breath of the ear canal
shouting self-like, clanging ear-sounds
shatter an insipid sleep
secure in the comfort
of its own noise
the space of thoughts, ideas
and the space in front of your own nose
one space, one knows
come thunder to rattle it all
we answer with a wild-eyed roaring
to frighten the wrong away
then laugh into the void of
an imagined victory
nobody can tell you anything
one knows
so the world becomes
a self-archiving relic
the moment I say me
or you say you and
some wag-tongue's history underwrites
then undermines our stories
propping up a sagging gallery
fortifying a cherished position
stories, the ones we know
say it isn't so
but things are happening
in the space where intentions form
before the buzz saw of thought
gets busy building another shanty
from the scraps that history
had no use for
and eyes would not function
if they sprouted late
sensors, lumen readers sprout
bud-like on an old spud head
full of stuff already seen
and imagined, but instead
opened on the face you had
before our forebears
before your grandmother's wedding
before the rise and fall
of anything you care to name
folds, the map came later
we used to wing it
in space, where the offerings
multiplied to fill the spheres
before sentient beings
learned to lose their minds
in transactions of sum zero
we, who seeing the power lines
strung above a highway
full of idling automobiles
on our way to a dental appointment
felt struck by a sense of futility
and reacted in sadness
instead of madness
we, who run ourselves ragged
marking the tally of infinity
stocking the shelves of selves
in a state we sometimes
call love, Sangye Menla at the center
of the mandala of all who live
and take refuge
clang, the bell emitting clear light
a sustained glow
in that space before
knowing knows it knows
and recognizes the grasping
in a moment so sudden and pure
you will spit your drink
all over the table
urge, the will to movement
blind to the calendar's map pin
always next year's calendar waiting
seeing the bouquet of youth
as a fleeting folly
smile token acknowledgements
to fashion a sense of honor
out of scraps of guilt
thinking about not thinking
about it
a stack of bison skulls
white as sheets
like a pyramid by the
railroad stop, taller
than a courthouse facade
brittle, sun bleached cone of
calcium, the milk
of human kindness
follow, go where others go
but fight along the way
and don't give an inch
unlimited compassion, the Buddha
herself, at the center of
every shoving match
every dirty look
every soup kitchen brawl
beneath the flophouse carpet
and dripping shingle cracks
home bound, where hobos got their name
war vets, civil conflagrations
hopping trains and traveling
the sense of home
not yet occurring to anyone
as the here and now
but do hop a train
and see for yourself
everyone makes war, but
no one wants to call war home
so go we go, go ahead and go
innocence, no one believes in it
not really, the castings
of first stones, in our hearts
know the knowing, gnawing
defending the innocent, we
defend ourselves, side step
if we can, what we ourselves
have to answer for
clang, a bell struck once
rings and rings, and sure
it fades, a neon-lit arrow
pointing to the silence
and that's the mark
we're far off Broadway
in a district we call home
so let's try it once again
places, and action.
Maha Shramanah Svaha
2 thoughts on “Clang”
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brilliant, inspired stuff.
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thank you, friend.
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