he walks the grid,
careful of where he steps.
the point is to keep moving, as
content arises only where motion ceases.
he walks the grid,
to elaborate would be to yield to the multiplicity
which brought me near to here.
with all due respect,
I’ll walk the rest of the passage alone,
knowing no concern for losing the way.
wrinkle his mind in the nick of time:
imagination tries to smooth the convoluted universe,
while one Attempting finds the mountain of
understanding to be full of inviting slopes and moguls.
(at once head over heels,
he never has ‘problems’,
but didn’t realize it until
‘problems’ didn’t have him.
buddha bellies empty of mind,
now able to hold all tastes before them.
buddha bellies full of Mind
teach us to indulge in the feast.
(such a short time before the tables are cleared.)
balancing in mid trip —
that is the ironic,
paradox of our Effort.
he laughs first thing. hah!
what counts is to be able
to laugh as the last thing…..
(note: in no way is it intended that this incautious declaration contravene or even slightly impugn those who insist on laughing first or those who diligently strive to practice both laughing positions, although it is well understood that the latter practice is fraught with the possibility that the sedentary part of one’s mind will consider the more adventuresome part even more suspect.)
thoughts can shrink a world by grabbing
at drifting motes with sweaty palms and turning
the churning into the mud that cakes the mind.
but that glaze can be brittlized with enough internal heat…
cracked and sliding, the background separates–
a taking away toward clarity.
to chase a figure of speech is much like seeking a “better” way to follow your aim,
yet chasing only creates a chase.
it’s not– ‘how would you recognize the quarry?’
but rather, ‘why do you acknowledge and sustain the hunter?
all is quiet out here, except
for faux haiku ocasionally tromping in.
(where are slippers for its syllables?)
without breaking the water,
I swim the pond
of no shores.
my backstroke leaves
behind all senses.
not even damp.
the kids go in and out the dog door.
there is barely a distinction.
in here, out there.
it could be raining, but it is not.
their coming and going has no barriers.
all is coming and going.
I have to say, it seems much more clear, precise and direct to speak of ‘climbing the one pointed mountain of serene effort and stepping off into the void of pure namelessness’, or ‘to resolutely have your nervous system walk the rocky road through illusion until one is able to turn the brain’s listening-to-itself-ability into a watching-the-speaking-part-ability, form bare attention, and see into the process that imprisons you and keeps you believing you are asleep’. Yet..and yet, it is simplicity that eludes the net of reason and begs another type of invasive consideration…
yet the maples take no offense.
mouth the words as if they were a last meal, and taste, no consequence.
only some small nourishment be one’s tangible aim, however transient.
tweaking the riff raff of his allusions,
now he, nay, his pen is pumped.
thus to dive once more into those
inflatable words. ..
damn the torpid, full speed ahead.
he takes the archers stance,
pulling taunt while relaxed,
aiming without looking,
releasing without letting go.
he does not miss.
everywhere his arrow could possibly be, the target lives.
to discriminate or not?
it’s barely a question.
naturally, it appears obvious
until you find your acumen
is mere bias,
and acceptance has swallowed your dictionary.
(to differentiate between self and other
is way too formal an affair…)
as you pack the world in your lunchbox,
use your tongue for tasting, and not
for describing your meal
the cry of PENCIL! preceded
the felling of tall considerations.
they noisily landed on the paper,
crushing any previously residing there.
all fall I have walked
my yard, observing all
not once did I remember
the summer mowing.
coolness cools, and
one piece every few seconds.
pretty cool carpet-layer,
ever a maple though, still teaching
fall semester to whoever attends.
yellow and reds
he used to say, “stand back, fool!”
when he thought only he could hear.
but Life hesitated, turned, and looked around,
slaying all foolishness.
I found ready pressure.
forget the description.
by not letting it work.
there is a good lesson here:
know what evades and releases the stress.
then stomp on it, break it into several places.
then enjoy the stress.
it bears you gifts from afar.
cascading words tumble on to the page;
he could just as well catch them with his mouth,
but how could he take his name off his mouth?
he says ‘he’ or ‘I’ throughout the travelogue,
but it isn’t himself that is spoken of.
we take some simple handle, such as a pronoun,
and forget it is just that.
and soon it’s carrying the weight of the earth.
the lines are long, but all are compliant.
no mere flu shots here, all injections are free.
a daily dosage of word and image–
the jones fixed till next time.
they leave contented
with practiced frowns.
someone asked if I can cook.
I had to turn away and giggle.
