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August 16, 2008 - Saturday
on the eighth day he created the mambo
on the eight day he created the mambo
the crazy hop
the apocalyptic tango
the essential boogie
the beat, the swing,
the oodle, the noodle
the booge woogie
the bracka-bricka waltz
low riding hippy-hopper
sweet man-man-groovey
baltic swatzmore
the blues, the jibber-jabber, the eternal hanson
smashed potatoes
fractured clatter,
the splitter, the splatter,
the gavotte, the foxtrot
and forever rock-and-roll
among others
he worked on some
to make them better
discarded
these
modified
that
and little by little gave mindkind
a kingdom manifest
in dancing feet and swaying hips
and voices sweet
i mean the man worked hard
and then created l.a.
memphis and all the rest
'cause he was getting a few billion years old
and too tired to keep up with the demand
but when on this day
a few decades ago
he brought forth the you
i know today as you
sweet you
impatient you
complex
ethereal you
sexy undulating you
he put all his talent
to meld the music of the spheres
the sashay of ocean reefs
the infinitesimal chorus of the blood
the beat beat beating of a rhythmic heart
plus all the notes that rightly and harmoniously
belong in developing each day
into the who-you-are i love today
whose music fills me
shakes me, moves me, enthralls me,
makes me craaaazy
he made his greatest hit!
August 12, 2008 - Tuesday
i dreamed i saw her in the street
i dreamed i saw her in the street,
no doubt because i had had too much to eat
just before going to bed and sleep,
nonetheless i felt a certain pang of disbelief
or regret, i don't know which
maybe it was gas
or creeping arthritis of the heart
but i somehow hoped
i might reach out and say
i'm sorry
to undo a few tangled doings
that i kept under a corner of my angst
call it a call to fairness if you wish
but then i saw my life
(and she in it)
for what it was then
and still is
a dream within a dream within a dream
(who is the dreamer pray tell
and who the dreamed)
so i just turned on my side
went back to sleep
sleep so deep i hoped
perchance
neither to dream
nor to be dreamed
August 10, 2008 - Sunday
Really Writing Down The Bones! An interview with my teacher, Zen Master Seung Sahn
From Primary Point, Newsletter of the Kwan Um School of Zen
Zen & Poetry
Zen Master Seung Sahn
Primary Point: Why do you, as a Zen Master, bother to compose poems?
Zen Master Seung Sahn: For you. [laughter]
PP: When you compose your poems, do you actually write using "beautiful language"?
ZMSS: No. This moment appears, then compose a poem. Not checking situations, and not making anything.
PP: In your teaching, you say that people suffer from word sickness, so word medicine is necessary. Would you describe
how you use language in your poetry?
ZMSS: Simple! Only whatever situation comes up or appears! Any style of writing is OK. You know, Korean, Japanese, English,
any kind of writing, but most importantly, only what appears.
PP: This seems too simple. I love reading your poetry because it allows me to connect to this moment, so what if I was
to say to you, "I love your poems; they are so beautiful," what would you say to me in response?
ZMSS: I don't care! [much laughter]
PP: Of course. In your teaching you often talk about candy, something that gives us a good feeling. So a Zen Master's
words can sometimes be candy and sometimes hooks. Is there candy in your poems? Are there hooks?
ZMSS: Yes, sometimes candy and sometimes hooks appear in my poems, but realize that I don't create candy or hooks in these
poems. They are written, with no intention, only for all of my students.
PP: What happens in your mind when you read or hear other peoples' poetry?
ZMSS: I don't check other peoples' poetry. The mind with which I read other's poetry is only a practicing mind, so the
meaning appears. Then I only comment.
PP: So, what is the best way to read your poems so that I may learn your teaching?
ZMSS: Put it all down, everything! Then my mind and your mind can connect.
PP: That's not so easy. Is poetry Zen? Does true poetry manifest Zen mind?
ZMSS: Zen mind, poetry mind, writing mind, practicing mind, all are not different.
From a Letter to the Polish Sangha
November in Warsaw
Fifty people together in one room.
Sitting Zen for three days.
Try mind. Bread
And potatoes and onions.
Fifty people eating together.
Get energy. Find the true way.
What is the true way?
Don't know? Primary point?
Before thinking?
Someone appears. Hits the floor.
WHACK!
But is that the true way?
November in Warsaw.
The sky is dark.
Fifty faces are shining.
from Bone of Space by Zen Master Seung Sahn
PP: So would you say it is better to write poems or to talk about poems?
ZMSS: If you see clearly, hear clearly, and smell clearly, then everything is clear. So, right now... what appears? People
talk about how one poem is this and another poem is something else. This is making something.
PP: So, only read the poem, then [claps hands] cut off all thinking, and then only what appears in this moment is all
that is necessary?
