You put a bag around your head and walked into the river. You walked into the river with a bag around your head and you were never dead game on the banks of your mental styx for the double audience of smoke— — You pressed a coin into his palm and stepped across the water. You stepped across the water with a hand on his arm and he was silent and kind as you shoved off, toward the smoky coils of the greek-seeming dead— You’d been trying to sleep. Found yourself here in the mythocryptic land— The river — had widened to a lake. You were anchored in the shallow boat by his faceless weight— And on the green shore you could see their vapored residue, how they could smell it, those two―if you slit your wrist you could make them speak. If you — slit your wrist you might be able to sleep. Grief. Grief. Handing you back your coin.
Buddhist temple, Tokyo One cry from a lone bird over a misted river is the expression of grief, in Japanese. Let women do what they need. And afterwards knit a red cap, pray— In long rows, stone children in bibs and hats, the smell of pine and cooled earth— It was a temple for the babied dead. I found it via the Internet. Where they offered pinwheels and bags of sweets for the aborted ones, or ones who'd lived but not enough… Moss-smell, I can project there. Azaleas pinking the water. When her lord asked her again how it died, she said As an echo off the cliffs of Kegon. — ukiyo: in Japanese it sounds like "Sorrowful World" winds trying to hold each other in silken robes what in English sounds like "Floating World" a joke on the six realms in which we tarry what they called the "Sorrowful World": wheel made of winds trying to cling to each other — A child didn’t jell until the age of seven, in his body. Was mizuko, water-child, what in English sounds like "don't understand"... He was a form of liquid life, he committed slowly to the flesh— and if he died or gestation stopped, he was offered a juice box and incense sticks, apology and Hello Kitty... In Japanese, souls spin red-n-pink rebirth wheels: whole groves whrrrr-tik-tik behind the temple at Zozo-ji... — Sad World. Pleasure World. In some minds they sounded the same— It was a grief aesthetic. Imagining another lit visitor considering a tour, before finding that it needs to start over— Over the misted river. Where a banner hangs, saying, You Are The 10,056th Person To Visit This Site and you are the You who keeps disembarking.