Thin fingers
gracefully
balancing.

Torturous,
growing up,
peaceful road
when I got old.

In an exposed room
of Zen and a pen,
I appreciate
the warm spring night
with a light bulb
     reflection
in the glass
of the present
above the head
of the seated lady
who sparkles
while holding
an empty vase,
and shifting my gaze,
the miniature birds
perch quietly,
as the table shakes
from the actions
of scribbling,
so the smiling man
with the raised sword
holds a pearl
by his heart
and one true self
reads, "The Joy
Of Dirt."

I drank beer,     one double beer
and am writing     about nothing

because now     not knowing will
save us, today,      on top of this

chair with pen     in the unknown hand
that holds the ink    of knowing.

It seems to be lack
of trust in the universe,
the signless, nothing.

A computer
rested
for that moment
as a man
wrote on paper
about the lone
cigarette ****
in the ceramic ashtray.

One in
the morning
and my
nervous system
is working
as I notice
by the hissing sound
in my ears.

Buddha doubts wisdom.
Buddha loves quiet.
Buddha's very polite.
Buddha radiates x-rays.
Buddha tells truths.
Buddha's ***** blasts.

Music sweet,     happy birdsong
about loving     everyday life

here at home     in nirvana
which is the same     as what this is,

so, mind sings     a Great Dharani
which is the same     as music!

Front

1. Work
2. Me
3. Cat
4. White Fire Santa
5. Pores

     Back

1. Red Bodhidharma
2. Mist
3. Zen Moon

The young
follow the old
because of
their years
of experience.

The old
follow the young
because they know
where the action is.

The Buddha
is best heard
in the voice
of a little child.

The ancient
wise baby
gives a Dharma talk
by laughing.

In a swiveling chair, the black and white images of light to the west, are reflections of mind in a humming machine. Turning a head, there is a closed window, showing an energetically inspired pen the nearing sunset.
                                                Moon swept itching dark
                                             Twilight, sunrises curtain
                                                   pink lids - open eyes

With a blink of instaneous awakeness and sleep, the neck turns fast, to look for inspiration.
                                                    Dusk - apart painted
                                              eight queued paired mare and foal
                                                     foliage lined dark black
Without my sister's presence, the filmed horse's birth is only an image, lost. Indeed, it's the shadows of sunlight that have lit up the southerly tree with darkness!

Red beauty.
Line war, wet, naked valley.

Context.

Haiku pub open, lost.
Used love vital.
Screaming life's critique:

Duality!

Colours high...far...hidden.

Like things,
say,
small caught kiss,
watch lilacs sing,

Forget.

Told break,
make hymns,
Know. Die.
Wet soft green
stops eyes.

Grass hands.

Yes.
Best.

We are in space,
aliens, like the rest
of all being.

The hair parts      on the right side
reminding him     of all the grease

that needs soap     for the haircut
in a winter     that has some hair

growing up     on top of the heads
of the people     who they are!

The form of Sijo is basically the following -

3     4
4     4

3     4
4     4

3     5
4     3

Where each number represents a phrase of syllables, with a line break in between (space over about five spaces). In three stanzas of two lines each, the first stanza is an introduction, the second stanza is a development of the first, and the last stanza is a conclusion. See some of the examples of Sijo inside.

No waste here     in the office
of poetry     where we gain some

wisdom, of     course, I don't know
what that is, but     I sort of do.

When the pen     runs out of ink, fix
the thing and then     write again.

Like people, money,
haiku, eyes, beer,
heart home.

Don't love Dharma,
red cup,
untitled new baby pen,
student morning,
altar closed,
Buddha really candle bar world!

Green candle     on the altar
for the Buddha,      Dharma, Sangha

Flickering     the fire shines
golden light rays     on brown table

Candle glows     bought at hardware store
and on sale!     so that's life

A heart of bliss
pumping up and down.
Red with a thought.

Coffee stain     on a white cup
painted with black     for fine art's sake

goes walking     within my hands
to the bathroom     for a cleaning.

"Wash your cup!"     the zen master said
and the student     broke on through.

Rattle my yolk control, baby.
Give me a turbulent flow.
Squeeze my needle valves, baby.
Insert your directional valve.

Come on upstream through the orifice.
Give me that viscous friction.
The discharge coefficients are ready.
Blow out your resin agent.

   What's the matter, baby?
   What happened to the elongated pump?
   Do you need a pressure compensator?
   It looks like a reducing valve.

