Some speculate about
the edge of the universe,
and what exists beyond.
But that edge - if it exists -
is beyond another edge:
the farthest points
from which we can see light.
In a tower
on a mountain,
there's still an edge
of our eyesight --
like the others,
it's an edgeless edge,
signifying nothing
but our own limitations.
We are builders
of edgeless edges,
fashioning boundaries
that don't bound anything,
but by which we are bound.
He who would know freedom
must be ready for the fall,
ready to be untethered.
Freedom is not
floating on a cloud;
it's riding the rapids down,
trying to get one's feet first,
so that one breaks a leg --
and not a skull --
on the rocks.
It was a moment of silent spaciousness. In the midst of a fight, there was no enemy -- just the effortless dance of the thing. That moment expanded to the infinite, & snapped back to one tick after the tock. Since then, no catastrophe has felt too great for a smile.
It's such a peaceful cone,
but I think of Krakatoa.
How much patience
can a volcano have?
It's got just the two speeds:
static & exploding.
A human, given those choices,
would choose to spend its time
in explosion.
The calm of perfect stillness
could last only so long
before it made one itch
and scream.
Someday, it will blow its
beautifully symmetric top,
leaving a jagged rim,
and smoking like a
postcoital movie character.
a flock of pigeons mills about in a lazy dance, pecking and shifting then explode into panicked flapping, as they wheel about, gaining spontaneous unity, reaching investigation mode, they bank heavily, like a C-130 gunship -- a Puff the Magic Dragon -- pivoting onto a target
it's beauty & chaos & pristine vistas & unfiltered slop soup & kungfu fighting animals, madly mauling each other but it's also creatures pulling critters of another kind out of the mud pits sea turtles keeping afloat sailors pitched overboard it moves in mysterious ways, but never malicious ways it's savage & vicious, but knows not evil -- for evil is solely the domain of the labeling class it knows not virtue either, the closest it knows to goodness is the experience of experience the Now, a moment unfolding with the least possible effort, and with no thought whatsoever
Born from the Black, He wormed through the World. He dove into Death, Vanishing back into the Black.
breath ceases and the body is quiet and the mind is calm and there is nothing no world no throngs no hordes no disasters breath returns & so does the world
a typhoon stalled offshore, and dreary clings to this place a miasma written in solid hours when will clouds crack & let the light in? just one blue bolt of sky, showing through a crevice? my head is in fog, and I can't hear my pounding heart over the crashing of waves
crack the tablets: smash & shatter them until they flutter into dust, dust that's wisped into eddies and sparkles in the creek bed and is flushed out to sea and is but a glittery trace of what they once were.
the !n(tro)verted yogi 