The obvious stands with the presence of a Brahma bull. Such weight. That oxen. Baroque fortress. Shocking recognition of what isn’t real. The self steps out. Hammering aorta. Shallow breath. The aliveness of a nest of swallows. Bliss. I stand in front of my friend or foe? Freud’s coup or Siddhartha’s dread? It’s hard to tell through idyllic confessions. A knock at the door. Return to the question. The Bhagavan’s silence presses me again. Who am I? Wait. Whispers fate. No one. No thing. Neti. So what is that which stands before me? This gleaming fortress of flesh and mind. Again… Still. Nothing.
With the musing freshness of a satori gleam. Opening. Sitting under that apple tree. Sparkling joy settles. Light fades dusk. A crisp doubts bites into my attachments. I finally see the true measure of my task. Heavy. Living. Reality unfolds a blanket of fisherman’s hooks. Can I take this on? No more sabbaticals? What about the lies? How many can I keep while I prowl for highs? None, murmurs some new voice. None. The cheeky grin of presence sinks into the horizon. I return to the floor. Sit down. With all my din. History and prophecy. And try to watch the mind. Again.
____ Kenshō
miasma
clearing ____ a glimpse
of Brahman bull in cemented gaze
the mind’s prestige
bearing down
spectator
of illusion ____ gravitas
the apple falls to split wide open
a dare reveled
sobriety
paradox
the mind ____ proud oxen
the edge of a prospector’s steam
fishing for gems
in sutras
paralyzed
stance ____ eye to eye
I see myself as mythic traces
blissful
at my own illusions
satori
grinning ____ rehearsal call
of life’s hard petals
through death I’ll crawl
to carve my granite stool