The cycle of rebirth,
Concealed in a blood orange...
With a bite missing.

we come to rest in peace awaiting answers and
I slip after to the land of Nod...

woke, for a joke, we hope...

we see dis
similarities, I am shackled
standing five ten before
a trio of judges

in wigs, Shirley Temple wigs.

I grow three feet, or about two cubits,
and I stare my judges in the eye

my chains expanded with me, as bindings,
worthless, I conclude.

I can just, if I wish,
walk out, chains and all, standin tall.

---
being holy is easier than being sane in interesting times.
crazy
un mented real ization in
matters,
such as these: do we rule or obey or is there
another way
,
would seem holy right, hidden, for none to see, save
believers
who have been bred to the task of telling this story

holy story, jots, tittles, pimples and farts and all
standin' tall.

---
Drama of dharma, don't we know more good than evil as we grow?

Who would hinder knowing growing good?
An evil being, or a lie believed?

The lie, right? I know, Easy.
Answers come so easy some times, we forget the questions
on the test.

I Can Write But I Can’t Speak

I can write but I can’t speak.
It’s as if God says,
“You have a message.  Write the words.
I’ll give written words a glaze,
But eloquence that can be heard’s
Off limits, for I slow you down
For honesty, integrity:
To **** the vanity you’ve sown.
I’ll make you stumble, clumsy, dumb,
Slow-thinking, witless,
Sounding somewhat girlish.
I’ve obscured your verbal self
So that you can’t impress.
I keep you in the house
So you must guess
What is and what is not success.

Left there to stammer,
Lose my language;
Syntax, grammar
In a sandwich
Of aphasic doublethink,
The phrases weak,
Technique oblique,
My karma manifestly leaking,
Left to do my dharmic seeking,
(Swim or sink)
Through scribbled, scratched and silent ink.

I Can Write But I Can’t Speak 2.11.2003

Just like a wisp of smoke
Swirling in the air
I am here, there
And everywhere

We were introduced
But never met
We were both blind
And deaf

You didn’t stay
For very long
Maybe my memory
Is wrong

I was almost known
But not quite
Your sense of me
Was just not right

You tried to touch me
Again and again
I tried to let you
Now and then

I’m a memory of
Someone, somewhere
Who used to be
Just over there

Behind the wall
That never fell
The other three
Made up a cell

We thought we knew
Each other too
You, me
And me, you

But we were not two
We were more
We were not two
We were four, or more

I looked for you
In your limbs
And underneath
Your silky skin

You looked for me
In my heart
And in the mind
You took apart

We never found
Someone there
All we found
Is smoky air

Take off your soggy shoes
Put them to the side
And come with me
Enjoy the day
As we splash and spray
And play

Watch the water
Feeling real
As it runs
From here to there
Spreading everywhere

Walk with me
Through our fountain
Of Reality

Sean Hunt   Sept 11 2016

Where does inspiration come from
When there’s none where has it gone

Where do thoughts come from
When they go where have they gone?

Where do dreams come from
When they die where have they gone

Where does love come from
When there’s none where has it gone

Where do memories come from
When they leave where have they gone

Where do mothers come from
When they die where have they gone

Where do ideas come from
When there are none where have they gone

Where does death come from
One day it will be gone