Poetry by T.William Wallin-sato

              ​Timo Hammesfahr CC



Crestline 
 
雲の峰　いくつ崩れて　月の山

Kumo no mine
              Ikutsu kuzurete
Tsuki no yama
 
                              The crests of the cloud
                                            Crumble frequently,
                              The moon mountain.
                                                   -Basho (1644-1694)
 
 
1.
 
On the way to my grandmother-in-laws property 
my wife tells me of the time she took acid 
as a teenager in Joshua tree – 
 
winter break cactus wren, snow covered desert topsoil, an evaporation of self
 
“it wasn’t the desert that made the trip turn” she says, 
“but walking into a Baker’s burger shack during the peak,
we waited in line behind a family of five where everyone 
was bald and wearing the same clothes -- I haven’t eaten there since”
 
the dawning light refracted
through the soot covered windshield 
 
                                                                             spot-lighting her blue irises
                                                                             like a coral reef Emperor Angelfish
 
her dimples pinched like a periwinkle
seashell
    
(“eyes on the traffic” her repeating mantra,
the right side tires 
                               always vibrating on the yellow dotted lines)
 
as we transfer from the 62 to the 10 we hit civil twilight 
and a western vignette of diffusion is only visible - incandescent 
orange and cotton wool sapphire shaped like an almond
                                                                                                           flutter above the pacific  
 
shadows of sparse cactus and the city grid
become swallowed as we ascend the 18 serpent
corkscrew along the rim edge of the Transverse Ranges
 

a trucker once told me
“on the clearest of days you can see the pacific from up here”
 
he said this during the season
of iced-road car pile-ups
 
the only visibility
was the condensation
of breath hitting the pine
 
 
 
2.
 
The mountain town
of Crestline
sits 5,000 feet above                                the San Bernardino Valley,
                                                                            named after the feast of
                                                                            St. Bernardine of Siena
                                                                            by Spanish colonists
                                                                            but really the land 
                                                                            of Yuhaviatam
                                                                            “people of the pine”
                                                                            later given the name 
                                                                            “Serrano’s” or “mountain people”
                     
the settlement is wedged
along the hilltop
in narrow windy slopes
leading to lake Gregory – leant 
over frames, rustic shingles and shakes, 
narrow 70-degree driveways
 
Top Town
Bear Claw Saloon
The Stockade – (where my wife’s grandfather holds the record for most times being 86)
mile high backcountry antique goods and camping wear
                                                                                           and a brewery that was once the town’s library
 
my wife’s grandmother bought the property
the year my wife was born –
ditching the congestion by the shoreline
for the A-frames balancing between
the Ponderosa and Black Tan Oak –
the bark covered in a million holes jabbed
by the red spotted woodpecker
 
during the chore run
she is followed
along the acreage
by an entourage of dogs –
Shadow, Queenie, Dexter, Trouble, Mystery, Nugget and the list goes on and on
 
 
the pig on the westside in the mud
never leaves the old camper shell – grieving the recent death of her pair
Bam Bam the goat wanders
from horse stable to horse stable
bonking the aluminum
with maladroit hooves
and Betty silently chews
her feed, glowing cashmere fur
 
3.
 
The property is bordered by trailer parks and trail heads –
within the fence line are busted trailers
and meth heads –
some sweet and lonesome, others abusive and explosive
 
three tenants live in the pool room building – converted into apartments
but was once a thriving 1950s steakhouse frequented
by important members of government
 
                                                 Jim lives with his small Ewok-like dog, always on his lap,
                                                 a carton of cheap cigarettes and 12 pack of Busch,
                                                 it’s nearly impossible to escape conversation
                                                 when you pass him on the property – either out of sadness
                                                 or the tense isolation of living in the mountains
 
the other two tenants
are always arguing
over scattered junk
dispersed across
the westside corner
“I didn’t steal your carburetor”
one screams
“I didn’t take your dead mother’s stuff”
the other refutes

