poem for bob in lost in translation
after D.A. Powell

is she your pink haired psychopomp          and circumstance
and desire.           you: an avocado skin graftee in a suit          courting fruit.

another round of karaoke in a sordid lounge
the big-butted barback beaming suntory and moonshine.

is she your star tonight.          what a kick to see a marcescent actor
after recent grads in wigs, slash hostesses with legs like a murex.

better stash your amex before it dehisces in your pants
and you blow          your entire commission from this tokyo gig, friend.

not lover          maybe never, even once
this is over.           no penetralia, secret spaces           just

caroming in third places.           coming…          going…          locuting…

‘evelyn waugh was a man’ she says and wins, or should
but her man’s not good enough to give her that          or love!

so she turns to you and you turn to the camera.

she says ‘i tried taking pictures, but they were so mediocre.’
her lashes swaying like          cherry blossoms in nippon.