where motion ceases

he walks the grid,
careful of where he steps.
–it quivers…
the point is to keep moving, as
content arises only where motion ceases.

timing

dogs pushing on swinging door.
springs are against them.
timing is everything,
except when time can’t make
it through, either.

still steaming

I don’t hide behind
these words, veiled
though some be.
more readily, all is flung
at the kitchen wall,
and what sticks, is done.

squiggles left hanging
on their flimsy conjunctions,
still steaming.

the tire of nonduality

nothing in excess.
nothing to be shed.
on their own, traits flee the headlight of perception;
scurrying peccadilloes flattened.

the tire of non duality.

all balance possible

bare composition
climbs on shaky framework,
requiring all balance possible.
yet sometimes it’s too exuberant,
and all colors spill out of these
small black letters.

random mutations

 

***

the dream is taught everywhere.
life is stern principal.
boy fills his recess with unlearning, and
leaves knowledge at the schoolhouse door.

***

hardly anything is more fun than details
which tickle all sensations.
but it is the broad feather
that spreads this-ness into all dips and corners,
allowing the quick to see parity in all diversions.

***

the cool wind of existence.
one only tries to help
when one is not capable.
caring emerges from one sleeping,
who doesn’t see mutual identity,
and still weaves with but warp and weft
thin, porous blankets of two dimensions.

***

stale samadhi residue on the sheets.
dreamer with one eye opened.
now to pull the covers down,
the cock crows.

***

irony in place.
you cannot transmit the truth.
yet no truth withheld.
must be a short in these rabbit-ears

***

inside, there isn’t a something.
nor is there nothing.
and if you look between,
that’s all you will find.
you see with the mouth of your mind,
visions deceptively tasted.

***

those old pine trees still clutter the patio.
now a slinking cat.
the bark, how rugged!

***

indeed, we are on a steep trek; the sightseeing swell.
the sights themselves, however, are close, and
smell, methinks, much like spit and sweat.
pores spilling open,
mind vistas overlooking mind.

***

everything can be flipped,
even awareness.
it’s the utensil that gets in the way.
lose the spatula and cease being the pan.

***

‘miscellaneous’.
truly apt.
a perfect describer of our disparate sundriness.
where is the only occasion that excludes
such a melodious indication of our labyrinthine predicament?
only when we abandon the telltale string and burrow on through.
only then, when all aptness collapses
into that bright singularity,
minotaur slain.

***