Here’s you’ll find my poetry. If you’re interested in purchasing a poem (obtaining the rights for a poem on this site) or if you’d like me to write a poem for you, feel free to contact me. Prices are cheap and negotiable.
It is a grave mistake
To feel that the Path is about
Self-destruction, for it’s these
That necessitate the Path.
Should you seek to annihilate
All views of self, you are further
Entrenching the aggregates in the suffering
That compelled them to seek understanding.
The Path is not about destruction, nor
Is it even about cultivation –
It’s about seeing clearly
That which is always
When Ikkyu burnt
Buddha statues and books,
It was the most direct teaching
Those items ever offered.
The Tortured Heart
A tortured heart beats for more than itself
It beats to the cries of the world
Until suffering itself becomes
The key the whole universe
Is played in. Until the ideal
Harmony is forgotten and the melody
Instead plays off of what was once
Dissonant. In this way, the suffering
An Open Secret
The darkness inside is a river
With its midnight whispers concealed
Dawn’s life reveals the shimmering trill
Of a melody that never withers
By light or night it’s the same
Thus the open secret’s revealed
Bitter grief with its poisoned teeth
Is joy mercilessly reframed
Just as the cool summer breeze is refreshing
In the winter, the same winds turn deadly
So too are the seasons
Of love and grief
And just so
I look out on the sleeping village
Cloaked in patient snow
And I feel warmth
Rise in my chest.
Just as the sun’s early morning
Inferno rays bathe the sleeping land
Without melting a single flake of snow –
Just so. Unhindered and alive
Bodhi’s silent heart still beats.
Not one, not two –
Just like this
I can only say, after years of searching,
Make peace with the dialectic that turns
Both within and without, no boundary.
For each person, there are many facets
And they need not contradict,
They need not condition dissonance.
Nothing exists in any particular way,
But in a state of constant liminosity –
Shifting and adjusting to the changes at large.
Let your narratives crumble, for no single truth
Can contain you. Clear your mind,
Relax your muscles, pay attention to
The ever changing process within you
And you will see that you are free
Of having to be this or that extreme.
The lover and the loner;
The mother, sister, and daughter;
The father, brother, and son;
The worker, the dreamer, the slave;
The winner, the fuck up, the in-between;
The genius, the dullard; the caring
And the callous – all of this is within you.
The mind is a big place, there’s room
For contradictions. Simply follow the breeze
And be as the moment commands,
Then an underlying theme is revealed
A thread without knots running through
The coarse and soft weaves.
Make peace with the dialectic
And be free.
It’s interesting, crawling out of bed and slowly… slowly growing, animate with each swig of black dark roast. The bitter flavor and caffeine chasing away the subtle derangements of the, “Wtf is happening?” mind.
Everything dry with winter; the sandman’s lingering dandruff jihading these eyeballs. Stepping outside to get the mail, feeling nose hairs freeze. Hacking a loogie and spitting it at the sun. It plops on a frozen dog turd.
If life is a story, it’s a mixture of Kafka, Nora Roberts, Abbot and Costello, and Zombieland.
Thoughts meander through
Limping morning’s growing pains –
Smiling with the view
When ya see that there’s no such thing
As an Ultimate Consequence,
Everyone loses all power over you.
You become something dynamic
And elemental – for better or worse.