YAKUSAN’S THIS BUDDHA, THAT BUDDHA

I think
therefore I am.
I think
therefore you are.
You think
therefore I am.
If either of us
stops thinking, does
the other cease to be?
If I see you as Buddha
you are Buddha.
If you see me as Buddha
I can be Buddha,
but if I see myself as Buddha
Buddha and I are
mountains and rivers apart.


A reflection on Case 86 of the Shobogenzo (Dogen’s True Dharma Eye)

WORDS, WORDS, WORDS

The room is awash
in words, they pile up
in corners, form untidy stacks
that perpetually threaten collapse,
strewing consonants like shards
of ill broken glass.
It might not be this way, for
words need order, a rubric
in which they are forced to operate.
But here, in a room of poets,
anarchy is the sole grammar,
and in the face of order
someone throws a Molotov cocktail
as we are all consumed
in the flame of self passion.

ANSWERS EVERYWHERE

You assume you know the answer,
and wait patiently for the question
which is not forthcoming.
This becomes your dilemma.
You have acquired a catalog
of answers, all awaiting questions
that never come forth.
Of course it isn’t fair, you
know that full well,
but that, too, is an answer that must
await a question for which
there is no questioner, so you must
ask yourself why
you accumulate answers,
and that is one question
for which you have found
absolutely no answers.

HIGHER ORDER

Among certain species of spider
at the moment of arachnidal orgasm
the female devours her mate
for the protection of the young.

The lion stalks his prey, then leaps
tearing flesh to sate a hunger
born of the endless sun
beating down on the grassy plain.

It is left to man to hunt
for trophy, for proof of dominion
over all else, as promised
by a self-created God.


First published in Albatross, Vol. 13, 2001

ROAD DREAM

It’s 12 degrees
the night air
slices through
my sweater
my teeth chatter.
Standing in the lot
fetching my cell phone
from the glove box
my breath congeals
around my face
a cloud.
I look up
at the moon
snowflakes dancing
on my forehead.
Luna’s face
is shrouded
by a cirrus veil,
but her eyes
are yours
her lips soft
caressing
curl upwards
in a smile
as yours.
I tell her
of my love
and she whispers
her love
reflectively
in the voice
I hear
as I curl
next to your picture
slipping slowly
into sleep.

FOOTHILL ROAD

In the hills
that rise gently
from the concrete valley
two hawks play
childlike, rising, falling
in gentle circles,
grazing the redwoods
that reach up
to stroke their breasts.
To a visitor
from the East
New York, Tokyo
there is awe
at the hawks’ grace,
slicing the sky
into cloudy ribbons
but there is no
wonder in the eyes
of the field mouse
and squirrel, only
the flapping
of the executioner’s blade
and the deep eyes of death.