just that

when you're cuffed in the silent cell

whatever melody you chased there

whatever ass

whatever fight

whatever shadow needing redemption

whatever beam needing record

is buried deep and deeper

under the concrete hum

which is actual

the fiery horizon left blaring along the back of the brain

and that is living

knowing the floor that holds you

the bars that bind you

make up and were made by

your lost melody
the dim glowing hara

this is also living

watching with reverence what is at your eye 

or in your hand

just that

song for dogen

hey hey dogen zenji i wrote you a poem
bout a dusty old world that is no longer home 

i came down from the long cloud on the mountain
and went calling
a woman i didn't recognize 
came and talked to me through a chained door
she said i'm sorry son 
but no world by that name lives here anymore 

silence is because the voices of the earth are too big
silence means seeing the sounds of the big voices
seeing the sounds of the big voices 
is the foot in the sun on the moss
in the stand of pines
listening to the long cloud means seeing it's big voice
singing self's song in silence

on waking a chained door
in sleep a veil
the dusty world grows thinner each lifetime 

in the fold

us in conflict
atop the one bright pearl
because the milky part is mine by right
the dark part is yours

by conceiving the surface
create the dark part 
the battleground 

but still, where we are 
within the pearl
all is brilliant
even the dark 
in the fold of the robe
where the pearl pinned itself
while we were drunk

hara value

it gives all the benefit of the doubt
takes all at hara value 
to be as
hara no aru hito
or the other

in that moment, the only moment
reaching for the thousand masks
the hand finds only space
as they are hanging on the wall
next to the bathroom mirror
in that home foreclosed
startled back, see 
this is not that mirror 
this is mirror pond 

the detail

sun shoots from west
onto my right shoulder
strolling home down barre
120 degrees SE, i checked

evening warm and familiar set
of whitish glare lines on the right lens 
inside these reflective sunglasses
flit eyes to the corner just to see
lo and behold the red tan crows feet
and ten thousand fine white hairs 
of this upper cheek 
magnified and reflected
like a viewmaster of self

point being, the detail
the goddamn endless detail
unfolding unbroken
multiplying at the rate 
of one's slowing and quieting 
there's as much as you can take
without turning away 

not out of the woods yet

i'm the type that sometimes 
can't see the forest for the trees

and fine 
what is living but meeting the one tree
seeing on its skin the seasons weathered 
taking the moment however long
to hear its deep and musky song
then to move along and meet the next

i believe we aren't meant to see the forest
until untethered spirit swims skyward
if that even happens
though i may join the cheaters in aviation