Tag Archives: cause and effect

Self Portrait in a form of a Haiku

Growing light-

Afloat like an empty bag

Caught in the wind

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LXIII. Notes from the Yamabushi’s Cavern

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.

Distractions in the Pureland

Every distraction

But an effect of some prior causation;

The rattle of a car engine shatters lowly merit

Sitting here, crosslegged, in the cusp of suburbia

Endless is my Karmic retribution;

Trying to accumulate it all in this life;

Having learned under the Dharma of Amitabha

This body will disperse through the scenery of the pureland

And this mind will have found its source

Some updates and Future Plans

Namo Amitabha!

For starters, this blog has almost reached 10o followers(that is about 100 more then I ever imagined) so thank you! 9 more left. please help by sharing this blog! 

To honor this event, im thinking of opening up a donation page of some kind, where i could recieve monatary donations, while being able to offer a token of my appreciation back. i plan to use these donations to fund my own efforts at self publication, and gifts would be in the form of zines, original art, etc. all DIY

Please help me achieve my goal.share this blog everywhere!  all i wish is to be able to write and spread the Dharma 

cold kitchen poems



Dead trees fall

and newborn trees fall

as seedlings or logs

though the ground is still

and fresh with snow

what makes phenomena

but this perception?


This one who dies

to enter into the life of robes

visits the local butcher

and offers his arm over the counter


so covered in dust and dreams

this one shaves his own head

and watches the dirt down the drain

spinning the wheel and saying the name

this one is red like Amida Buddha

but with no signs of a halo


bathing in coconut milk and rosewater

clean in creamy murky water, these feet

to go down and pay a visit to the temple

and end up crawling through a demons cave


Hey, look here at me!

At age 23, poverty!

No courtly positions to fill

no begging bowl to tip

cutting vegetables for the rich

they call it ‘organic’


a young girl says

“I can’t trust you by your past”

but having fled the burning house

past, present and future are left inside

so this one goes out wandering

and can’t recall the histories

of even the mighty Buddha


at 23 with a heaving torso

this one is either a hungry ghost

or a laughing Buddha

with no lineage to practice patience

more liken to an oxcart

deciphering bumps from straight roads

rides down the trail


having reached the realm of birth and death

keep going on into endlessness

with no form and no title

what is there to cherish?

The brightness of the full moon

LVII. (Thusness #4) The Dogmatic Temple and This Expanse of World

Mind. Ideas coming and going, arising and falling, all notions, critiques, judgements, dogma. This passive inwardness in passing, only short undefined stays. In concepts, no straying from form, only deliberating and deriving from, this eternal influx, mind. This dogmatic temple explains itself, concentrating on itself, it defaces itself, creates itself in retrospect. All these passing feelings, passive in their impermanence, no angelical hatred or devilish love, and these heavenly concepts need no mere mortal to decipher. My being apparant, no guilt, no wrong doings by this dogma, still I state my state of no guilt. Flooding, gestures laid out in my mind of a personal negation, hell this unsure, uneasy step into dogmatic insanity, heaven then must be the same. This expanse of world, so secular, and so ordained beyond any humanly measure, must one be a kami or a minor god or bodhisattva in order to write philosophy to it’s highest degree? Within the mirror, a fiendish demon picks up the pen and fills these pages with more empty pages, and my reflection is a prime example. This world, all Buddhas interacting round the devilish I, subject, object to my attention, can decipher only benefits and dangers, accepting samsara into view, writes samsara into focus, conjoins samsara to the suffering that is and will be. This personal negation, the presumed and assumed guilt that makes one stay guilty though it be shown clear that they are innocent. How pretentious, carrying more doubts just to lay them out simultaneously. The real, the minds dogma, the minds righteousness, all things co-dependent, the analysis of truth behind the mind, arises with the mind and its stay on it, falls with the mind and its stay on it, through no determining of any sentient qualities. This notion universal, this expanse of world blisters and welts in holy puss called lava and all nearbye villagers tremble with co-arising, wondering what it is like to be in real danger. This dogmatic temple only spiritualizes it at this expanse of world. And everyone ties down the shutters when the world has a cold.