don’t give ordinary mind a chance.

the faith in knowing

that things will work out

gushes up like geysers

and makes love to the

dewdrops of the future

in this temple i find myself.

someone who seems like a me

absorbing ::: like soft seaweed the

immutable atoms of bell-rings

beholding like a sacred cow the

flapping flags of red glory

a jewelline palace bedecked with

dirt: an undoubtable

vortex of unmistaken shelter

from that ordinariness. That

monkey mother, she was so

patient. This conception of selfhood,

he was so durable. That

family was so dunked in

tenderness. The orange Bengali

mother wants her little boy to

look proper for a picture:

“please!“

with her bare feet.

Are they not in fear of the

ample glass even before me?

The Swiss warrior plays his

flute, inviting the hosts of

eager Himalayan spirits and females

to a picnic of dynamic energy. Causes

and conditions conspire together

in the back room of the Shiva shrine, with their

long backlog of infallible blueprints.

No one really ever wanted

to give ordinary mind

a chance. Voices call,

but they are no-voices.

These no-voices have more power

than the sound-voices.

You switch the position of yr. legs

and all creation-possibilities reconfigure themselves

like an autonomous Rubik’s Cube. Three

wise men have a single sincere

visage, which emerges from that multi-

colored tree over there beside you: they

might know who you are, or maybe not.

When we breath through every single

pore, it’s easy to look like a god.

When you radiate as a deity %

it’s easy to feel like one.

The Monkey Prayer-Flag Temple, Darjeeling, India

be like a window

Looking outside the window

where the blue and red painted

letters

say teaveg.thukpamilkveg.momo

and so on, la sog pa, all backwards for me,

all tempting –

no class today, so

i get the Special Thali.

the sun dares to shine:

“you’ve got to be like a window

–not a door

but a window“

If you want to transmit wisdom

through speech

Properly

that is.

This ashtray that abides

before me is beautiful. The scene

before you is Beautiful. If there was

an All-Powerful Overseer, he wrote this

universe to remember the beauty

in her mind.

We have many eyes.

Some of them are clouded.

Some of them are clear.

Some of them are made of smoke

And some emit sweet tears.

The Tathagata never wrote a

book, but had many mouths instead.

From them all, he sent forth flowers

which fall upon your head.

Darjeeling, India

5.5.2008

reciprocal favor

Breathe in

all my suffering

I humbly request you.

If you do that,

you will be greater than a queen.

If you do that,

I will

be able to relax.

Breathe out

all your happiness

and send it to me

I humbly request you.

If you do that,

you will be

more powerful than

an empress.

If you do that,

I will

be able to

walk on clouds.

You can ask me

to do the same for you

and I will.

Then we will abide

forever

in the lap of

the savior goddess,

together.

Darjeeling, India

indestructible country

lightning bolt country.

mountains made of wind.

a process no one knows.

clouds tempt the trees.

a horizon that knows mist.

a sun that knows itself.

diamond bolt country.

birds made of steam.

a kind of unfurling, a kind of unfurling that answers answers.

a hotel made of mountains.

trees tempt the clouds.

gentle vista, you can recognize something.

soft one, you conceal universes,

and thereby create beauty.

indestructible country.

an atmosphere that supports

only water:

water mountains

water sky

water hillsides

water people

water trees

water air

water culture.

your sunset is cold, but it

creates a sphere of warmth.

yor mountains are green, but they

create a sphere of blue.

your people are dark, but they

create a sphere of light.

your beauty is obvious, but you

pile up mountains to hide your face.

this is a process that everybody knows.

gentle vista, all those

who are conscious

perceive you.

clouds tempt the trees.

Darjeeling, India

one more poem composed in Japanese

ki kawareba

kokoro kawaru shi

kono you no naka ni

zenbu ga

akarui ni naru

————

if the feeling changes

then your heart-mind changes too.

in the midst of this world

everything is

becoming bright

Japan Poems 4

no cooling for the masses

swept up in the endless summer

of myopia.

no breezes for the hands that struggle

towards a rumored mountain peak

lodging there is none, just dirt:

just twigs: just pebbles

–no breezes

for that struggle.

Japan, 2005

***

along the Kamo River

in the early morning

the sun

shines brightly

on the surface:

along the Kamo River.

Kyoto, Japan, 2005

***

BANO’S DEATH POEM

Me

Every Night

Drinking

Demo

Now

Me

Bano

Very Heart Thinking

Beautiful image

Iga-Ueno Shi, Japan

***

All those notebooks that you lost

are buried

in the hearts

of skygods.

