seven quintets in search of a name

1.

already leaves 

ignite into sky 

as ravenous caterpillars 

burn in the name 

of transformation 

2.

the fox moves

in the moonlit emptiness

silver leaves living

only in the echoing

space-time of mind

3.

July fireflies

in the lilies of my June

imagination starring

Zhuangzi and the Amazing

Magicians of Las Vegas

4.

transformation is

emptiness is

impermanence is

illusion is

is

5.

deconstruction is

seeing no construction

ever was

including the past

tense of is

6.

mercury apollo

carbonated water

cadillac granitic

strawberry arising

being anonymous

7.

blossoming mountain

laurel almost seem

to grow gossamer

brightly closing

my watery eyes

untitled

1.

everything is 

consciousness 

except I 

consciousness is 

I

like

I think

therefore

I forget

I am

fourteen billion years of

working on the night shift

and all I get to wear is

this flower saying

self-aware

2.

I write for nobody

so if anybody hears me

they'll know who

they are

I am

only you

know

if

you know

I know

I am attached

to your dream

at the body-mind's assemblage point

of Hollywood

and I

3.

people are either

builders or

finishers

the fool has no

marble

dream time is

the best time

to be

or

not to be

(i hope kids are still

learning

long division

isn't

the solution

using 80-20

by the seventh generation

from out of one-million

there's like

a baker's dozen)

4.

mystic experience

of the experiential

now

is basically

the assemblage point

touching that

experiential

assemblage point

is like being

the moon

reflecting in the river is the moon

reflecting sun

being absolutely zero

equals I

love

This Experiential Play

Illusions last for more than thirteen billion years. The great enlightened and marvelous evolution is the wizard of it all.

In the audience are those that have been fooled to think they're separate from this wonderful and awesome universe of enlightening intent.

Listen to them laugh and cry. And laugh and cry. And laugh and cry. And scream and die.

Although it doesn't matter what they say or do—it's just a matter of observing what is true, to you. I am.

seventeen imagist chinese haiku tanka omaha

1

practice is type a

logic is type b

paradox is type 3

being is

type

2

if you look closely

you see the world

just as you need it

to be

to know

3

the universe contains this body-mind

and this body-mind is intending

to know I'm not this universe

but the universe is that

I know I'm I

4

paradox is the mother

of all logic

but it only takes one

to form

a religion

5

it's never mystic

because it's personal

and now that it's personal

it can't be mystic

so be it

6

i love love

but the personal

makes me think

it hurts

love!

7

sometimes the crown lies heavy

and sometimes i'm the crown

of all creation in tao

if it ain't one yin

it's another

8

under the influence

of love

it's best to love

before you have the time

to think about it

9

the transmission of mind

is

unconditional love

it's really not

a secret

10

no matter

how hard you try

you will never make the present

an identifiable product of the past

so drop it

11

we may believe

what we've been told

but i am

that

which never is said

12

my job is

to know

I am

thus I do

me

13

just hearing

truth

is like playing

music

in the hemispheres

14

hearing

three

in

five

as one

15

you can't mass communicate truth

it's the matter of one

on one

I speak

me can't hear

16

transformation is

like the seasons of the witch

that is green

this lyric

of the revolution!

17

imagist chinese haiku tanka omaha

original postmodernism

i can't believe

it's still

light

my first latest-further poem

i can only imagine

what death appears to be

to one who thinks

i am something

that is born

plato's free tanka & quantum tao

plato's free tanka

The darkness of a bee

is darting with a spontaneity

across the closed bright blinds—

thus one only sees

the shadow of being

quantum tao

the blinds were suddenly opened

and I was inundated by

green light—

the more focused it gets,

the less I'm able to say

loving at the sign of yin and yang

evolution happensnow

the present isn't drawn in lines

metaphors or myths are necessary butterflies

the way is at the crossroads of intent and sacrifice

not desire or fear but intent and sacrifice

not anarchy or empire but intent and sacrifice

not something or nothing but intent and sacrifice

not intent or sacrifice but intent and sacrifice

transformation is another word for emptiness is not a word for tao

ten thousand tree frogs rattle while two peepers write their death poem

we are the nothing not even nothing crying out we could be something

i am my father’s deserted son we are my mother’s favorite daughter

the river never stops although it freezes over

Open Mirror

All the windows are open for the first time this spring. Within the vertical aperture, I hear the song of birds and a distant dog barking. In the horizontal shuttering, I taste the strong green leaf of later May.

