Breaths of Revolution

Tear gas blooms like incense
in the temple of upturned cars.
I breathe —
not because I must,
but because breath is revolution.

Batons swing like broken mantras,
shields form false monastery walls.
In this chaos-shrine,
I find my cushion
on the burning asphalt.

Each projectile traces
koans through smoke-thick air —
I track their paths
with the same attention
I give to autumn leaves.

The crowd flows like sangha,
chanting freedom’s ancient sutras
in megaphone voices,
while I count breaths
between flash-bang enlightenment.

Riot gear demons
dance their fearsome dance,
but I’ve seen worse guardians
at the gates of my own mind —
I bow to them all the same.

In this moment,
the street becomes my zendo,
every siren a bell of mindfulness,
every burning dumpster
a torch lighting the noble path.

Here, in the heart of discord,
I find perfect harmony —
not peace that hides from chaos,
but peace that drinks it in
like rain into parched earth.

My gas mask is my rakusu,
filter breathing wisdom
through particles of change.
Each step mindful,
each shout a prayer.

The revolution isn’t rising up
or pushing back —
it’s sitting still
while the world burns,
then moving with crystal clarity.

In tear gas clouds,
I see the same emptiness
as mountain mist.
In police lines,
the same illusion of permanence.

This too is meditation:
standing rooted
while kingdoms fall,
breathing steady
through history’s labor pains.

All is dharma.
All is flow.
Even the riot
is perfect Buddha-nature,
just as it is.