not just hot air forced through
pursed lips while fiercely railing
against the injustice of stale
bread and moldy cheese—
much more than peculiar nods
toward the unanswerable,
flashes from the mirror of why
Why is there something instead of nothing!?
perhaps less than the jumble
of hastily scribbled reminders
and phrases stuck to the wall:
1) clean bathrooms, do laundry, thaw sausages for dinner…
2) “Handle each grain of rice as if handling your own eyes!” (Dogen)
3) “No man is a toboggan.” (anon.)
What use, these words when the rafters fall!?
bare soles and illusory souls
still reveal only fragments
of the grand mezzotint print,
past deeds, memories and hopes
mysteriously heaped together,
our curious pursuits and endless
yearning toward big love and away
from the background ache of malaise
What of it, the whole deal and my involvement!?
a brilliant mess here, this mind—
an indigo moth flutters past a
horse-drawn school bus winding
along a dusty mountain road,
teetering above the edge of
an impossibly calm, deep abyss
ABYSMAL, these haphazard thoughts,
you’ve already thunk in hasty judgment,
perhaps, but the image is yours now too:
Have another look!
Yours and mine and none of ours.
All of this together, our collective
of sacred poppycock—
It’s our mess now … our mess now.