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ROBE
Robe of liberationembodiment of emptinessin prescribed formonce Brahmin garbtattered strips of clothcarefully stitched togetherstitches made, pulledand resewn, bitsof dharma wornover the heartwanting silencebeneath the Bodhi treeawaiting the bell,the dawn,the triple recitation,the three prostrationsBuddhas and BuddhasIn waiting, abidingfailure and compassion.
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WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN
My history is like an ill-sewn quilt, odd piecesof parents stitched looselytogether, always ready to comeapart, fade or be thrown away. Perhaps my history ismore like a belovedold pair of jeans, holesappear and are patched,patches wear out and arereplaced, or the hole isjust left, as if it weresomehow a fashion statement. There is little normalwhen…
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an old writer and his words 