Was it from out of nothing that spring has come to this full leaf, or is it never something?

Almost twenty-one years to the date, I saw this sight for the first time, and told the rental manager I’d take it. Tonight, I’m witnessing it again while reading a book of Japanese Death Poems which arrived at my door this afternoon.

Was it from out of nothing that spring has come to this full leaf, or is it never something?

After you've deconstructed all the world, deconstruct nothing—this blissful emptiness of transformation in that clarifying space of pure awareness. The intent of evolution makes the mirror and I intend to look within it.

Was it from out of nothing that spring has come to this full leaf, or is it never something?

The creator is not the seer. The mirror is not the seeing. And I am not the superficial view, although I only know myself by seeing through it. Ah, sensational perception is the awesome mirror, and surrendering all views is welcoming the seeing!

Was it from out of nothing that spring has come to this full leaf, or is it never something?

Unconditional acceptance of the experiential now is where I kill the guru. And, a word, you are what you kill. The secret to life is further. But before going further, get compassion. Spoiler alert: compassion is the mirror. And a little lower layer: love is the finished mirror; compassion surrenders all views.

Was it from out of nothing that spring has come to this full leaf, or is it never something?

As evolution surrenders the mirror, I see clearly. I love my map but I am the unknown terrain. And so, to write as if my latest line is my death poem: sometimes I kill myself! It’s true we were frogs before we landed. Reptile or insect? Known or unknown? Butterfly or Buddha? Firefly!

Was it from out of nothing that spring has come to this full leaf, or is it never something?

And what follows purple?

Poetics of Ikkyu (Crazy Cloud) in Eleven Poems

1.

Hearing a crow with no mouth

Cry in the deep

Darkness of the night,

I feel a longing for

My father before he was born.

2.

Monks these days study hard in order to turn

A fine phrase and win fame as talented poets.

At Crazy Cloud's hut there is no such talent, but he serves up the taste of truth

As he boils rice in a wobbly old cauldron.

3.

Rinzai's disciples never got the Zen message,

But I, the Blind Donkey, know the truth:

Love play can make you immortal.

The autumn breeze of a single night of love is better than a hundred thousand years of sterile sitting meditation…

4.

Stilted koans and convoluted answers are all monks have,

Pandering endlessly to officials and rich patrons.

Good friends of the Dharma, so proud, let me tell you,

A brothel girl in gold brocade is worth more than any of you.

5.

Every day, priests minutely examine the Dharma

And endlessly chant complicated sutras.

Before doing that, though, they should learn

How to read the love letters sent by the wind and rain, the snow and moon.

6.

Bliss and sorrow, love and hate, light and shadow, hot and cold, joy and anger, self and other.

The enjoyment of poetic beauty may well lead to hell.

But look what we find strewn all along our Path:

Plum blossoms and peach flowers!

7.

Even if I were a god or a Buddha you'd be on my mind.

I sit beneath the lamp, a skinny monk chanting love songs.

The fierce autumn wind nearly bowls me over

And my heart is choked with thick clouds.

8.

Studying texts and stiff meditation can make you lose your Original Mind.

A solitary tune by a fisherman, though, can be an invaluable treasure.

Dusk rain on the river, the moon peeking in and out of the clouds;

Elegant beyond words, he chants his songs night after night.

9.

Sexual love can be so painful when it is deep,

Making you forget even the best prose and poetry.

Yet now I experience a heretofore unknown natural joy,

The delightful sound of the wind soothing my thoughts.

10.

Memories and deep thoughts of love pain my breast;

Poetry and prose all forgotten, not a word left.

There is a path to enlightenment but I've lost heart for it.

Today, I'm still drowning in samsara.

11.

Long ago, there was an old woman who had supported a hermit monk for twenty years. She had a sixteen-year-old girl bring him meals. One day she instructed the girl to embrace the monk and ask, "How do you feel right now? " The young girl did as told, and the monk's response was, "I'm an old withered tree against a frigid cliff on the coldest day of winter. " When the girl returned and repeated the monk's words to the old woman, she exclaimed. "For twenty years I've been supporting that base worldling!" The old woman chased the monk out and put the hermitage to the torch.

The old woman was big-hearted enough

To elevate the pure monk with a girl to wed.

Tonight if a beauty were to embrace me

My withered old willow branch would sprout a new shoot!

~Ikkyu

(tr. Sōiku Shigematsu: 1)

(tr. John Stevens: 2-11)