Weary and anxious, my spirit has fettered over one too many lost souls including my own, for me to say comfortably where it is I am going. The way is blocked by exuberant progress. What is it that I am withholding from society, without first issuing a proper invitation to view it. No eyes believe this splendour. I’m affirming notions in the dirt and then trampling on them, and am released by this kind of progress. Interdependence. My body would do better as clay, with so many afflictions to shatter it. How many times I can be remolded in this life or that one, but prefer every time a certain fragile nature that links them all throughout the kalpas I’ve become indistinguishable from. My reflection in the mirror, everything radioactive. The reflection emits a distinguishable radiation, its cling to the cycle it finds itself in, one of impermanence. Is there anything divine in uttering the threat of spiritual annihilation in the nuclear age? Can I then usher innumerable phoenix to be reborn from their own ashes? The Dharma Ending Age are these years spent idle. How many ignore their own greatest truth? Everything capable of being born as an embodiment of Kannon, would they realize and release their merit? I break the necklace in two, and give Siddhartha’s half to crows and vultures. It is stomached and a cause of malnourishment everywhere, but is this not the idea of poverty? I die from the diseases I succumb to, spinning this wheel and thinking it a quaint pinwheel. Is there any compassion left to deal out all this fair share of suffering? Samsara. I plant seeds with poisoned berries around the inner sanctums of this garden to ward off pests. As the sprouts start to poke out from the ground, are any of these buds really different? If you study birds then you will always know the poisoned fruit, and if you don’t then picking becomes a gamble of taste.
Namu Amida Butsu