I will kill

The moment with words.

Turn breath to tongue.

Turn palette to pigment;

Turn ore to element.

The moment;

Lake, love, clouded shroud,

Lavish of pink,

Fluttered birds

And conception.

There is no part-just whole.

Journaled time dragged

To the next page, letter,

Drop of ink and the sunrise,



Tear draped, wet in face,

The “Platform Sutra”.


Modernity layered deeper

By auxiliary cortex-



Pounding battalions

Of indiscriminate men,

Tongue-swords thrashing

To bludgeon even the softest spirit

At the slightest expense.

Wavelengths of informants

Electrically driven,

With not a pulse to palpate

Dictate the course

Of humanities wave.

To the grave?

Collapsed upon a page,

Zhuangzi narrates and my hand folds.

Surrender is my bet.

Forgiveness my future.

Royalties aside, could Salinger hide

And Camus query to live or to die.

The essential births,

In many forms, some of no form.

How to precede?

Love, be it in moment.

Faith, be it like a knotty cane.

Compassion, be it like

A sauntering stream.

And skin, will skin, be it calloused-

Curt at times and hands prepared

To pledge both allegiance

To all which is sentient,

Care to all which nourishes the soil

And defense to the senses

In light of the senseless.


Alan Watts drank his organs to death.

The swallow swallows.

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