‘Slipstream Refuge’

Tony Koji Wallin-Sato is a justice-impacted scholar and multicultural Nisei writer. A longtime Zen practitioner, he currently works as a facilitator for the Zen In Prisons group and an in-prison teaching artist with the Williams James Association. In the following two poems, “Slipstream Refuge” and “Eulogy for Uncles,” Wallin-Sato draws from the teachings of Dogen Zenji and Thich Nhat Hanh as he investigates themes of ancestors, identity, impermanence, and the passage of time.

—Eds.

Slipstream Refuge

I followed a mother coyote – black-tipped tail, auburn coat, paw prints
stamped in Codrescu street cantos. Her pups amble across Elysian
trail bends, hovered above the city skyline – an open window my mother
shouts through – I hope you and your brother never get burned in life
like me, her words float like cemetery canaries in the canopies. I will never
be friends with your father, she whispers somewhere in Kyoto,
the same year of my aunt’s funeral in Tokyo suburbs; Buddhist monks
sunken in old floorboards, an incense lit in the chest, 3rd ward, the mokugyo
drummed in meter with breath and the last candle flamed across seven heavy
weeks. We lost Thich Nhat Hanh this year, she says, traces her fingertips
across rice paper, damp-ink kanji, we are all calligraphy, she speaks to the symbol
for impermanence, water will wash us away. The city is my prison
and the freeways are the jailers, inch-by-inch ascending the pass through

the Golden Pagoda on Mei Ling Way – jadestone neon, bronze lotus
postures, a thin scroll of Zenken kojitsu, the corners peeling from brick –
an open doorway my mother shouts through – before the war your grandmother
drowned, strong current, shadowed riptide, frothed crescent belly, she was saved
by Mizuchi, the water dragon. Spirits filled my adolescence, stories sculpted across
my mother’s flesh like sutras; Kawa-no-kami, Raijin and Inari – tributaries,
thunderstorms, sake. Foxes are earthly messengers, shape-shifters, handlers
of aburaage offerings. Amaterasu signifies left eye, purified as sun, clutching heaven
in place, a solar flare of jasmine. Tsukuyomi resides in the right, appointed to night
as moonlit bows, a seafoam dewdrop containing the sky. The ancient Buddhists
held tengu as harbingers of war, but those folklores are mountains and forests –
an open pathway my mother shouts through – a life of conflict, she laments between sencha.
Borodyanka has fallen, so many hung bodies and snapped necks, shattered glass
consists of the same sharpness no matter what country it fragmented,
but the reflections never align. Before the war your grandfather escaped the Eastern
Front, mangled iron, desecrated stone, ligatures among trenches. Dogen Zenji said
It’s too late to be ready and I am never prepared for my mother’s time –
an open portal my mother shouts through – between Sensoji and Fuji your ancestors
are buried; osenko, ohana, oinori. Cross your legs when you visit in fall
and follow the seasons until you’re unbroken.

late autumn monsoon
bathes Tokyo-cracked headstones
water brush, wood bowl
knees imprint sprinkled blossoms
omamori, gone

