I lost my words. I can not open the can. In the tin can, the golf balls are rolling and I lost my words. I can not open the can. In the tin can, the golf balls are rolling and murmuring. Each word takes apart inside the can and has no context already. Even though I can not pull them out, I am still here.

Golf balls hit the net. Dull sounds echoed. There was a driving range in a quiet residential area on the way from the ring road to the highway. Astro turf illuminated by a dim light in the night was a huge air hole of the city. White golf ball on the green lawn and the pale moon in the sky were Romeo and Juliet. I was collecting up the words into a empty paint can. Along with the batting of the golf ball and the club, silent words spilled on the turf. While listening to the sound of water from the pond, picking up the fragments of words from the can, I made a song. I recorded it in a cassette and sent it to a music publisher. My song was listed in the greatest one-hit wonders by a long haired cute girl singing.

My words would have driven to the sea with the lovers’ car radio. My words would have been repeated many times from the gap of dusty bookshelf in the bouquiniste. The artist stopped his hand of the brush, my words would have been drunk up together with the wine. My words would have whispered the feel of her hair in the white garment pocket of the night shift doctor. Someone on the isolated island would have thrown a bottle in the waves, having a request for my words to the air waves. My words would have been sleeping in the eardrum while resonating in the ear canal from the headphones of the tax accountant secretary on the cramped seat of subway. My words have fallen asleep forever.

Now, the driving range is a high-rise apartment construction site. Silhouette of iron pipe scaffolding is floating in the rain. The pond is landfilled, never playing the springing water music. I picked up a worn-out paint can, but I can not find my words. No, there may not have been any words from the beginning. The night has come again and I am still here.



hiromi suzuki is a poet, artist living in Tokyo, Japan.  A member of “gui” (run by members of “VOU” group of poets, founded by the late Katsue Kitasono). Author of Ms. cried, 77 poems by hiromi suzuki (kisaragi publishing, 2013). Her works have been published internationally in Otoliths, BlazeVOX, Empty Mirror, Experiment-O, M58, DATABLEED, Black Market Re-View, Burning House Press, h&, BRAVE NEW WORD magazine, DODGING THE RAIN, Jazz Cigarette, TAPE HISS zine, The Arsonist Magazine, MOONCHILD MAGAZINE, Parentheses Journal, Angry Old Man Magazine, Coldfront Magazine, 3:AM Magazine, Obra/Artifact, magazine, 2015 / 2017, and Poem Brut at Rich Mix London 2017, amongst other places.
Her latest book of visual poetry, logbook (Hesterglock Press).
web site:
Twitter : @HRMsuzuki