   How about a little friction
   to reexhibit some rigidity.
   Let's renegotiate positions
   and dissipate some frigidity.

What I love
the most in the world
is packaging
like how the fine companies
who sell us
their product
protect us from evil bacteria
and how the icing
from Toaster Strudels
comes out of the plastic
in neat little lines
and also
what I love
the most in the world
is signage
like how do you know
where you are
without the signage?

Uncomfortable
when he sine waves the puddles
on his circle home.

Seeds on the window
that opens to voices down
on the ground being.

The face is downcast
but the spirit is cooled
when summer cars down.

Submitted
one poem
to "The New Yorker"
at age seventeen.

Rejected.

Submitted
one poem
to "Stinkface"
at age forty-two.

Accepted!

For hours he
is not talking,
as inside a conversation of gentle speech
is droning

with the ecstatic music
of a minimal nature and
since he has no lips, the yoga
of relaxation

is applied to his closed mouth
which has in mind the view of Buddha

who
said that mouths
are born with weapons
that cut.

As in ping pong, the phrases
of humor in friendly chatter

are of high importance
to those men of wisdom

playing pool
with a beer

down on the old street
where nightlife is common

such as the thief
who goes as quietly as arrows.

but I was not paying
close enough attention
to really remember
the closing of the door

that has books
attached to it
resting in a white metal
     mesh

so I must remind myself
to always be awake!

A lion is awake,
scanning two pillars
which surround
the black rock
and the wooden talisman,
safely,
in the middle.

Dream-like,
the thumping music
from a far-away room
(seen as invisible)
causes the cat
to ponder
the words

that should be forgotten.
Language disturbs the peace.

Darkness of the hour
     awakens
the dream-soaked man,
who arrives
after a pause
and a working
to the unlit room
of Buddha
for a visit
to the red heart
where fire shines
in these bricks,
to lessen the restless
     urges
and further the bliss.

Come on  Earl,
let's go to the best
bar in town
and I'll buy you a beer.

                **** no. I don't
                have any money
                and you don't
                have any either.

Oh, come on Earl,
when I first saw you
I thought, I'd really like
to have a beer

with that guy.
                **** no. All I've got
                is some change.
                I don't want

                any money.
                I don't need
                any money.
Tell you what.

You give me
fifty cents,
and I'll buy you
a beer in the best

bar in town.
                OK, it's a deal.
                (He reached into his pocket,
                pulled out his hand full of change,

and gave me two quarters.
I took them gratefully
and put them away.
We walked to the bar.

My pen
broke down
and I tried
another
but that one
didn't work
so I fixed
my old pen
so okay.

I am a student of Dharma
and all Dharmas are empty
so I am a student
of Dharma
with an altar at home
upstairs
and an altar at home
in the basement
so this house
has become
like a temple
that has
several smoking sections.

There are rare people
who thrive
in disaster experiences
who find new love
who find a new way
who find that less
really sometimes is more
who find something spiritual
in the midst
of all the great suffering
that most of the people endure.

Summer wind turning
the daisies in all motions
in the dance of days.

Staring at a carpet,
he submits the mind
to a haze. She stands

up and counts by twos.
Why do we see a turning?
Almost time to pack up,

he waits for a certain
impulse. The blue car
with a flag for some

sticker is cold and
happy. Instead of a
clock, he uses the

broken fog to direct
his worthless trip
to that tired store.

was in a sound
like gunfire &
apparently was
something that
approximated a
fireworks show
when, while he
was meditating
one person was
talking, about
ice cream, and
that was over,
because it was
an earlier          event
when pineapple
is recollected
as bittersweet
rings in sugar
sentiment in a
glass bowl who
was stored, in
this morning &
before, in the
cupboard & at    that
time, the dish
which is daily
and ordinary        was
praised for an
acquaintance           so
very familiar.

Spontaneity slowly wringing happy tie in superly
spand of lilac slingly hyperbolic in siatic spurious

Her is a lamp of antique
a golden legs of strings

Barbara was studied
as a woman

Things just as they are
as I walk on the sidewalk
thinking about fearing people
and loving them
when the morning sun
caused my eyes to look down.

Open eyes
are awakeness
and closed eyes
are sleep
so as I sat
experiencing nothingness
I was blinking
opening and closing
as day passed
in an instant
and night passed
in an instant.