ZMSS: Yes. It's very simple. For example, in my poetry book Bone of Space, when I traveled around Europe, for each city
I visited I wrote a poem. If you read these poems you will understand the situation, condition and relationships that existed
during that trip -- how I connected to each country, each city, and how I understood these cities. Something would appear,
and I would make a poem. This is not special; in writing poetry, I only see clearly, hear clearly, smell clearly, and think
clearly. My thinking is clear, not checking anything. just think clearly, then make your poem.
PP: In the west there is a rhyming poetry style, or in Japan there is Haiku, which is limited to 17 syllables. These are
poetic structures, but it appears to me that Zen poetry has no structure. Is this correct?
ZMSS: Yes, that is correct.
PP: So, whatever appears we write it down?
ZMSS: Haiku poets only follow Japanese style. This style is very tight and many people are attached to its form. Zen means,
don't attach to name and form. Perceive everything. Don't attach to the particular country, people, forms, situations, or
conditions -- only become one. Then some idea will appear; that's the poem. That's it, OK? My poetry does not make anything.
It's the result of seeing clearly, hearing clearly, and thinking clearly.
A long time ago in Japan, there was a well-known region called Matsushima. Matsushima is a place by the ocean, with mountains,
rivers, trees, and flowers. Matsushima inspired many beautiful poems. At one time the famous Zen Master and poet named Basho
decided to visit. When Basho saw the beauty of this place he wrote this poem:
Matsushima --
ah, Matsushima!
Matsushima!
Three clear lines! This is a very famous poem. Only Matsushima is Matsushima -- it is very simple. That is the most important
point. This is great Zen poetry.
Paris
Many heroes, many kings,
Where did they go?
Old shadow's tight chill.
The hero broke how many skulls?
The king drank how much blood, tears?
High buildings, wide rooms, only for one man.
Samsara is clear:
Sun comes, dew disappears.
Place de la Concorde stained red.
Many original masters
Coming, going -- freedom.
Eiffel Tower, l'Arc de Triomphe, Louvre, Versailles,
Stone tiger, ancient obelisk, Winged Victory
Singing a chorus of mirages.
Palace mind deeply, deeply sleeping --
Good times, good times, never wake up,
Shining, shining eastern sky.
Seine River flowing into the ocean.
from Bone of Space by Zen Master Seung Sahn
August 8, 2008 - Friday
Burden
I carried your name
up and down st george's hill
innumerable times
longing
hyatt street steep
waiting
prolific with impatience
hammer heart driving
wooden stakes through and through
itself
such succint self-feeding
evenening each day
into listless mornings-after post-mortems
while
odds and ends of my life
dripped down
alleys parking lots
mckee's impaling entrances
such empty spaces
as engendered by august's interminable heat
flaming chariot sun
burned
your name
on my sweaty brow
on my restless meanderings
high hill
imposed
your name in me
fluttering it
deciduous
into daily fixation
later on
oblique the moon
nevermored your presence
as I walked down
wall street
murmurmuring your name
in vain
again
August 5, 2008 - Tuesday
more degrees of separation and intimation
Current mood: hypertexted
Category: hypertexted Web, HTML, Tech
it's a monkey on a cup
it's a whatchacall it but black
it's something like an undertaking
but penurious in extreme
it's the ying and the yang
and the hub and strands
it's the crips and the flats
it's something beyond belief
that holds you holds you still
it's lunar and aloof
it's a chimera indeed
blue lilies on yellow field
pentagram of silenced mills (ask detroit about that)
so go ahead, enjoy! I assure you it's not a ploy!
c'mon!
sing a heartfelt song
just make sure to end it right, like this...
long is the day, longer the night specially when there are no traffic lights
Current mood: re-cycling
i sat by the wayside
watching swift crowds recede
into the darkness of the past
as righteous droves rode by
i watched domestic bees just sigh and dance
deserted beehives marked
their passing, their fluttering good byes
i watched them fly by
i watched them die
and so on
ahead, for everybody,
there lay another kind
of nevermore
this one deeper than thought
confusing as only delusion can become
when truth spikes the drink of concepts
opinion, words
what long procession
i thought
what immaterial steps
all marching into a past
no one can remember well
except for the vague approximation
of our fictional autobiographies
all marching
dancing
stepping
into
a vague oblivion
surrounded by epitaphs
unless, of course,
we got incriminating videotapes
then we got critical mass
to go
August 2, 2008 - Saturday
Fleshing Out "Indeed In Deed"
ready to put on my underwear
this morning
one weary leg first and then the other
i remembered when
i would do both legs at once:
throw the shorts up in the air
hold them lightly as they fly up
simultaneously
rock back
fling
the legs through
pull up
while the legs swing back down
the feet hit the ground
stand
with my shorts already firmly on
in one swift move
ready for whatever
Zeus (my favorite imperfect god)
was going to dish out
that day.
