Haiku 2

 

stranger than fiction

"Reality is stranger than fiction," she said. 

I turned it over for a second. 

"What if reality IS fiction?" I muttered. 

"Like we're living in a simulation or something?"

"Well there's that too." I sipped my tea carefully before continuing. "Chuang-tze once had a dream he was a butterfly, and upon waking he was no longer sure whether he was Chuang-tze dreaming of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of being Chuang-tze." I paused again for more tea, but before I could continue she cut me off. 

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" 

"What do you think it means?" 

"No no I'm not falling for that." She crossed her arms. "You tell me. You brought it up." 

"It means you think you're listening to me speak but maybe you're just having a dream about listening to me speak.  And if you're having a dream, then it's not even me speaking, but you, since it's your dream and your brain is creating the whole thing."

"That is totally not what that story meant."

"What do I know I'm just a voice in your head," I shrugged. 

"Why do I even bother talking to you?" She sounded exasperated. 

"Who else are you going to talk to?" 

"If this is all in my head I could literally talk to anyone I wanted." 

"Now you've got it," I said. 

Goodnight. 

touched

I have been touched by the gods

or the universe 

whatever that profound space is 

both inside and outside my head

and am somewhat mad

at least i think so 

but i ask myself, am i truly

going mad? 

or is everyone else who plods along 

like nothing remarkable is 

taking place, 

are they the ones who are mad? 

so these either are the writings of a madman 

or the diary of one of the few 

sane people on earth, 

even time itself won't tell 

Midnight in the back of my car

Midnight. In the back of my car we made love until we were dripping like the foggy windows. Then the thing all back seat lovers fear: the knock at the window.

It was her mother. How she found us down that dead-end road in the middle of the night is still a mystery to me, but she did, with that supernatural radar mothers have. The knock. The knock that threw us into motion like thieves caught in the act. What were we stealing? 

She got dressed faster than me and stormed out of the car to confront her mother. As I pulled my clothes on I heard them yelling at each other. I was impressed by her ferocity. I'd be sheepish. I was caught fair and square. What right would I have to put up a fight?

She came back and told me she had to go. She told me everything was ok and she'd call me soon. They drove away and I turned my defrost on full so I could see. I was that guy, wasn't I?  The ones parents fear.

There was a difference, I told myself. I actually loved her. I didn't know what the hell I was doing but I loved her. The drive was 30 minutes through the hills and trees and I turned the whole thing over in my mind. When I got home I slipped in through the bedroom window so I wouldn't wake my family. 

As sleep came to me I thought about the water running down the inside of my car window and her hand pressed against it while we made love, in the same spot her mother put her hand when she knocked... 

promise me

promise me

you'll find the beauty 

in our world

when my eyes

no longer see 

promise me 

you'll have vision 

for the two of us 

i, looking 

through you

in this moment of

pure existence 

double-visioned 

graced moment of 

divine sight 

let light fill 

our body

in the presence of 

this passionate 

cohabitation 

i am always with you 

if you have eyes 

to see 

oh my earth

in my final moments
let me be light
let me soar the starry sky
my earth, oh my earth
i leave you by
returning
will i ever see again?
no, oh no
as long as the 
end of time

firefly

When I was little I'd catch fireflies in a jar. Only one or two at a time. To my young mind these small creatures were living miracles.

They would always appear in the same spot in our backyard, near a small hill around the base of an old telephone pole. Catching them was easier than you might think. One simply had to wait for the little insect to signal with its glowing abdomen and scoop it up. Where I live now in suburbia I rarely see them in great enough numbers to do this, but when I was a child, the night air was full of them. 

I'd take my jar inside and inspect the bug under some light. What a strange creature lived there on the other side of my fingers and a few millimeters of glass.

Then I'd sit the jar next to my bed and go to sleep, but with one eye open to watch my little prisoner. Sometimes I'd see it glowing there, but never so brilliantly as outside.

