Remember forever

Begatsabi.
A "meretricious" such-and-such, said F. Scott Fitzgerald.
well hell, F., I don't know what it means, but
I like it; I like the
sound, I'll grant you the use of
big strange words, I trust your
rhythm and tone: the shutter
goes 'click', and you've captured it exactly.
Today I wondered what F. Scott would've
made of Tokyo; wished
that he was here.
maybe it would've been beyond his
capacities; there's no
casual here,
no elegant wasted motion. The beautiful
and the damned are too
busy here, have no time to watch
the ice melt in their glasses of emptiness.
"Glasses of emptiness", that's overwrought. And
yet it isn't, and yet it's not.

Well.
Well then.
it would seem that I have arrived.
Tapped my first tentative but sincere
roots into the soil.
rain outside, almost my rain; getting me
wet in nearly the same fashion as
it wets those who have
long grown here.
It's a bar, in a bar, warmly and
christmas-lit. Their theme is hey,
we're all at the beach, so it's a rainy
holiday Japanese luau.
Tiki-riki samurai robot, trains
and trains and trains and trains
carrying the men in suits and the
women in skirts: the great metal
snakes swallow them and then spit them
back out, apparently eternally unsatisfied.
Relentless, in their uniform pursuit, and
who's feeding who here?
Behind the curtain (I imagine) there's
just a sort of black ball in the air,
a silently seething darkness.
In my dream I want to touch it, but
know I'm not ready; and besides, what
I really wonder is if that's the
right thing to want.
tricky, this business of navigating, and
you can't see the stars in the city;
so what is it, then well, that i am doing here.