I see only food. I be only oven.
significance is a can opener.
there is stuff here, and I am here
with that stuff, and I know I am
here with that stuff.
all is a significant presentation,
that computer speaker, that lamp,
that lady bug, that roach, that coffee
cu-excuse me, there is something
with extra significance that begs
things don’t smell
as strong in the cold.
is it my nose or
are fragrances water soluble
and ice up on the way?
ever noticed those cheap, extra thin
they are embossed with little bumps
to make them feel thicker.
actually, because of the bumps,
they are ‘thicker’…
seems like my mind plays the same trick…
he once believed in the evolution of the spirit;
but his galapagos remained islands, surrounded by tossing see.
he now strives to leave behind all that is defined–
to recognize no limning beaches–
now wetted from the calming sea.
you’d still be looking
up at average.
it is those ubiquitous voting irregularities
that continually maintain
one’s internal constituencies,
(not suppress them).
no particular value in the paradoxical.
if the grass grabs your ankle,
it simply shows you acknowledge
you and grass and all you’s and all grasses.
relative stuff in front of us is our only source
of the absolute.
we are stuck when we expect everything to
it means, but not anything particular.
stuff just stuffs, more than plenty
for most of us.
what you see,
is not what you get.
there is nothing amiss.
even lightning must recharge.
‘thus it is.’
a summary and conclusion
surprisingly found at many
beginnings we encounter.
(it gives rise to doubting our
preferred sequence of investigation–
first unfold, then reach the
middle of that process of you.)
or pick anything
that can’t be figured out.
and decide that figuring
it out is more important
than anything else.
find the burn uncaused by sun.
the wet, by rain.
the scene: a crowded room.
you sit down next to some guy,
then most others gradually move on
and you are suddenly left
uncomfortably near to this guy.
you both want to move, but
that would be weird, so there
you sit, almost breathing on
now take him somewhere else.
maybe to your place–
practically speaking, you got
to enter the room of your thoughts.
but if you hang around too long,
as you, (just as per the Universal
Law of Bus Travel) one of them–
the smelliest and most gabby,
will end up in breathing distance.
greyhound, leave your thinking to us,
cause we own your seat.
stuff out there is
but without the soup of mind
holding it up,
it would irretrievably fall.
in the darkness
I see the waterfall.
each rush and splash
lights the night,
each spray rainbows
my vision, as I mix
all senses to one.
and send that one
we all sometimes ‘know’
the cloud of universal mind
that envelopes man.
do you not also intake
synapses are strengthened if they
happen to fire simultaneously
life’s mechanism for biochemical
reward for the new,
the many, and the few….
my back alley restaurant has
the most basic faire.
served to palates
unencumbered by good taste.
24/7 of three-square moments.
an uncommon glue
momentarily holds together
what our attention splits apart.
instead of pieces in the wake of
our looking over,
we are left with a simple seeing,
looking back at us.
our friend taught
time to re-collect
deposited in all
your nooks and crannies.
missed the garbage truck today.
more broadly, it’s either all
garbage or none of it is.
well, except for the smell–
I take that back.
there’s the odor of growth to all life,
some just more attached
to one’s nosy parts.
the blossoms are delightful,
emerging from unexpected germination.
subtle prodding barely needed–
soon walking on their own,
and tending garden.
we all were sown long ago,
once sprouted, history of time
in the ground stays buried.
I speak of not two.
more than, alas,
wanna put down yer heavy load?
some would say Life’s rudeness is a gift.
actually two in one—for it also
provides an ever-present scale
for frequent remindings of just how
much you think you ‘carry’ around…
mind starts right up.
(rather it be my truck.)
another evening bright.
filled not with meaning
but by connected surface tension,
this stark crispness…
one’s vision is allowed
to wrap around things
just a scosh bit more.
interesting, this sight is separating,
the remainder is connecting.
(just more foreground saying
hi! to the background).
dry creek beds
come to life.
only difference from my creek–
soaking wet appreciation required to see.
if you must dream,
dream only high enough
to clear the ground.
why waste imagined energy
the same way you waste energy for
real mental jumping?
“what are you going to say next?”
a most extraordinary koan.
dive deep, but don’t swim after the words.
less is carried.
more room left for
everyone else’s stuff,
if they could but choose to
place it on
these dusty shelves.
no standing between.
commit, then attend to it.
no matter if by body or will
(as if there were a difference.)
may be Orwellian, but
there are benefits to a
dog shedding fur not
fully appreciated by sofas.
what’s more welcoming a
greeting than, “all of what
you know is incorrect.”
suspect all known sources,
particularly the very local
what keeps the mind in place?
so vaporous and fluid,
yet it clings tight to its tangled web.
–a concept trying to climb a shadow
out of its own stickiness.
overheard frequently, means
‘my chemicals are momentarily stable
in this particular arrangement’.
life is obvious
w/o the chemical veil
folks call reality.
now step back: remember, all these words are but noise in your head.
the reality always seems over there, till you step closer.
