Excavation

I am halted in my tracks
by the vacancy of its eye socket

The gift of flight
ought to have served it better
but nothing comes and goes
like bodies and dust

In terms of yoga
the ad hoc cemetery becomes
the mandala of the deity
whose likeness in all things
appears in the absence 
of our unwieldy projections

Now fingering beads on a mala
like counting bones at a dig
and nothing comes and goes
like tallied digits

sol wa dep

~~~

Photo (CC BY-SA) 2021. A decaying unidentified bird’s head.

Days of Future Path

The future killed my parents
And will probably kill yours too
It steals your wealth and rots your teeth
Wears out your coat and shoe

The future sometimes seems so bright
So promising and true
You try so hard to please it
What else is there to do

The path well worn that seems to work
For more than just a few
It is the future's favorite trap
Line up and join the queue

A fellow blazes his own path
In search of something new
And finds the future waiting there
He wonders how it knew

The future killed our parents
And theirs before them too
And when you think it's had enough
It finally comes for you

Photo (CC) 2021 : Have a nice day! 🙂

Impermanence

A rotten orange and this magic wand
some bones to hold
the lump erect

A starter pistol barks for the ready wheels
all thrust and penetration
not circumspect

A fire burns until it's out
without much worry
I suspect


Impermanence (Tib. metakpa)

The magic wand is the appearance of a fixed reality in the orange before it rots. Bones give structure to thoughtless agency. Onward, into the fog. Impermanence is demonstrable, what use is its contemplation? Born into bodies, we had to invent the wheel. This is not the problem. We are like plankton feeding ourselves to the whale of endless craving. We are fire, burning through everything we desire, and suffering pain and loss is the inevitable smoke of this burning.

“In horror of death, I took to the mountains – again and again I meditated on the uncertainty of the hour of death, capturing the fortress of the deathless unending nature of mind. Now all fear of death is over and done.”

—Milarepa

Bell Strike

You don’t get to keep anything
Outside of these temporary configurations

The coil is always the coil, it’s the
Dispositions, born mortal, that shuffle off

We are bell-strikes with ears, clinging
To our own sound

Soothed in this melodious gestalt, let’s
Stay, just a while longer

The Grind

A stumpy old molar lives alone in the back of some mouth, like a tombstone at the grave site of all the missing teeth. He reaches up, searching for his mate above, to press against, eager for contact, ready to grind and mash together like crazy young lovers, but alas, she’s long gone. She got the rot and they came and took her.

He thinks they might as well come take him too. Lone molar, a widower with nothing much to do but keep that cheek from caving in. They give him a good flossing now and then, but really, he’s just biding his time, a mockery of function, like a gate with no fence. He can’t even go put in with the smile up there, back of the line his whole life. Front teeth were always so well cared for, weren’t they? Vain sons of bitches.

Well, at least he wasn’t a wisdom tooth. Butt of every dental joke he’d ever heard.

Conveyor

thank you for the telling
all these things I didn’t know
how like the wind it ever is
to blow and blow and blow

the mind, so like a cup, is filled
with things to know and do
the brim of it is never reached
the murky depths, so too

so on we go, we never quite
see how this knowing queue
takes up the flow of intellect
exchanging old for new

that knowledge is impermanent
is one more thing to know
it really is no problem, friend
—relax and let it go

Delicacy

Tonic

we shouldn’t be surprised
when, sometimes things
they fall together

since fall is how they
came apart, in season
cycles, moult and feather

adopt a tune, sing
rain or shine, what is it
after all, but weather

A Slice of Longevity

pyre of the moment
denies all these lingering traces
and the fireproof memories
are breaking and entering
we weep for the dead
and gone, weep for ourselves

the death certificate
rendered into thin strips, gathered
ignited, burned, lanky curled effigies
prostrate their ashen bodies
in offering, an act complete in itself
without forethought, intent
or memory, like a barfly
tossing back a shot of whiskey
at the funeral pyre of this particular
slice of longevity

Shoe Leather

Breathe us | fragile lives
Scholars of immortality
Shoe leather knows
A thing or two about walking

For each | a day bubbles
Up Like a fountain of youth
Under the climbing sun’s
Ambling summons

How did Shakespeare
Put it | whilst this machine
Is to him | cuffed
By law to this

Holding cell of
Flesh | straight jacket
Of bodily sensation
Interrogated there | outpaced
By thoughts