Your river is a tributary. My river is a tributary, merging & flowing to a sea. I feel your molecules, floating past my own, intermingling & in some way tingling: a jangled excitation. And, [at the sea] we will be, together & [at the sea] we will be together. I no longer worry that I'm a river with no name -- an anonymous tributary -- because every sea has many names.
There is a dream in which one is naked. But no one is looking at you,... yet And that is so much worse; the anticipation of being gawked at is more disconcerting than being gawked at. And, yet, one can't bring oneself to shout, attracting onlookers, so as to end the misery of anticipation. One can only sit with one's naked expectations -- wading in anxiety.
lost in a disembodied Bardo state fantastical happenings mainlined into consciousness with a side of swirling phantasm and all the angry demons and all the faceless gods churn around the periphery
a bell rang. something awoke in him, while something died
the Golden Pheasant looks committee assembled... by first graders
everybody burns with a unique flame; just like the others
the snail moves slowly, but carries a snazzy house -- so, not THAT slowly!
mountain clouds move with spontaneity -- like blanket fort kids
a cottage burns; its owner watches ash swirl in the air
Note: Influenced by an exchange between Bashō and his student Hokushi, the latter’s cabin burning down being the topic of discussion. As told in Yoné Noguchi’s The Spirit of Japanese Poetry.
