Tag Archives: Love

Haiku for a Snail in the Rain

After the rain-

Look out for snails and worms

On your night-time sojurn


Afraid of being crushed

A little snail looks up to me

With big desperate eyes


The snail-

In the palm of a human

Travels galaxies to saftey


LIV. (thusness #2) Letters From the Flesh Filled Tomb

Longing, longing, always the body longing, mind lingering, then longs for body to be satisfied. More longing. Now mind and pleasure, the mind built by longing, tamed by longing, excelled by longing. Mind, present sadness, future sadness, and all past sadness and aching joints that connect to them, this limitation in Samsara, end of all woes, begin ceasing to suffer. Pure love, the source, must it seek its own ignorance in order to seek liberation from the duality of phrases. Mind and body, no becoming involved in either, just inventing. Letters from the flesh filled tomb. Mind glossed over by fury little pronouns and adjectives. Lonliness. Wonderings if this existential breakdown complies with this Buddhist wandering at work here writing. How I miss my anam cara, my personal bodhisattva, my embodiment of Kannon, laying mercy and waste to my unenlightened loins, and to my mind, only spared this immortal whispering. Longing, my friend, no need! Must we too depart ways at the crossroad? The bus is always departing, and I, never catching up, grow weak, frail and tired. More youthful in appearance then ever. Baby like immaturity, is this beginners mind? No one, not a thing cares for your philosophy. Longing, longing, always longing for a listener, now listener longing, voice lingering, voice longing now for the listeners satisfaction. Ears that hear the mind, invent the listener, aknowledges that in lovers there is a similar interaction. Now I know the pains in the poets hell, dwelling on the outskirts of Amida Buddha’s 48 vows. No satisfaction in the pleasurable, worldly pleasures, nor in any offered up in Sukhāvatī except the literal visualization of Amida. Longing, longing, always enlightenment longing for the unenlightened as it lingers, then longs for the satisfaction of enlighenment and Nirvana, more longing, now enlightened and unenlightened, emptied, built by longing, tamed by longing, excelled by longing, Is the ego yet to be severed. The source grows weak.

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

XXI. My Lover Was a Unknowing Bodhisattva

for K.M

I’ve begun to depict my lover as an embodiment of one of Kannons thousand arms. My lover, a unknowing Bodhisattva swirling in her womanhood, becomes a saint to newborn future mothers and their children. Meditating on breast milk and menstrual cycles, carries her on a white oxen, delivers her on a white oxen, redeems her on a white oxen. Bent down, dips her toe into the sea of warm milk and produces honey and the sweetest of sour nectar for the oppressed milieu. If they gulped it down, innumerable satisfied cravings. The rains of paradise feel like nothing similar, but how would she know? Unbeknownst to her, tales of her trottings in between the millions of different purelands, welcomed and invited everywhere. Giving stones instead of jewels to young maidens that she meets, how many don’t know how to skip them and then sink themselves? Standing on the shoreline, ignoring love for some faithless image one can possess, the tide rises and falls and In the waves I hear a story of an old assassin who was in need of a fitting sheath for his sword. How one goes about separating art from life, becomes a farmer chopping wood outside a homely cottage. All separated, life becomes art, with compassion as youthful as a child laughing when the hoe breaks apart on buried rocks. Dusting off the stone, an offering to the cottages collection, and at that moment he forgot the sword existed, admiring the remarkable fines of the sheath, and the craftsman ship that went into it, the art. I watch the iris blooming to perfection in the rain, and adorn my love the name of Bodhisattva of Sweet Hemp as for her many uses. Binding all sentient beings into universal knots the size of bracelets, links them all into enlightenment and I watch samsara evaporate like smoke exhaled from my mouth on nights such as this. She who taught me how to love both the smallest of creatures and roadkill, would cry for kalpas if she could for the animals all lined up in front of the butchers block, lost of their names, and just a timid series of numbers in their ear. Her prayers sounding more like some kind of computer encryption sequence to the ignorant, go unlistened to by everyone who chose not to skip the rock. The dinner table already set with white table placements and stabbing forks and knives. Her message rings through the cutlery binge, extending farther then the pleasure of a meal to the four corners and the ten directions, then past them. As we horribly watch together as uncompromising taste leads to lives as hungry ghosts, I can be assured that my practice with her still leaves much to be fulfilled.

Namu Amida Butsu