All those words that flew away

reside in the trinkets

fastened ’round the indestructible

necks

of those spontaneous pidgeons

captured

before they froze.

Japan, 2005

***

as is

stated in the

Kongo-kyo:

“Dewdrops, dewdrops…”

Japan, 2005

***

JUNKO’S DEATH POEM

many gaijin come

so very enjoy

now, with so full moon

i like it is, so…

***

her components are confusing

and she lets them all fall out.

her heart is always slippery

and she adds more grease

and tempers the gears

like a half-assed silversmith

with intitial reasons

long forgotten.

her mind is oversoaked with

heartjuice

which sometimes grows old and stale.

gently she puts him in the dollhouse

cruelly she takes him out:

laughing she wants to know

who these dolls really are.

Iga-Ueno Shi, Japan, 2005

***

soon, i too

will be writing

a death poem.

patterns of breath

keep changing

in this life.

top of the bunk bed

pink blanket

time for sleep

Japan, 2005

Japan Poems 3

WHAT EVERY SAMURAI WANTS

he rides tired through the narrow forest path
in winter snow in
expectation of
something to come home to
something better than a title
better than a slave, a diamond

a woman, better than a whore
someone who can see the blood
and listen to the murder

nurse the wounds and kiss
the gash to heal — if not,

then cry
as he shuts his eyes

Japan, 2005

***

WHAT EVERY PLUM-BLOSSOM WANTS

back and forth
the fan keeps turning
watching me as i
try to not think
about a fan.

–betsu-betsu?–

her body vibrates with perfume
like a plum-blossom
eager for earth.

Japan, 2005

***

these days it’s hard
to imagine another
these days.
now black magic
flutters from
the top floor.

that salamander with the rainbow body
do you think it
is trying to outdo
the deer?

why talk of fairness –
the buck turns around
and doesn’t notice as he crushes
the last heartbeat of
that rainbow salamander…

Japan, 2005

***

although we could not find the way
the deer just kept on
being still

although we could not stop the rain
i don’t think our hearts
were soaked

although we got angry and
i called you proud
we
remain…

although i cannot kill a thing
the mosquitos keep
on biting

Japan, 2005

***

i wouldn’t keep on saying it
if it didn’t
keep on being true.

Japan, 2005

***

where is the sun rising
when we put down our rifles
and change our underwear
for the last time?

where is the moon going
when we drop our presumptions
and let the mountains
raise themselves from the mist?

Japan, 2005

***

this kind of thing
is happening all over the world
– he says
and he does not turn away
from the bright computer screen.

Japan, 2005

***

when it was the time when
me, myself, had concepts
that were in a state of change
then after that, at that time,
i could become able to see
genuine articles.

As for the one who is called me
he is a genuine article
quite free from muddled concepts

(after the cryptic Engrish on the cover of the Japan-bought notebook I wrote this poem in, which reads:

When I changed concept, I could see
genuine articles. A reliable brand selected
by those with good taste.)

Japan, 2005

***

you have the choice
to say yes or no
to girls walking with their
knees together

Japan, 2005

***

no one to hear
your breath as it reverberates
inside yr. skull, no one to hear
your heart as it flashes in and
out of yr. chest, no rest
no one to hear it spark up at night
and connect with all the nerves, not now
not even,
this bed this moment
no waist for soft reflection
–no woman.

Japan, 2005

***

she and i were distantly bound
shooting up separate directions
face to face with reflections

discussing whether or not
the improbability was there
that all sentient
beings had a kind of
seedling
nested somewhere half-covered

primordial,
placid,
reflective,
visibly apprehensible in some facet
of substance and vision

bound for somewhere
without location

elevator stops and fades.

THE ELEVATOR?

Japan, 2005

sunny imprint

Sunlight streaming through

               an Indian

               partially underground

               restaurant

Illuminating like a host of Hindu deities

              light rays of effulgence

Insects you usually don’t see

              and the usual dust particles

Fading and then gaining

             more solidity

Pretending like it has some kind

            of primordial nature

But casting a constant sunny

            imprint on the jail-like

            walls

Bir, Himachal Pradesh, India

Japan Poems 2

Quitting the game of this

Moment is somehow not an option.

When the smoke rises and

The air conditioner blows

Its quiet song with the

                Power of its voice

                Extending, expressing what

                Hands do in their spare time: they pull

                And something pulls back, retracting from its game plan

Extracting the essence of you, somehow, me

Somehow, all of us: waiting for a bright amusement

That gratifies the six senses, convenient and

Not tiresome, drawn out over mountainsides

All of us like graffiti etched

onto some ancient wooden structure or oddly

         shaped rocks, scratches of a

         name: a sense of

         placement.

