I have lived many lives,
too many to count, and I
remember bits and pieces
of each, but not necessarily
to which life this bit
or that bit should attach.

It is why I run them
together, view them
as a singularity, easier
to cope even when I
know it is a nice delusion.

I do wonder, at the moment
of death if each life will
flash by in turn, countless
short films, or if the gods
will go along with my
delusion, or maybe just
say time’s up, lights off.


It is far less a matter of space
for we have that in profusion
if mostly always beyond reach, but
unnecessary anyway given our pervasive
fear of being alone while always trying
to define our particular uniqueness.
The universe has a vastness we
can never hope to grasp and so
we turn inward, where space is constrained,
and we can imagine impenetrable borders
that exist solely within the mind.
But the dimension that gives rise
to fear and loathing is time, for it
despite its vastness, is always finite
and always, in our deluded eyes
shrinking as the universe expands,
and we know there is a point
when time becomes a deathly singularity.


You like being here, but
you suspect you would like being there
as well, if not more than being here.
This puzzles you, for you fear
leaving here to go there, in case
when you arrive there you don’t like
being there and would rather be here.
You should sit and ponder which
is better for you, here or there,
even though you cannot be certain
just what is there, or what
there will be here if you go there.
But if you do go there, there will
then be here, and here will then be there.
Now consider why must here and there
be different, since there contains here,
and here is most all of there.
This question is a naked singularity
and deep within it lies
everywhere you ought to be.

A reflection on Case 89 of the Shobogenzo


Out at the edge of the universe,
time has no beginning
and stretches endlessly,
as a stone dropped,
its ripples spreading outward
across a shoreless lake.
There is no time here
at the margin, no space
consumed by all space.
I would touch the edge
and press it outward
disrupting balance
until it all draws in
to an infinite point,
the stone at rest.


The infant girl smiles with infinite knowledge,
present wholly in this moment, knowing
no other, her eyes speaking with the wisdom
of all who have gone before her.
In those eyes your heart hears stories
of universes waiting to born, collapsing
inward, naked singularities, and compassion.
She doesn’t offer to teach you, but you
cannot help but look into her and learn.
Everyone can be a Buddha, she says,
all are, but too soon we forget and spend
so much of our lives trying to regain
the Buddha nature with which
each of us emerges from the womb.