Monday, June 25, 2012



Thoughtless giving
Wordless conceiving
A fresh dressed ancient spins America, wandering

Sensing the Sufi
true sleep

Calling out

Vast wise spirit building,
Embellishing Earth with industriousness,
I’m something that’s nothing to you!


Inhabiting foothill huts
a friend says “see Yabyum”
floor bound cross-
legged pillow sitting
face to face
round each neck
swaying sighs

Sacred rep
aerational Republicans
fuck four priests chanting

Yee-haa! Lightening Strikes the Pink Hole!


and tediously developed ideals
evolving gray corporate censorship
inform me my karma was
born to be where freedom’s
a belief
no one believes

and there ain’t no kicks
something’s always made of Nothing



Illusions of Nothing manifest something
Nothing illusions something manifest of
Something manifests nothing of illusions

Jesus Christ


Ululating with eyes closed, seeing power


The campus eccentric imagines himself the only actual man there at the middle class programming institute for obscurity and homogeny, whose adherents find a moving expression of success in rows of white and pastel-colored homes with chemical lawns and cyber-realities everyone’s bathing in and feeling the same about:


All this while Dharma Bums stalk their wilder-ness listening
finding ecstasy in the stars
searching for the Dark Secret

The origin of stagnant invisible shit civilization—realizing everyone has white ceramic toilets to take big dirty craps in like bears on the mountains

But it’s all washed away
and nobody says shit
or realizes they come from it and sea scum

They spend days washing their hands with soap they’d rather eat


And though I love America
I hate hunters
they slaughter alert beings

And for each victim, they’ll be reborn a thousand times

To re-suffer the ensuing horrors of being
lectured to by me, trapped
in rustic mountain taverns
cozy to parlor-puff scribes
but wretched to the Psalmists of pond and peak

Yet charming still to Armenian grocers
who sing Choke, Choke, you do not see how great Ah-mary-kah eez

And those well-meaning tongue-tied Baptists on a church binge forgetting to insert the contraception

They must be assholes


When they heard I didn’t kill animals
but only clumb mountains
swam in ponds
they dismissed me

a hopeless eccentric
a void perimeter stuffed with illusion

Where the milk is fine
but more cows feed
than people

Whenever a sparrow might hop along some veranda with wet feet


And the secret of ascent is bop
vast hop empty-
skulls dancing
rock to stone not
dithering, awake
the mountain


Praying all thoughtful things will quit fussing and jobbing and feel It

Serenity, madness, ecstasy

Beginning and ending
praying for all to be
just as bare
likewise loved, also
a growing flower and
see the eyes of All and
behind It composure and


But we’re all sunk in shit, mules vexed by whatever system we choose to plow


But we can’t fall off a mountain


What’s it all mean

The plum is ripe
The Buddha’s in the Garden


Cheer up slaves
horrify your despots
at home and abroad

Be Zen lunatic bards bopping old desert paths


The whole thing’s a world adrift
A dharma bum refusing to consume
or work for his rights

Refrigerators, microwaves, I-pads, hair oils, deodorant and junk

Imprisoned in the privilege system

Produce, consume, work
Produce, consume, work

Automatically renewing everything every year

I call for a rucksack evolution
Billions of visions wandering Earth
heading for the mountains
rivers and seas to
see, pray, meditate
making children laugh
old men glad
young girls happy
old girls happier

Everything seams a Zen lunatic poem writing Its mind without reason

Being kind
and by startling acts of benign oddness
keep infecting everyone with dreams of undying autonomy

Go fucking viral

As Tathagata plays in the Garden


And there’s wisdom in Zen lunacy

Just walk down any suburban street and pass house after house after house on both sides with the lamp lights shining golden, and inside the little blue squares transmitting electronic clouds of information among minds

Every family glued to the spume of electromagnetic dust
no one talking
silence in the yards

Then dogs barking because you pass by on foot not wheels

The symbol being the symbol itself
Gautama tending the Garden


The billions and billions of the One Eye
believe they’re not hurting anyone
hiding in there
the apparent I within that Eye

And I see myself in my world prowling suburbia
and Main Street
passing blue electronic-mirrored windows denoting false matrices

Alone, my thoughts seem the only thoughts not glued to the Master Switch


“Who played this cruel joke
on bloke after bloke,
packing like a rat,
across the desert flat?”

I’m telling you, a big police revolution’s coming

“Was it God got mad,
like the Indian cad,
who was only a giver,
crooked like the river?”

No! There’s going to be a rucksack evolution

“Gave you a garden,
let it all harden,
then comes the flood,
and the loss of your blood?”

Everything is possible

“Pray tell us good buddy,
and don’t make it muddy,
who played this trick
on Harry and Dick,
and why is so mean,
this eternal scene
just what’s the point,
of this whole joint?”

I am empty space—I am all things
I am


One man practicing kindness in his wilder-ness seems worth every Temple his world pulls


I am emptiness
I see starshine in a puddle
I spit in the puddle
obliterating the star
and ask

“Is the star real?”

And scream safe from earshot of the Lunatic Bus

“I won’t come down again!
I’m a blank being ecstasized in the Infinite True Body!”
then I see the star’s re-appeared in the puddle

The Buddha’s in the Garden


Among the Dead, in the rich silent hush of the Pure Awakened Land
I realize I’m a bliss heir
and that the final sin, the worst, is righteousness
because there is only Silence, then
a silence so intense you can hear the blood roar in your ears
and louder than that the Unexplained Whine of Carbon-based Wisdom

The unsolved cry of Silence Itself

Reminding you of something you’ve long forgotten
the certain, definite Truth

The roaring silence of the Diamond


Deliver flower sermons to disappointed disciples
try taming the bull of mind essence
abandon It for Nothing
party with the neighborhood butcher
and next door car salesman
the murderers of dreamy Western philosophy

Then re-member your self


The Awakened who, leading
ants from her pantry with honey to her garden
speaking to them on hands and knees about new veins of Joy

Feed others
compassion’s the guide star
fighting is ugly

Beg! Be humble!


The world appears despite my ignorance
despite God, who emanates my ignorance
as the image itself, making
why sew, seamingly

As Tathagata plays in the Garden


Dharma bums had springtime in their hearts when the blooms were girdling
and the birds dropped turds on surprised cats who wished to eat them


And the closer we got to real matter
rock, fire, wood and smoke
the more spiritual the world became


And it all ended in tears because those who were good remained in heaven
having been there from the beginning
A cosmic remnant not wishing for a personal god in all the impersonal matter

‘Look at the Void!
It seams ever stellar!’


The innumerable worlds of the Milky Way—just words


Are we all beat spirits
refusing to believe
nothing is nothing
that we’re born to lose


Our loved ones
and dear friends


And finally our Self

Only to see Death proved

O sad, kind flesh,
there is no answer,
only the limitations of Eternity

As Gautama tends the Garden

[1] A poetic response to The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac. All quotes are from the novel.

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