Dean Okamura

like a Singer in a 90s alternative rock band

 

my Life used to sound 

like a 90s rock band, 

loud, chaotic, falling apart. 

we Argued over lyrics, 

stage lights and hair dye, 

how to stay real, still shine. 

thirty Years later, 

we tour with replaced hips, 

and memories that click. 

I Wore a sweatsuit 

with a walker, zoomed 

past pride, into punchlines. 

mascara On good days, 

just a soft defense from the sun, 

can't fake crazy after all those years. 

we Miss high-fives 

on purpose before shows, 

too cool to connect. 

I Keep one dress 

from 2002, still fits 

if I don't inhale. 

they Hear me smile 

when I talk, camera off, 

you can't fake crazy after all those years. 

after Shirley Manson interviewed by Zoe Williams, The Guardian (2025) 

Interview: https://www.theguardian.com/music/2025/apr/14/ive-pulled-myself-out-of-a-very-dark-abyss-garbages-shirley-manson-on-depression-sexism-dodgy-hips-and-happiness

When the body speaks

 

Some mornings 

     I awake, the body 

     beat-up, stiff, sore 

     in all their places 

     like a Biblical stoning. 

I thought sleep, 

     many hours of sleep, 

     would refresh, rebuild 

     but I feel exhausted. 

     I did not run a marathon, 

     someone ran over me. 

This adult body 

     feels like an 

     ancient, crumbled ruin 

     with all signs of 

     prior glory eroded 

     into base elements. 

My eyes 

     see sunlight. Body 

     adjusts. Roll to the side. 

     After three turns, the clock 

     tells me two hours 

     have passed — embedded. 

I got up 

     and wrote this poem. 

     Incredulous, I grinned. 

     These words squeezed out 

     blots on paper 

     surprised me that 

     their misery — missing. 

Words, 

     my body tells me, words 

     can't express. They're 

     faint, faded signal flares. 

     The body knows its 

     pain, speaks its truth. 

The shift of weight and view

 

I wobble with weak knees 

like the nuts and bolts 

of my body fell apart. 

They abandon me 

by the side of the road 

like a broken-down car. 

Somehow my engine starts 

and I roll onward 

to my next destination. 

I wish I could 

buy new sports shoes 

to fix this. 

Or some sports brace 

makes these issues 

disappear. 

After exhausting 

all aids and advice 

monsters still roar. 

Meanwhile the slow parade 

sore limbs shot muscles 

and the pain sleeps. 

Perhaps it's balance 

or just the shift 

of weight and view. 

When I walk 

hunched with a cane 

I seem steadier. 

I'm walking 

on tiptoes 

like an old toad.