Now
i try it and yes!
by Zeus!
i can do it
no prob, bro!
Agile to the last catapulted move
while the day in ambush waits to show me a thing or two
although with that pirouette
I know I'm ready for one and all
deities young and old
Let's get it on, Mars!
Venus...
you...
later
when the shorts come off
Waking Up Dead Version II
Category: Parties and Nightlife
on the day I cut my wrists there were five suns
blazing down on the dreary streets
and not even flies were abroad,
just five blazing suns without clouds
or conscience or beliefs.
on the day i cut my wrists there were no kind
acts anywhere in the world, i was sure,
just battles and dying and cruelty and dreariness
and when the archangel called my name,
he wasn't kidding,
and the suns blazed even hotter,
no one could live,
no one could live in this hopelessness,
least of all i.
on the day i cut my wrists
the pope was praying for eternal life,
dead birds hung from trees
and the river bed convulsed with muck
gave up its dead
they all floated up
asleep and beautiful and dreaming
of better days.
on the day i cut my wrists
a small voice said to me
"there is a god of kindness and relief
call your friends
that's what friends are for,
a friend in need etc. etc. etc."
if there was a god he sure wasn't home
just like my nine friends that i in vain called,
on the day i cut my wrists.
Bones From "Poetry For The Six Senses"
....Three Reaction Poems On Milenka Berengolk's "Self-Portrait"
I.Motive Force
Yes, if you must know, it was we
who ran from light,
who hid from insolent truths
rebounding from every moment
slicing through our hands.
Was our choice wise?
Who can tell now,
amid the tumult
of tomorrow already
grappling with our desires?
We did the best we could,
the best we all knew how.
But it was never enough.
II Core Being
Strong and bold and right
About seasons, stations of the cross,
Abject desire, catacombs of our Dreams,
Hidden forever artificial deities,
Shadows alive without tomorrow,
All the sentient clamor,
The flesh alive
With passion for oblivion,
For remembrance,
For quiet repast of sudden hours,
For the multiple stars of joy,
The smile of every day,
The clamor.
III Metaphysics
The soul stands alone
before the abyss,
after the last petrel
has left the shore.
There is a world,
contiguous with our pasts.
It reaches out constantly,
argues this or that,
denies sunlight or flowers,
night's rustling constancy.
It is a siren's song,
birth's resonant ultimatum.
The soul stands alone.
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July 27, 2008 - Sunday
No News Would Be News Indeed
wake up ,
the day already pinpricks eyelids open,
sweat covered bad dream vanishes softly.
solitary madness bedclothes
mutate into giant sleepless mound
body awakens with subtle inebriation,
concatenations of physiological events
100 trillion cells gasp at inevitable events
awakening sometimes hurts like birth
mind slowly stirs thoughts through
unlikely musings
unrelated pieces olfactory sensuous
recall night
senseless sperm dried up cry 100 million empty futures,
the ceiling stares down disapprovingly
so get up despite both ankles rusty protestations of distress
begin step-by-step let's meet the day routine
tv's gigantic plasma screen
(my latest nod to technology's loud screams)
is blank
tabula rasa
purveyor of deceit
awaits my "on" touch
through console-like remote
first, world football (soccer) news
then restless touring of 200 channels
of the most diverse mundane tv wasteland
until at last
eyes focuse to today's bad news
(there are no good news ever, it appears):
headlines tell the story of a day
that fell from the sky
the sun's maddening orb arching on high
coast to coast relentless march
swept down thru the Eastern night
where "The Spirit of Australia" had a holey fright,
so this Sunday 27th of July marches on by
simultaneous
synchronous uncaring fumbling steps
until at last
shut off the screen
go back to life
to bed
to dream
a life of perpetual ignorance
of the electronic dream machine.
July 25, 2008 - Friday
The Knocking On The Door Ain't Who You Think It Is
i was sitting alone
at home
'cept for Freddy my dog
who dreamed of moving tires
or rabbits or bouncing balls
or something equally
unpredictable and fun
while I watched
"The Search for the Indianapolis"
a WW II cruiser sunk by the Japanese
at the very end of the war
(the Indianapolis delivered
"Big Boy", the atomic bomb
that destroyed Hiroshima
and that was food for thought)
when
as i chewed a grape
grown in Chile,
(may I say)
a friendly grape
you know?
