Everything Nothing Comes Goes
What kindling might i offer to
the long dead, now near newly dead?
my seeing.
my walking.
my sitting.
my doing.
What lung-puff (however quiet, however
meek, however entropy-fated it may be) might i offer?
As it always will be, leaving lungs and lips
and losing itself in storm gales of modernity.
Eclipsed by howling and raring roarings, the whispered whiffs of this bent soul’s wish...
to speak Qì to the tinder bundle, held aloft but low. i genuflect and bend and bow to stones, arranged in a circle just as humanity has long seen fit to arrange the stone Earth.
my seeing.
my walking.
my sitting.
my doing.
What spark might i offer?
to Zhuang Zhou? to Li Bó?
What spark might i speak into eruptive life?
to Tara?
Om.
to Ram?
Bolo.
Death does not safekeep
wisdom from further death.
The masters die many deaths.
Forgetting.
Confusing.
The Entropy of Illusion
is the rot-causing beetles and chemistry
and larvae unseen in the height of day
but never more than a last gasp away.
At the ready to take down and break down
what’s built up and named.
What light, what heat, what protectiveness might i offer
to ?afe?? to Frost?
That they are gone is no blame on us.
That they are lost is all blame sent to and stuck on us.
On each of us.
On each day.
Let, rather
the cemetery
sing the silent wisdom
without tarry.
An undulating, perhaps roiling
tubule by sea of purported peace:
this gravemarked sea of sliced
and shined and stuck stones...
some with offered pebbles there stacked
‘pon...sees me sit. In screaming silence.
Sees me rushlessly walk. Sees me speak
wisdumb through closed lips.
Nothing comes.
Nothing comes.
Everything goes.
Nothing comes.
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