In the morning I'd find the firefly lifeless on the bottom of the jar. I don't think one ever made it through the night.  There's probably a metaphor in that, if one cared to think a little more about it.

being here

"repetition

variation

intersect in

Mother Gaia,

existence is our

salvation from the

Void" -Jerus Maximus

We unfold like paper umbrellas

little bloomings

snowflakes on the crinkled nose

of a child

glorious revelations

brilliant in our being

soon forgetful

all enveloped cultural

pigs in blankets

fit only for 

consumption

reawakened by small

sparks

glimmers of light on

lips of strangers

reminders of our 

effervesence

or as Hegel once said the:

"foaming ferment of finitude"

you're full of secrets

you're full of secrets
and unfathomable spaces
so terrible in their
invincible aspect
i'm broken to pieces
when did you become the
Unconquerable Sun of 
our earthy domain?
what alien womb 
gave you birth?
what's to stop me 
worshipping you 
at an altar i hastily 
construct with these
still strong hands
oh indifferent god of 
Being?

all life is a day

all life is a day

dawning and dusking

golden light between the 

twinned darkness 

we find ourselves 

here 

this day 

terrible in its 

naked givenness... 

is its contemplation 

not the highest 

form of consciousness?

I walk the green 

path toward the

wine dark sea 

are you here with me? 

or will you slip 

into an hour of 

your own? 

I feel the 

sand beneath my feet 

the pound of surf 

upon the lightless shore 

soon we'll be 

no more 

i am many ideas

ཨོཾ་མ་ཎི་པདྨེ་ཧཱུྃ

i am many 
ideas,
many many lives seen 
through immeasurable eyes
have i yet
found my true nature?
aggregrate of the crowded
alleys of a swarming city
flower blossom in a 
wind-swept field
OM
a practice for the 
ten thousand things
my voice the edge of 
destiny manifested
OM
earth air
fire water
boddhisattva of compassion 
may all living beings attain
liberation
OM

when the weather grew cold

when the weather grew cold

she came to me

trailing freshly 

fallen leaves 

crisp from morning frost 

with hot tea and 

warm bread 

the sunlight golden on her 

wind-blown head 

her eyes all bright with

new welcome and 

desire 

I clung to her like moss 

on a stone 

inseparably grown with 

ages of time

"you'll always be mine" 

she whispered 

and the trees bowed

in solemn witness

to her words 

and my heart bent 

with those ancient woods

toward her 

in the Fall

in the Fall

you fell 

like a majestic oak 

like Hadrian's Sycamore

you were cut by indifference 

to your majesty. 

it's not fair 

that fate refused to

spare me 

this awful day. 

but how can i complain 

when others feel 

more pain and 

loss? 

Fiddler's Green Monastery

Master: Wake up!

Student: I'm tired 

Master: You have yet to live a single day, how can you be tired? 

--

One day while walking along the green bank of the lake I asked my Master, why is it so hard to be enlightened?

He only smiled. 

--

One day during morning meal the Master watched us with eyes half closed. He didn't touch his food.

"Why aren't you eating Master?" asked a sister. 

"I was experiencing deep gratitude for this new day, and for this delicious food," he said.

The rest of us slowed our eating and bowed to him in thanks for the lesson. 

--

"There are 4 pillars of Being Meditation," the Master said.

"One is the awareness of Being itself, that is space/time, the fabric of Being. 

Two, is the ten thousand things, but especially living and sentient beings. 

Three, is consciousness. 

Four, is transience, the folding and unfolding of Being. These are the key to true meditation practice."

--

Once when walking through a nearby town we observed a man kicking a dog. Someone asked the Master, "Why does he kick the dog?" 

"There are many reasons why men harm others. Ultimately it is because he has forgotten the miraculous nature of existence. If he had remembered, he never would have harmed that other being."

Ego and Entitlement

I saw a woman today at the local coffee shop. She had a very large diamond ring on her finger and drove an expensive car. I held the door for her. She seemed nice. While we waited for our order she asked the employee if she could have hers faster because she had an appointment to get to. There were perhaps 5 of us waiting. The employee agreed to finish the woman's order first. When the drink was handed to her, she turned and stormed out saying, "It's not even a fucking grande like I asked, you fucking bitch." Then she stood in the parking lot on her phone for some time before driving away.

It is possible to have compassion for such a woman, without relinquishing the sense of injustice we all feel when hearing the story. Justice and compassion are not incompatible. 

I suspect that if she could practice even a little Being meditation her perspective might change, or at least her anger be tempered.

Many times such anger is habitual, having been reinforced by an unchecked expression of it many times before. 

Perhaps her ego felt entitled. Do all our egos not feel entitled?

Through Being meditation our ego slowly (but sometimes in a flash) realizes its place in the cosmos. What destruction will we cause until then?