad the village doesn’t have a bath,” Shusei said, his voice lazy with the heat of the room. “Maybe they enjoy being filthy.”
“They’re not filthy,” Shichi said, filling the bucket once more. “Only larger towns have public baths.”
“Why are you always defending humans?” Shusei scoffed, turnin
ViolinI remember the day
you told me violins
were strung with cat gut
and that is why
you hated music
(who says that to a child?)
I followed you
all that summer.
I watched you
grow away from mother -
your whiskey held better conversations
and all she did was cry.
We'd sit cross-legged on the porch
and count the horseflies
settling on our lunch.
You would drown tadpoles
in a bucket
surprised they could not swim
and I would dream
of cherry popsicles.
And when night would gather
on the sidewalk
I'd hold my breath
until a star appeared.
Don't bother making wishes
you'd tell me -
stars are dead weight in heaven
and God has cloth ears.
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