Entering the forest, entering the ocean with no prior misconceptions, letting go completely of all attachments there, my shrines are all destroyed, but come back to me broken, immaterial nirvana, my senses are heightened, directs me back into town to make conversation with the butcher, on this way, on that way, on my way, discovering a mutilated turkey and then a raccoon skull. One head missing, one missing head, both meeting the Chinese chopping block. The hooliganism of the masquerade mask as signs of struggle. Turkey with the blood drained, and no scavengers plucking out the feathers or twirling up the innards into their mouths, the natural process. Still lively though clearly not living, this great recurrence, how do I reveal the divinity? Disinfecting this raccoon skull with its canine teeth missing to place on the shrine. Is it not then befitting of me , to trample through the swamp, where I am nowhere near different to this muck. I am nowhere near different from this sinking. Have I now become a grave-robber or was this tomb already sacked? The grove has been desecrated by the melting snow, massacres of autumn and nourishments of spring for the blossoming of summer. But here, I am off dictating to the seasons what their attributes ought to be. How remotely childish it feels! This hooliganism of my own observation. Stoned, I look like a happy-go-lucky Vietnamese boy, and relate to all their rice paddies and landmines, if only loosely. I’m nowhere near to where these bliss-bestowing hands ought to be, no matter if my feet tread in worldly compassion. This living dream will end. Another rebirth guarantees it continues. All simultaneously, I am this thing reoccurring. Sleep, a slow death ending each morning, this samsara continuing. With my eyes closed, my eyes open, my eyes existing, my eyes disintegrating, Why sit. There is such a marvel to behold.