When we die
every toenail will become a seed
for another spring flower
our molars will chip against stone
the black mulch of skin
will be swallowed by crabgrass
our bones will hollow and dry
but when the rain comes
all things will yield
and the water will wash us to sea
the fine dust of our body
will float on the surface
and then, slowly,
begin
its long descent home.
Six Sense Doors
-- the Buddha
Leg pain, back pain,
stacked bones are pain.
Loud pain, soft pain,
each pitch has pain.
Word pain, thought pain,
all tongues speak pain.
Sweet pain, reek pain,
lust breeds more pain.
Your pain, my pain,
to see us is pain.
Brain pain, mind pain,
the home of all pain.
But no pain is pain,
since sense is self pain.
fMRI
These cells
once were
a pebble
in the surf,
the salty
leather of a
bookbinding,
the underbelly
of a sliced
red pepper,
a blue ribbon
tied neatly,,
the innermost
chamber
of a lemon—
but now
they are
mind.
Vipassana
When I sit
I feel my body like an object
Turn it over in my mind,
To acquaint my self with self.
Every time, the first time.
Except in this object,
Unlike other objects,
I can feel it change
(because they all do)
And learn.
I learn.
Sometimes sharp—
Red anklebones,
Leg veins like wires.
Prickling nerves,
Too many edges.
But then deep, deeper
Blood hum, liver groan
A distant thickness,
Things ticking,
The surfacing of bones.
Mind follows,
Motion organ!
Always spinning
Quick quick!
I anchor stones.
And then finally
(not always)
it comes
slowly
slowly
only breath bubbling up from a cold mountain spring.
