ideas accelerate to the surface like air bubbles from whence they came, i cannot say they passed up from below the lit sea from the darkness maybe, like air bubbles, they follow a mostly straight path, but i cannot say for certain what happens below the light i catch only the vapor that drifts up out of the popping bubbles and it must be gathered quickly before it spreads on the wind, becoming lukewarm nothing... damn increasing entropy!
Terraced rice fields. Some, in rectangular blocks. Others, following valley contours. In the tropics, all stages exist at once: The mirrored surfaces of flooded but unplanted paddies. The orderly stubble of freshly planted fields. The max saturation green fields, densely packed with verdancy. The tawny fields of heavy-headed ripe rice. One may pass all of these (and gradations, thereof) as one walks the narrow lanes that dissect farmland. People, birds, and animals transit the slender paddy levees, lending color to a monotony of vibrancy. Sometimes, a weather-beaten man or woman wades in the field -- feet wide and bent at the waist. Nowadays, people come from far away (sometimes even paying admission) to see these fields -- to see so much green packed under blue skies and to let that photosynthetic glory wash over them. mirrored paddy -- flooded but unplanted; a child studies himself lush green fields. crows on the paddy dike command the eye tawny rice. stalks bent under grain-swollen heads
in the monkey forest, i think of Sun Wukong & Hanuman as a macaque steals my sunglasses
My winter days are vaguely seen from here, but I cannot yet see the very end: only the plain that is the sum of fears, a sum that only living on transcends. The peek I take looks like my days back then. It's not so Batman noir as I've been told. My focus shifts to now; I find my Zen. The act of living life is growing bold. In dreams, that dreadful hour calls to me, and I feign sleep and turn my back on Death. If he can't be seen, maybe he can't lead, and I can soldier on with my next breath. My focus shifts to now; I find my Zen. It's good to gasp every now -n- again.
From a stove-heated room, the snow brightens one's mind with hope that all will be made clean, but cleanliness is next to nothingness and nothingness is next to loneliness. From inside, snow is silencing and light. It's fine and shifts like sand in desert dunes. It's silent like the depths of a cabin at midnight on the prairie before time. From outside, snow saps all of one's resolve, and makes one wish to flee the purity it pretends to generate all around. The cold, it bites like a full-body vice. The feet go numb, but brains... they fire wildly -- they shake one awake, but dare one to sleep.
waves roll over with a soft crashing white noise that splays out into a sizzle as foamy water expands flatly over hot sand until the sizzle is washed out by the next wet crash and then more sizzle and then more crash sizzle & crash crash & sizzle
a butterfly lands;
unmoved by wind or leaf sway,
but point a camera…
the black sand bay
under rainy gray clouds:
boats rock anxiously
As in Hokusai’s Great Wave,
I watch waves roll over,
before a volcanic cone.
Though these waves are
small & close,
they are perfectly rounded.
And though the distant volcano
looms large over the shore waves,
it has perfect symmetry.
I feel the roundness
&
simultaneous devastating power
of both elements at once.