                                               we are invisible
                                               to the quarrelling
                                               scene that echoes
                                               throughout
                                               the golden field
                                               canyon of rolling
                                               hilltops and bedrock
                                                            
                                                                              blue Steller’s jay wisp
                                                                              between the pine branches
                                                                              resting atop the oak stumps
                                                                              small coarse furred squirrels
                                                                              scurry chestnuts within vertical trunks
                                                            
 
my wife first smoked weed
in the neighboring trailer park
when she was a teenager,
summers at grandmas
cleaning the stables
and feeding the horses –
slow gentle strokes
of long coffee patterned
snouts, whispering
Velvet Underground lyrics
to soothe their morning hunger
and clouds of 1 ¼ in. flies
 
                                                              to see her dance between
                                                              the stalls today is like watching
                                                              embers burst from pine cones,
                                                              handling the shovel like a vaudeville
                                                              actress sliding across a redwood stage,
                                                              her fingers gliding across the sheen
                                                              coats of American Quarters, Warmbloods
                                                              Tennessee Walkers and Appaloosas
                                                              clicking of the back molars
                                                              as if sounding the gong for morning
                                                              meditation high in temple grounds
 
4.
 
Cedar wood chops like butter
the axe handle strikes through
like an open palm breaking
a river surface, cupping
a small fish and bringing
it into air
 
                                            black widows live in the wood shed
                                            but never bother flesh that enters,
                                            spiders are good luck in Japanese culture
                                            “if seen in the morning it’s fortunate,
                                            but if seen at night be cautious”
                                            old superstitions I’ve heard
                                            from the elders of the land
 
                                    
when we visit
my routine is to chop
wood enough for the night
and morning, then repeat.
my wife sets up the a-frame
cabin – vacuuming and securing
any hole large enough for critters
to enter unexpected

                                                 when night falls 
                                                                the summit is silent

                                                 between the spruce 
                                                 stars are scattered 
                                                 like seeds, waiting 
                                                 for winter’s clouds
                                                 to bury them against
                                                 the snowfall, we huddle
                                                 around the campfire
                                                 following the phases 
                                                 of the moon rising 
                                                 above the eastern ridgeline
                                                 and trace the newborn fox tracks
                                                 until we slowly drift away






The Jade: Tenement Building

               The beauty of things must be that they end. 
                             ― Jack Kerouac, Tristessa


A mosaic of fire escapes 
pattern crosshatch corners off 7th
giving weight to the old modernist 
trope of neglecting the romanticism
of desolate bricks lined like a timing belt
               Carmen’s figure half blended in shadow
               lighting a Pall Mall, sulfur expelling
                            she whistles towards the greyhound bus station
                            a swamp of men hacking over bent backs


the bullet glazed corner liquor store 
blackened by guarded bars like claws
the residents all congregate to the graffiti line
damp brown bags scrunched in jaundice soiled ligaments
they cash their SSI and disability checks across the alley at Henrys
               single fluorescent saber lighting
               faces spotlit like bent shovels
                              Larry slings nicklebags from the jukebox
                               the vets hunt their reflection in the pint mug


the timeless tenement ghetto
is the plaza mayor for the noncompliant 
red stilettos and white pearls knotted across knuckles
six flights of stairs stenched with sweat sex blood secrets
burnt carpet reveals fire survived wooden beams crackling bare trodden
                Lucas smoked in water while reading Hemingway
                too poor for a toaster, a razor never fails
                                the candle wax stained the porcelain
                                his cigar burnt down to his index and thumb