(and yes, there had been sake,
I'm glad you asked,
my favorite sub-potent drink
and how damn appropriate
don't you think?
at the particular historical time
in the pix)
when i found all of a sudden i could not breathe
the half-chewed grape had lodged
in my throat
i could not breathe
i fucking could not breathe
i could not breathe
I tried and all i got was nothing
but a helpless feeling
I could not breathe
i could not breathe
breathe breathe breathe I could not
I fukking could not breathe
nor could i swallow
i felt a struggling of contrary demands:
swallow-breathe
i mean i knew i was in trouble
when the sake
unable to go past the obstruction
came out in a stream
like Copenhagen's boy
'cept it was the other end
that wet the floor
while a wave of disbelief
swept over my mind
it's hard to explain
but i watched as i struggled
my mind clear?
weighing alternatives'
and not one thought of Zen
or philosophical beliefs
not one prayer
or moment of clarity
not one desire to see a loved one once again
no famous last gasp
no IDEA came to me
as the door slowly began to close
on all i care for
it was a Boyle's Law perfect storm
just breathe and breathe again...
'cause if you can't
you're gonna die
that's all there was
the alternatives
were juxtaposed in an ascending order
depending on how close to death i felt
1) Stick my finger down my throat, reverse peristalsis at work
all that goes down must come up (if so desired)!
2) Fall on my fists, a self applied Heimlich
3) Go outside, knock on one and all doors until someone came out to help me
4) Give up the ghost peacefully (not even considered)
I felt stridor in my throat
and i knew i would survive
some air was getting down!
and soon I swallowed
could breathe
and now I'm fine
the knock was on another door
is that too much?
Yet I feel upset
as close to tears as an Ecuadorean can be
without too much shumir (a potent alcoholic brew)
because...
well, it's hard to tell
I was sad that there are so many things
I want to do or know
and there never will be time
to do them all
Here is the other realization:
Life (and death) are all about my self
it can and will happen
when I do not expect it
even if I am expecting it, dig?
I won't let anybody kid me anymore:
moment to moment
I must act as if
there is no fucking time left!
'cause, for all I know,
there ain't!
For sure now I will get molar implants, duh!
and do mindful chewing to the max...
July 24, 2008 - Thursday
There Is No Who, No Why (sonata)
i dreamed a country
a hemisphere
a world
a planetary system
a galaxy
a universe
a kind of bang
neither small nor big
ethereal manifestation
but real in an imagined sense
stars in their courses
sought to rule the lives
of infinitesimal beings
millions of miles away
i said no way
it's possible
then i felt a pull
a push
a tug
a touch
an infinitesimal
but large immense
gravitational
electromagnetic
quantum ergo
something
that indeed ruled
every fiber of my being
and every atom of the universe
i screamed in joy and fear
in exultation
unified theory at last
extant in my mini-universe
my dog started shaking
his head his ears something bothered him
in my dream i was despondent
but i did wake up
just in time
to realize
i had been my own god
and maybe i still am
3:01 PM - 3 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment - Edit - Remove
July 21, 2008 - Monday
Rev 1, going back to the source and swinging like a metronome
Category: Art and Photography
Da heart coroner supreme
agnostic stupendous miraculous
judge juror executioner
inquisitor superb
of ever mirage love
its fist sized resolve
indeed resounds
thru inner worlds
and outer
complex interpolations
now extant
among cool verdant fields
alive within tangible expanses
of being or of not being
to function or not to function
that is the test indeed
nothing else matters
but the rest of evolution
within ourselves
coming close to that serene
denouement
of itself
ellipse DNA cloud
alive and well in every cell
da heart itself
not one but two manifestations
inward outward
un-worldy and wordly
daily companions
of personal awareness
inside out
soulfully obsessed
determined
as lonely as you
or I
will ever be
in the today/tonite
of these our daily
enchanted/not so enchanted
lives.
July 19, 2008 - Saturday
The Needle In My Compass Points Everywhere
when over tepid sea
(a dormant maelstrom)
I think of you,
flesh manifest
in thousand gestures large and small
my heart grows large with want
swoons before vast potency of your dawn.
it's only fair to wonder why
the immediate past
in no concrete measure
ensures a bright future
or even a future ahead
there is only a hopeful ambiguity
a vast clamorous want
a sharp desire for final
exquisite punctual confirmation
(in large or small measure)
to all this daily striving planning plotting
that means we are alive and well and,
why not say it?
correct
things are going our way!
but maybe not for long
indeed we know all is a game of chance
of probability
we do not even know who rolls the dice!
peace, I guess, is quite dynamic:
waits for no man
or woman
arrives without fanfare
seeping from below the ground
of our striving
perhaps I will be proven wrong,
but your arms beckon me
to lands I rather not explore
alone
so hand in hand
let's venture out
walk-on-the-waters towards
whatever unimaginable fate awaits.
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