sour

one gear tooth turns to invert colors

a green morning to red noon

i let sour wind blow thru me

to watch it fall out as ice.



another hour, another month, another lifetime

is not accessible, nonexistant

becoming two dimensioned with one cut, one blow

splinters truth into consumable pieces

and helps me keep the bitter fire going

Balloon

The smallest pinprick

With a side comment served cold

Silently deflates the hope of ever

as it sinks to avoid new disturbances

and settles peacefully on the firm line of impermanence

Snorkler

Fold laundry half evenly
From dusty quiet dullness,
To dry deletion...
I reach for music.

I remember!
And stop squinting against the
perfect black body.

Hang and curl limbs and head with certainty,
the buoyancy of foam on water

Samsara is happiness

Moon

My grandfather, said his father told him,
when you look at the moon, you can tell how you are doing
by whether the man on the moon is smiling or frowning.
My grandfather saw that face somewhere in-between, uncertain.
When I look at the moon, I see an Otter.

You asked about my joy

My joy is a flood of mineral water

To revive life everywhere on the mountainside.

Creatures scraping life from the cracked soil will flourish and spread.


But when this flooding stops,

What will sustain the greenery?

Puzzle

Forcing the question again, it runs like

A car with no battery

A puzzle of mixed pieces

A model missing energy

To stop torquing the gears, and watch,

turning galaxies materialize from fog;

The gentlest turn is wanted for perfect buoyancy

Burble

Walking out of the subway with an aquarium head

Bodies rotate in and out of focus, a merry go round of jackets, hats and jewelry

I teeter under the weight with the wind, balance and dodge

Thru the ripples I cannot make out what danger

all the beings are running from

Samsara

The hungry ghost of seven generations is present

I am aware of the hot knife cut behind my ears, around my head to my chest,

cauterizing the veins.

The cry for satisfaction rings with the pressure of 1000 voices

I bow to it, awestruck, grimacing, for the evening.

When gravity releases and reduced to static, I can question it:

But in the meantime; how did I ever think it possible to push this away?

Moss on Granite

I turn my mind to suchness, and the view from a morning errand draws open:

A faceted hollow crystal

Bright green moss on sandy quartz

Seedlings on rotting plywood

Seashell embedded concrete


A desert sprung to life instantaneously;

I walk softly in a verdant paradise

House on Fire

What a moment ago was resting and grounded is now lit;

It paints sparks and rumbles glowingly

to show coins of silver under roots, and behind rocks.

Doused, the dim fog returns, but not peace.

Why could I not stay rigid and ruled?

My arguments turn to ash, and I want to crawl and scrape the dirt for treasure




I would like to give away the remnant sticks and cinders,

for someone else's fire

to who can create iron from their passion

Mine is a cool flame, reaching and straining to own the inky night sky.

After the fuel is spent, I can see the contrast to the clammy cold,

Awakened, but no happiness owned

Cessation

Noticing the still lake, I can hear the echo of its silence reach back thru time.

What was believed to be death, serenity; what nothingness, calm

Asleep voices notice enough to ripple the glass, but become bored and return to resting

They have long suspected the lake’s presence, so oblige