Jukai Forest



Deeply within the forest of Jukai,
the sun struggles to penetrate the canopy overhead,
a rare ray arrows down to brighten rich, damp ground
where ancient lava tubes spear up beneath the rotting detritus
of leaf
and bough
and bone.
Apollo butterflies dance, but there is no music:
for in Aokigahara, no birds sing.
Contorted trunks form
convoluted thrones for the dead:
empty chairs in the waiting room of redemption.
Tree roots sword the surface.
Parry blows, foil gnarled tree fingers
which embrace, entwine, entangle:
then twist
around the discarded:
tattered ribbons, empty soul-shells, unfulfilled lives.

Thumbed trunks point to labyrinthine truth,
but far too often,
the ears are beyond the hearing,
the weary feet have lost their way
and the eyes cannot see the trees for the forest.
No Zenchishiki will enter here,
they who are hired
to midwife the dying,
lest penultimate thought
summons not seed
but rotten fruit.
Here,
as elsewhere,
regardless of fancy words,
indoctrinated belief
or sermonized pomp,
the dead die
absolutely
alone.

The Yurei wisp,
waiting inside dreams.
Lurking behind the nightmares.

Decaying hemp swings
in breezes that erupt from lava esophagi.
Jukai belches
the profanity of the dead.