Of his owners shouts
Down the path
A poodle strolls-
Prettier then its owner
“Why the leash”
Says the Black Lab
The quiet before the storm
In the skies of revolution-
An eagle takes flight
While a tiger stalks it,
an empty stomach bellows
Hidden in a billion blades of wheat
A rusted sickle- no a scarecrow
Points west with a still smile
Foraging for growth on the spring forest floors, roots and grubs, the same satisfaction; the beginning of the notes scribbled in the Yamabushi’s cavern here on the mount. Visions of the marauding hermit, a sack full of leeks and chicory root, here, how the forest trembles, the snap of a twig, the songs of unseen birds in the tops of trees. Communion with nature, this pillage, the cleanest communion, how in escaping humanity one comes to the most fundamental understanding of it. These boiled roots, now edible, now succulent , now nourishing, this future enlightenment. Is survival purely human? Only the qualities of being comfortable in it. All these vicious attributes pressed against one, hiding the very source for the magic that is sought. Elements, what are they but interpretations? Satisfaction, what is it but interpretations? So illusive, the source, what is it but a spell? Interpretations, samsara, this interactive curse, what is it that it floats on? Why it is right here, in this yamabushi’s humble abode, where a cup of tea tastes like stones, but who is it that tastes the flavor? This yamabushi brews the perfect pot, but with nothing to pour into, must let its steep turn to spoil, and let its spoil turn to a steep. This fermentation, but a process in this great floating, levels of potency, of involvedness, such drunkenness! This yamabushi is to busy studying the ethical discourse of shrews and squirrels and the mosquito sampling on this meditative pose. This yamabushi, who brings a berry when he goes down to visit his anthill village, too humble to ask for the queen’s blessing, shares stories with the worker ants instead. Content to hear bees buzzing around unpicked flowers, for this is the very reason for them, their beauty being turned to thick wildflower honey, an amalgamation of taste from a variety of being, all this yamabushi is, for if they aren’t cherry blossoms, what the hell matters then about the correct variation, if in the beauty of the sight, the thought emerges of the cherry blossom. When even shit is fragrant, who has the succulence to say what is pleasing? This yamabushi says the bear, and oh how in hibernation this hermitage of life has been one long sleep, now these nostrils wait for spring. The climate is not telling when berries should be picked, only a shake of the thorny bramble. No need to taste for ripeness, when ripeness shows itself.
These Chinese monasteries, have they all been discarded, and under all pagoda rooftops, a great mourning. Silence. The dawn reaching to the folding creases of the Buddhas robes. How many are enshrouded? Disperse young ones from this collapsing monolithic structure. My feet have been fleeing since they brushed against such a firmness, no more miles left to venture to. Al these falling stones being thrown become barricades. There are no more possessions left, and I’ve become common property. Squatted houses, holy temples, the bricklayers and the forge hammering out communities of resistance. To exist is to suffer, quotes from the revolutionary Siddhartha. Mighty Buddha. I will set up my garden accordingly. And the bodhisattvas bring down bread from a life sustaining old poverty. With the many mouths, there comes starving. All fed from the trolleys of some capitalist rhetoric, with little to no nutrition to offer them; may you offer us, barking mad hyenas but a morsel from your plate, and we can build a subsistence underneath your dinner table. So that the we may harvest any crumbs that choose to tumble. Glorious stale wisdom followed with satisfied belches.
All prices must be fixed to their obtainment of them. All things empty, obtained by self, become full in themselves. No value in the things disregarded, no associations to tie them down to the endowments of self, how much is at the liberty of these misgivings? A currency that is weightless, lifeless, formless; a zero or an ever-reaching climb into indistinguishable kalpas. None have yet to make a bid on Mt. Meru, but the whole world has been sold, would there even be a point? The matters at hand always like to count themselves out. This oil and gold does no good without a successful harvest. The farmers, those holy peasants, symbols of the good gods virtue, have never grown tired of feeding mouths and government positions. On a kings white horse, a well irrigated field reminds the subject of his subjects, holy mounds where corn, beans and squash become the three jewels capable of sustaining entire civilizations; still practised in communities of resistance so I am told. Our greatest resource, this distinguished serviceman and women marked by their mud and their ancestry, true rulers of the world. Never making claims on their greatest bounty, never sees the whole misery behind his treasure, deals out what they can, in small portions that he never calls charity. On branding their herd, turns the biggest brand onto themselves and disintegrates the boundaries separating him from the flock, giving what they can, doing what they can. Perplexing even their own comforts for the royal cupboard, wearing an even greater crown then the king they can’t see, only taking it off when they drop the tools of their trade and nailing down a FOR SALE sign beside the bulldozer waiting to start a new wave of plowing, and heads landless into the city looking for work.
To the barricades! Where I have only my shackles to lose and a world of utter freedom to gain from this very virtuous merit. In defence of all sentient beings, I visualize the front-lines stretching out across infinity, the picket-line carrying every dharma word, the people carrying every kind of face. What is anarchism but the charity spoken of by the Buddha? Can compassion rewrite a culture of giving then taking? I have no alms, just these two bliss-bestowing hands, waving a black flag. I march fruitlessly thinking of some greater liberation,exfoliating anarchism, basking in Amidas holy fire, how far flung I am from ever being burned! A glowing ember I have made myself out of two opposing fuses on a stick of dynamite. I am no longer suppressed, but manufactured. All samsara provides the working parts for constant revolution. What then is my struggle? What lies yet to be affirmed? All possibility. No more exceptions, no more encryptions on the cycle. Everyone oppressed by their class, the banker, the Buddhist and the worker