XLIII. Love and the Fangs That She Can Bare

Is it I who am so lost and filled with misfortune? Buried kerosene lantern, still burning, twirling candle magic. Rituals of past mongerings, does any of have any virtue? As I sit here testing the reins of some picked up and borrowed buddhist logic. Is it the realization that offers to me how alone this substance I associate to body really is. I feel drained of all my prior convictions, a catacomb filled with stinking flowers and blessed prayer beads. Must I decide whether this work is prose or poetry, or have I grown to fond of the in-between? I h have no direction that needs my calling, this effort, all, is only perpetuated back at me. My love as a great cause of turbulence. A cloudy looking glass, this non-liberating patience. So hard to detach from the Bodhisattvas I’ve encountered, though they’ve all grown weary of my company, and all I seek is some simple servicing. Where all this literature and books can be known within the solitude of her smile, love and the fangs that she can bare. How rectifying, these jaws are capable of being. Biting down on adversities, these conjectures have all but ceased their nibble, now no ridicule stands before me. I am disappearing into affinities, quite sure of its own prior planning. Nothing surely is spiritually cleansing, being said I still bow before the Buddha, detoxing from these moral concubines, succulence, and I am at a loss for words despite all this uttering. The Sword Sharpeners Broken Hearts guild. All poets, all jazz, all garbage, all the time. Is it really some monumental ordeal, life, or am I but a host to the spirit of mischief makers who desire to wear the robe. My luck has never been tried so accordingly. Here I have been stumbling in your praises and your scorn this whole time, and never noticed until a mention of it was made.

Namu Amida Butsu

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