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Every time
I start anew,
or decide
to leave,
without fail I arrive
at a new beginning.
                           Every start
                           is an end-
                           of something.
                          Each arrival,
                          culminates in a departure,
                                                 fallen in to  the cycle of
                                                 'samsara'
                                                 vagrant mind, plays
                                                creates illusions;
                                                ends and beginnings.
When the karma wheel completes its circles,
without thinking, consciousness merges with 
 the ocean of                                                       eternal being
arrivals and departures mean nothing,
If  
consciousness  is still and unmoving,  in the point between
birth                                       and                                       death.
many dimensions
are loved --
words in a world wind







~
a direct response to Christos Rigakos
"polite for a yankee"

making stop sign bullet holes

we start the massive pump churning into irrigated watermelon rows

headlight round a shadow bend in nightline tree bulk

sleep with empty cans beside the ashtray couch on matted ****
from over here
i'm not sure what to say
can you read me?
can you read me now?
shall i embark on a quest of cliches?
shall i compare thee to a summer's lay....
nay
thou art a trove more evanescent
it isn't a lesson i contain
or a fountain to pertain
my rhyming speech is but a way to sway my fears away
--avoidance and presumptuous credence--
for another fake, fake, fake assailing parallel of waning candlelight i've never blinked at in inebriated chores
(the pride is seamless in the play of work)
embarrassed trifles witnessed here, and here, too.
i cannot see far or near. the session isn't claimed by fear, only dear, dear, yearning
frog headstand
on a thawing pond--
bubbles gurgle up














/
.
, as per wikipedia, "The best-known Japanese haiku is Bashō's "old pond":
古池や蛙飛込む水の音
ふるいけやかわずとびこむみずのおと (transliterated into 17 hiragana)

This separates into syllables (on) as:

fu-ru-i-ke ya (5)
ka-wa-zu to-bi-ko-mu (7)
mi-zu no o-to (5)
Translated:

old pond . . .
a frog leaps in
water’s sound
traffic jam--
Bob Marley lets us
say hello
sometimes i love my bed
it is not just a place to rest my head
it is place where my mind runs free
it is my mothers whom
some cold days cuddles me
I love my bed Mom.
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