K St. below the rez hotel
buzzed like a Thai bazaar on Songkran
mermaid bartenders in tanks, karaoke joints, bright brass
downtown sparkled like a roaring nocturnal scene of Fitzgerald 
but the flood of outdoor seated laughter stopped at the Jade’s gate entrance
                Kiki strip-teased backroom specials
                2 am Coupe de Villes circling parking lot
                               the rundown gentleman’s club under
                               moonlight, her fiancé away on tour


each floor contained umami 
a unique flavor of downtrodden loners
dressed in drag, nudity or zip locked bags
French was spoken in whispers, plays enacted nightly
no one outside understood a miracle was performed behind brick
                Anthony was never given the right dose
                an imbalanced process of emotional recoil
                                ostracized for killing a friend while playing with guns
                                room 36 the only salvation into a neutral stupor
 

the train platform across the street
was mistaken for a departing breakaway
helicopter blades reflected the welding torch sentiment
obscuring the vinyl with 12-gauge shells and handcuffed violence
hypodermic caps were beacons like doorbells and hedges on the eastside
                I was young as a resident
                something I gained between Broadway and X St.
                                the tenement fell to city planning
                                like all great time pieces do

​



​Junkie

Never go for the visible veins first; you will ruin half your hustles; 
this is the long game not the short game; there is no going back;
to survive you gotta be sharp and flexible; the impatient 
one’s will have little options; find sympathetic doctors downtown 
and in suburbs; really exaggerate the back pain, childhood trauma 
and chronic fatigue; never go to the same pharmacy twice in the same 

month; never rip off someone who gives you a good deal; learn 
a trade, by that I mean lock picking, catalytic converter sawing, 
ignition starting, department store buybacks, credit card making, 
ID stealing; learn to run fast; don’t enter a room where the entrance 
is the exit; don’t nod off on the public transit; don’t mix too many benzos 
with your shot; build trust within the transient hotel workers; build 

trust with the pros on the corner; build trust with the ambitious gang 
members, they’ll remember you when climbing the ranks; always carry 
adrenaline or Narcan with you, you never know; don’t fall asleep behind 
the wheel; follow behind the old timers; don’t snitch in jail; keep a diary 
of your thoughts; always wear a belt in case you lose your tourniquet; 
always carry cotton, if you run out use the filter of your cigarette; 

always carry matches as back up when your lighter dies; when the veins 
run out that aren’t visible, try to get fresh points every time; if you burn 
the bridge with your mother, tell her lies; learn from your father but don’t 
follow him, no one needs a competition; don’t get into a relationship 
with someone addicted as you; this may seem romantic, but it only gets 
in the way of the real muse; she will only be your friend, the junk will

be your lover; find someone to take care of you; remember this is the long 
game; when one city is too hot leave; sign up for methadone somewhere new 
and spot out your kind; get a job in a kitchen; drugs are abundant in these places; 
the workers will understand your frequent breaks; if they don’t find work 
elsewhere; get a job with ex-convicts doing labor, by this time you will be an ex-con 
too; if the job is getting in the way try to get a slight injury for disability benefits; 

when that runs out become a journalist; work your own hours, get paid to meet 
the dealer on the way to a source; find new sources and hustles from source 
connections; don’t fall asleep in the newsroom bathroom; frequent the needle 
exchange and harm reduction service centers; but don’t be holding while going 
in, you never know if the palace is being surveillanced; if you get arrested 
and have to do straight time clean your system out; write poetry in jail; 

when released publish your journal and words, people are interested 
in our suffering and misfortune.
​



T.William Wallin-sato is a Japanese-American who works with formerly/currently incarcerated individuals in higher education. He is also a freelance journalist covering the criminal justice system through the lens of his own incarcerated experience as well as an MFA Creative Writing student at CSULB. He was the winner of the Jody Stultz Award for Poetry in the 2020 edition of Toyon Literary Magazine and had his first chapbook of poems, Hyouhakusha: Desolate Travels of a Junkie on the Road, published this summer through Cold River Press. Wallin-sato's work comes out of the periphery and supports the uplifting of voices usually spoken in the shadows. All he wants is to see his community's thoughts, ideas and emotions freely shared and expressed.