city market: so many aromas in one short stroll.
City Market [Haiku]
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Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod? / Or Love in a golden bowl?
from Thel’s Motto
I am a watery weed, / And I am very small and love to dwell in lowly vales: / So weak the gilded butterfly scarce perches on my head. / Yet I am visited from heaven and he that smiles on all / Walks in the valley.
from Part I
Then if thou art the food of worms, O virgin of the skies, / How great thy use, how great thy blessing
from Part II
every thing that lives. / Lives not alone nor for itself
from Part II
Why cannot the Ear be closed to its own destruction? / Or the glistening Eye to the poison of a smile!
from Part IV
Stationed in East Anglia,
I remember layered fog,
fog so thick one couldn't
see past the hood's end,
but, given a slight rise,
one could see all the way
down the runway -- as if
it was a cloudless full moon eve.
As one might expect of an airbase,
(having been built around a flat runway)
there wasn't much topography.
But sometimes life is like that:
a tiny rise in perspective
allows one to see the world clearly,
but a minor dip puts one in a
soup of unfathomability.

water smashes shore,
rising as foam then raining
back down as liquid.
Walking the ruins
of some old Buddhist
university,
I entered a chamber,
and found myself
confronting a Buddha,
its head obscured by
a bolt of sunlight.
I thought it might be like
one of those Angkor Wat
crop tops from when Pol Pot
had the heads chopped off
all the Buddhas to make
some quick cash.
But the head was intact,
just blotted out by blinding light,
and I blinked my way into sight
of that serene face.
Sun, Rain, Wind,
& other agents of wear
that tear down ancient stones
one grain at a time,
eroding symbolic rocks
carved with symbols
that meant something
to people in days of yore.
And they mean something
to people today,
but whether those meanings
match is another question...
Because our understanding
of past perspectives
is ever eroding:
just like those rocks,
but - unlike rock -
thoughts and beliefs
were wisps writ in a
malleable art: language.
We cling to traditions & lineages,
but everything is erased.

The sign read: "Flee Market,"
and so, of course, I fled.
The hawkers called to me
as I sped like hot lead.
From what I was fleeing,
I have no idea.
But I found a cheap chair
down at the IKEA.
The rains have arrived, pouring steadily. I watch from windows - high above the street, and see some stand in doorframes, tentatively, watching the droplets splat on the concrete, drops slip off curbs and into the gutters. You'd think the water would scour the world clean: that it'd sweep away the dirt and the clutter, and wash the leaves to a clean shade of green. But, instead, it deposits grit and trash in piles and sandbars that're spaced randomly, and befouls all the walls with muddy splash - that paints with red clay, less than handsomely. But, while it may make the man-made world meaner, the rain does make the trees' world much greener.