Eulogy for Uncles

I had an uncle who recorded every sumo tournament onto VHS tapes. He labeled them with the kanji 相撲 and nothing else. He told me the characters translated to strike one another like a match. He was born through fire. I had an uncle who was a high school football star in Japan. His yearbook titled him as lightning. I had an uncle who taught me how to properly eat futomaki. Not with chopsticks, but with our fingers. I had an uncle who collected chess pieces and cribbage boards. He played with a timer and I never was able to take his king. He laughed when I told him I made a cribbage board out of a sandal in jail. I had an uncle who restrung his Fender Stratocaster 100 times in one night. We played AC/DC licks and Deep Purple riffs until the sun rose over the valley. We continued to play until the sun set beneath the sand dunes and military barracks. I had an uncle who followed ghosts into broken windows. Portals from Okinawa to Atlanta to Carmel. I had an uncle who prayed to racecars and wore leather jackets with a fu manchu mustache. The cars were so loud at Laguna Seca Raceway that I thought the ground would swallow us into her belly. I had an uncle who painted the sides of B-52 bombers in his sleep. I had an uncle who remembers cities reborn after fierce American bombings. I never knew silence had a sound until he painted those memories. I had an uncle who retreated back into his mind and responded as if he were stuck behind a wall of glass. My mother says he lost all his powers when they moved across the Pacific. I had an uncle whose son was my best friend. We would build Gundam Wing models and pretend to shoot Kamehameha waves from our tiny palms. I moved to Oklahoma and he traveled to Nebraska and we haven’t spoken since. The Midwest will do that. I had an uncle who collected Mangajin tapes and The Nikkei Weeklies. I had an uncle who renounced his Japanese citizenship in San Francisco. The morning was nothing but fog and the lonely cries of seagulls. That same month Led Zeppelin played The Forum, the Giants beat the Cardinals, and the occupation of AIM at Pine Ridge ended. My mother says they were asked about their criminal records, their English pronunciations, and why they wanted to become American citizens. I wonder how teenagers are supposed to respond to such interrogations. I had an uncle who worked at the post office for 36 years. His bedroom was filled with 42 US postal boxes. I know because I stacked them into shapes of castles while cleaning his room after he died. I had an uncle who would walk my brother to daycare while our mother cleaned houses. They would glide beneath cypress trees and listen to the waves crash against the lighthouse. Their neighbors were sea lions perched on protruding rocks and crescent-shaped beaches. I had an uncle who would criticize your cooking but I never saw him cook a meal. I had an uncle who was told to never speak Japanese. Once he was in America, he was told to write in white as his ethnicity. No one believed him. I had an uncle who was a reincarnation of a koto furunushi. He was able to play any song on a stringed instrument. I had an uncle who was a recluse. He would bring the world to him through world history catalogs and DIY kits. He charted the constellations and donated money to the Monterey Astronomy Center every month. I had an uncle who owned every anime movie, series, and magazine. He introduced me to living in a surreal imaginative landscape. I had an uncle who formed cirrhosis from drinking. I had an uncle who formed cirrhosis from a poor diet. I had an uncle who died in the afternoon while reclining in my baachan’s living room. She never speaks of that day. I had an uncle who worked at Home Depot. I had an uncle who was fired from Home Depot. I had an uncle who could fix any car with a paperclip, bottle cap, and gorilla glue. His hands smelled of sesame oil and Marlboros. I had an uncle who rode a cloud in the twilight hour beneath coastal starlight. He was given a DUI for not stopping at a stop sign. My mother says when they moved to town, paved roads and stop signs didn’t exist. I had an uncle who witnessed a demon assault his mother on an American GI base in Okinawa. Razor sharp claws and tentacles were pointed at both of their temples. My uncle wasn’t yet three years old. I had an uncle who replaced his dreams with Kessler. I had an uncle who believed he was Republican because he wore stained trucker hats and was tired of being bullied. He never really understood American politics. Sometimes being regarded as the enemy forces one to support those who define foreign aliens. I had an uncle who loved to drive his pickup truck through the snow in Tahoe. A charming landscape reminiscent of winters at Zama Yatoyama Park. I had an uncle who was a wanted man. His posters were painted with supernatural apparitions. Yokai with multiple eyes, translucent bodies, frog legs, big noses, bigger balls, and nine tails. I had an uncle who was praised for being born a son. While he was awarded, my mother was scolded. I had an uncle whose job was to take care of his aging parents. He separated medicines and waited at eye appointments. He drove his mother to the salon every week. I had an uncle who paid the first month’s rent at my halfway house. Without him, I wouldn’t be writing this. He never judged me for living inside of a needle. I had an uncle who scattered his father’s ashes out at sea while I sniffed cocaine below deck. I had an uncle who had the power to ease my mother’s stresses when her relationships sunk to the ground. Maybe he didn’t leave those abilities in Japan like my mother thinks. I had an uncle who read my first books of poems. Not for content, but to fix the grammar and syntax that editors missed. I had an uncle who loved to eat abalone and steak on the waterfront. I had an uncle who could cause an earthquake by stomping on the ground. But his steps were so light you couldn’t hear him walking to the bathroom in the middle of the night. I had an uncle who looked like young Toshiro Mifune. I had an uncle who looked like old Sonny Chiba. I had an uncle who kept a wooden Asian lion in a box. Sometimes late at night, I could hear a deep growl echo through the hallways. I had an uncle who didn’t know how to convey emotion. But he would cry every time watching The Sound of Music. He never said I love you, but would give you the shirt off his back if you asked him. I had an uncle who brought home onigiri every Friday after school. That day was the day he was allowed to converse in his native tongue. I had an uncle who didn’t like my father. There are only so many times one is forgiven for forgetting to pick up their child. Then there is the realization that he never shows up at all. I had an uncle who did like my father. They drank Bud Light and partied on Cannery Row together. My father never forgot about a party. I had an uncle who never noticed his son moved out of the house. He would talk to the wall until everyone went to bed. My mother said he was able to see what others weren’t able to see. She placed rose quartz and obsidian in all four corners. I had an uncle who paid for my plane ticket to go back to our homeland. Instead of joining me, he went to Hawaii. My mother said that was the happiest she had ever seen him. I had an uncle who one morning never woke up. I’d like to imagine he found a secret tori gate and entered through it at dawn. I received the call at 4 am and rode a dragon down the highway. I had never seen someone so peaceful when we viewed his body. My baachan never let go of my hand while she rested her head upon his chest. My mother helped carry his spirit through the window. The Heart Sutra was chanted until the moon cast the Buddha’s shadow across the temple.