all of your friends are
balloons, bright
thin skin stretched
tight over emptiness.
Category Archives: Poetry
zen and suffering part infinty (those who have no trust are unable to accept it)
able to rub
vigorously
the scalp.
in public.
able to wind
the hair into
a thick rope.
able to hang
it over a shoulder.
zen and suffering part empty (no conception, no obstruction)
human voice human
hands. hammers
strike strings. small
round black vessel for
sound. your mind
zen and suffering part season (you need study no doctrines whatever)
here we have
fresh avocados the whole
year round.
there are no seasons.
zen and suffering part incomplete (disappointment which is fruitful)
your road is so
rough you can’t help but
feel to blame. sorry,
you say you say
sorry. excuse me, you
say, sorry.
zen and suffering part float (relinquishment of everything)
you sit yourself
down heavy like
hope. a cushion
to soften you.
there is no need
to associate these trees
with the bodies.
zen and suffering part forest (already seated in the sanctuary)
not for
exercise, but
for reverence.
zen and suffering part stillness (joy is being willing for things to be as they are)
a preference for
observation, not
participation;
zen and suffering part no-self
in the morning
at the cafe,
with the retirees.
in the afternoon
at the theater,
with the empty seats.
zen and suffering part canyon
if you’ve never
known this
suffocation, it
cannot be
explained to
you, you
cannot understand
it.
zen and suffering part failed economic systems
outside in the freeze
a glass pod
attached to
a mechanical arm
sprays a slurry of
juiced sugar beets,
leftover cheese brine,
and calcium chloride
onto the waiting wings of the airplane.
zen and suffering part frailty
every use
the wrong use.
sometimes use
as whip.
zen and suffering part 1
i sat in
mediation
for twenty five years
and for
twenty five years
i suffered.
zen and suffering part forever
walking up
stairs, so, does any
one need any
thing? empty
windows surround
you. spaces
for panes; ghostly.
it is impossible to get it clean enough
throw the stuff in the bag.
clothes.
jars and bags
of food.
containers of food.
pack up the bags.
take them from
and to.
salmonberry bushes at rest
i have made it in
ways that others will
not, cannot, do
not. others
make it in ways
that are not for me.
the response isn’t what i wanted so i delete it and wait to forget that it ever happened
they feel
like vacancies. or
blank sheets of paper.
loosely, lightly, years ago, and again, now
piercings and markings.
wrapped around
in chains.
embellishments
to say, “not agreeable”.
thirty three miles with twenty nine hundred feet of elevation gain
forgotten stone
fence all in
a ribbon along
a tattered road.
rain dimples harbor
coffee
in the morning.
no second guessing
the caffeine.
i supposedly “want” to help but really i’d rather sleep in the arms of the infinite
there are small birds
in the tangle of
bare bushes.
they flit in
the orange light
of pre-Winter.
rather watch cross country national championship
the medication makes you
sick. the walk from
your home is wooden,
sodden. the barista
laughs with the cook.
unplugged from shore power, all i hear is groan of tie line, shriek of bird
the caffeine causes
panic so the coffee
is stripped of it.
cortisol and calories in excess
there are six colors
to choose from.
any combination
of the six can be
used. several
in a row all pick
the same colors,
in the same combinations;
rock for rock
a wool coat
and a coffee.
we do what
we like.