I think it all started when we
first had stuff to park-horses,
carts, sleds, dugouts, cars.
we had to claim a space not
our own as we walk away.
it’s the space we carry around,
that never really gets claimed.
he treated life to nothing more.
nor to nothing less.
to expect anything different
requires willing suspension of disbelief.
(he’s grateful for life’s uncertainties,
and it’s B movie aesthetics.)
from behind, he deftly slipped up on austerity,
spray cans fanning color all over,
variegated footprints across the page.
still, though, a lentitudinous pace.
colorful army of one, confounding all foibles…
these pages lie
here not for rest,
but, like old banana leaves,
could provide surprising
slip to rigid legs.
no tranquility offered, only
views of hidden contradictions so
that a new passion for balance is
grow one arm longer that the other,
it will straighten your gait.
my cat has taken to walking
on the piano keys to say it wants out.
even clever notification–that one
wants ‘out’–works, but not often.
remember that open mouth
waiting on the flying chicken,
oh, and the countless religious gestures
I didn’t mention.
‘gotcha last’, just another
fleet footed memory
the gravel on our road
is a touchy subject.
it doesn’t want to stay in
place like it should.
then again, we too are
supposed to stay in place.
instead of a focused mentation
coupled with sweeping vision,
how bout desultory attention
amid tight sight?
intentionally haphazard, yet
out of place
forsake all advice that is not as
boundless as its subject.
abundant truth even found by stumbles.
(sotto voce, that’s stumbling toward precipices of mind.)
we complain about
hah, pikers in comparison.
ants found on the high peak.
vistas at hand; still,
only dirt comes into their view.
tea without ceremony.
the cup never fills,
all tastes, sagely infused.
a satisfaction in fixing;
lots of apparent brokens–
almost would be better
if we really were.
(it’s the sorta out of kilter
stuff that’s most troubling.)
consider ‘opposites converging’
this way–they all have short term
leases from life and occasionally
life needs the reclaim the space for
a little special fun…
tiny echoes of chemical silence
glad-handing life one synapse at a time.
head straight into this world, now.
step off your current distraction.
if poised in your movement, the
curtain of mind parts.
stepping through and turning,
you see there was no curtain, no
distraction, and no you to be hesitating.
someone said “ain’t”
is a contraction for
“ain’t not”– a
chasing, loopy is-ness.
this is the sort of
jewel in the grass
that will keep nibbling
rare visit from crane.
pond, always open
dancing in molasses,
even fingers stuck,
at least above,
the roof still off.
gads, only complaints
must be attracted to the
how little we understand variety.
far less than what we have access to
serves us amply as diverseness.
on small curbs do big feet trip.
perhaps, best for some of us
to use handicap ramp.
nothing more important
if that is all you can do
at the moment.
the three pines.
on their own.
this effort is not special.
being ordinary is not inferior.
but being able to walk about in your mind
while unattached to such notions
increases the endorphin grease that
augments your internal slipperiness–
and helps pry loose any holding nails.
when you’re floating
in a local river, you don’t
go any faster than
that crap around you.
you want to get outta there,
somewhere, anywhere, and you hate
all just a prelude to drowning–
he never saw there wasn’t any crap.
as if you were expecting
something else? anyway, this
is sort of like programming,
you’re optimistic, it’s sorta
working, then you find a bug.
but you are sure it’s the very last one.
easy for words.
though smooth path,
becoming-is the train.
always moving on, but
you feel stuck in mid car,
can’t advance, can’t go
back, and can’t stay
cause the conductor
wants a ticket….
savor the pressure,
make up your response
each click of the rails.
you speculate the hidden.
now to know the obverse.
it can be, because of
a certain fungibility.
that which oppresses,
that which hides,
1st, look up obverse.
it is so described because
of where you are standing.
big time togetherness,
without the time.
trapped birds still flying….
covey feeding on median,
all take off with passing car.
all return only to flee again
moments later, again and again.
life, tireless in its insistency.
what propels your lift offs?
wasp sucking down nectar
at the red filling station.
share, ignore, or
test my bottom lip?
all it would give away,
I always loved questions,
but the divorce was even more pleasing.
much talk of not looking away, but
looking inward is not much better.
mind sees in a plane as far as you wish.
to profitably look up is an off switch
to keep that switch on for a micro more
is the great leap into being.
you are still looking with ‘your’ eyes,
but you are finally looking at the real
underlayment, the foundation of self.
rain masks the sound
of the distant traffic.
is the hiding in my yard,
my ears or my mind?
asleep, one is disappointed
with things as they are.
unmindful, one always looks someplace else.
there is no hindrance before you.
you are already through,
the swinging gate
hits your heel.
so many passwords accumulated,
as if they protected something
of course, one would be so fortunate
if the mind was only feebly guarded
by such clever spellings.