Iga-Ueno City, Mie  Prefecture, Japan, 2005

***

Crossed over? Gone beyond?

Too many moments

bedazzled by the charms

of the ferry.

Kyoto, Japan, 7.13.2005

***

Within the rolling wave

of thunder,

fireflies ignite.

 

In the mist of each drop

my dreams swim

for ages

–not to be communicated.

 

If you can listen carefully

the minutia of this world

unfolds — back, forward, sloshing

through a piercing collision

of space and attention:

if you listen carefully,

in each wave.

in each drop.

Kyoto, 7.15.2005

***

this poem writes itself out of a hole

and crawls bleeding out of the trenches

with a can of Campbell’s soup strapped

perpendicular to its waist

 

this poem gets itself out of a

shitty

situation

 

this poem is fluent in birdcries

knowledgable about the seasons

and takes tender care

not to step on cockroaches

 

this poem has a long list of

things  it needs to

get done.

 

this poem was written long ago

in the ten directions

and magically makes itself known

through modern technological

skillful expedient devices.

 

this poem can hold it in

stand it up

and sprinkle dewdrops

on your head.

 

this poem is tired of

the limits

of language

 

and so decides to enact

a diversification

program.

 

this poem changes into

music, dance, and film;

sculpture, art, and massage;

international corporate business transactions

and a drunk man

outside a Japanese bar

that is glued to the parking lot

 

this poem doesn’t feel like

it has to

prove itself

 

and so refused to call itself a poem

disregarding all such labels

and calls itself

a legend

instead.

 Japan, 2005

Japan Poems 1

Composed in Iga-Ueno Shi and Kyoto, 2005.

it’s not as if
the scattered brick-chips
mind if they
trepass on the
stepping-stones

***

the moth
flies into the side of the bread bag and
turns back around, trying another way.

he hides
behind a box of Japanese hot cocoa mix
and veers once more toward the light.

the totality of moonlight
why must it be
beaming from her face?

***

a squeal of unclassified birds
alerts the rain frogs
rain is over

through one window
two
i look through three windows.

without eye glasses
the mountains could be
demons.

***

the place where i was born
has orchids
blooming with various impressions

the place where i was born
has an outstretched hand
tenderly pinching
bursting with exasperated sweat
crackling from voyages
to long destroyed forest
buildings
rough with the rubbing
of things that look like bones
veiny with death
realization
fresh with
hair of the past present
future.

the place where i was born
was demolished
by government land officials
in search of a better modality
of trans hyper national apple
transplantation

the place where i was born
was wild, swampy, stood still
amongst reptiles, boulders, 10,000 years
of land disagreements, family disputes
and moonlight interpersonal communications

the place where i was born is a prism
reflecting all the other
places i was born

the place where i was born
is truly not
the place where i was born

the place where i was born
was drenched with blood
was soaked with blood
was downright bloody
and the rivers, they say,
were like veins

the place where i was born defies all categories
the place where i was born might have
been called a hospital
the place where i was born was excellent,
reknowned, and intimidating

fierce and grassy, mildly entertaining:
worth visiting once every few years:
subtle and mysterious, humid with
childhood anxiety;
somehow present –

a brick house on a small town road.

***

raindrops keep falling on the roof
and there is a man who can’t go to sleep.

“what makes a person good or not
is how
he can
deal
with adversity.”

thousands of insects died in his room
some trampled by his feet
others just puttered out
from exhaustion. Some of them
had a lust for light
(too strong).

“thousands of mothers
are crying for their sons. Everyone

wants to get real close to the sun, steal some of its light,
bring it home
hide it under
some dry blankets, say it is
theirs.”

dewdrops keep sticking to
his bones, the rain
was going for seven hours or more, the

train was absent until
daybreak, but now it is
always sending out signals of
danger, a perverse alarm
in the rice paddies, letting the

rain frogs

know that it is
time to hide.

***

Oh travelers! oh wanderers
when you stop upon that road
remember where you came from:
no thunder in the valley.

Babies of this amusement park planet
please don’t forget the ticket
has a price:
the rain seeps through bricks.

When you look up, and if,
what do you pay attention to
and is it hard
or soft? a picnic with clouds:
no cows in the streets.

having seen the sky
you won’t have to see it again:
he walks away
stumbling
towards heaven.