III. It Shows Us the Nature of Time
Now is not a point or an argument
it is a disk in Vishnu’s spine
with a certain thickness and circumference
affected by the course of the day. It rests
on what came before, giving support
to what comes after,
and without those it does not exist.
Without a spine, no disks,
without disks and bones
you have no spine.
Movement is being,
the how of your rhythm,
venom sparks flowing
through a sentient arrangement
of living stone, minerals and fluids
maintaining a balance of inner oppositions
in standing, walking, reading.
The disks and bones as moments
maintain their love for one another
caressing intimately, one now on another
a coiled reptile within
and within that an intimate contact
light from a star swallowed as food
by a body of stardust shifting
its infant emotions of pure fire
and poison tears
running in a trail of agony
and exuberance,
relationships moving toward and away
dust in thousands of lifetimes reborn
from light to lust
and back again.
The thickness of the disk gives you all of this
because it gives you nothing,
makes nothing given,
and nothing can stand on it,
a meaning that cannot be told, or held
or broken.
The ragtag group of searchers gather again
One among them is a monk.
He wears no priestly robes.
He sees the plastic buttons on his shirt
as sacred
without foundation
he chants a mantra with them
to ward off disaster.
A seeker asks,
“Does this work? Does it
prevent disaster?”
The monk responds, “No
disaster ever befell me
while chanting this.”
What disaster could befall such a monk?
They saw him once
cutting a new board for the window sill.
The sun brought its peace through the clear glass
a crimson peony bloomed outside.
He did not measure the wood
then cut the wood.
He was measuring,
he was cutting,
a radiant body,
taller than the room.
In the heart of one of them
a three-headed monster
became calm.
Sentient beings dissolved
into sentient being,
for the time being
being was time
time, being.
His hands in the sunlight
his eyes on the wood,
a mouth long released from chatter,
a body-mind speaking hymns without words:
there is just a spine now
a blade of grass or a tree now
a curving river or a mountain
now standing or walking three steps
over the universe
neither here nor there
making space for us to move
without starting
or getting ready
or coming to an end.
it is a disk in Vishnu’s spine
with a certain thickness and circumference
affected by the course of the day. It rests
on what came before, giving support
to what comes after,
and without those it does not exist.
Without a spine, no disks,
without disks and bones
you have no spine.
Movement is being,
the how of your rhythm,
venom sparks flowing
through a sentient arrangement
of living stone, minerals and fluids
maintaining a balance of inner oppositions
in standing, walking, reading.
The disks and bones as moments
maintain their love for one another
caressing intimately, one now on another
a coiled reptile within
and within that an intimate contact
light from a star swallowed as food
by a body of stardust shifting
its infant emotions of pure fire
and poison tears
running in a trail of agony
and exuberance,
relationships moving toward and away
dust in thousands of lifetimes reborn
from light to lust
and back again.
The thickness of the disk gives you all of this
because it gives you nothing,
makes nothing given,
and nothing can stand on it,
a meaning that cannot be told, or held
or broken.
The ragtag group of searchers gather again
One among them is a monk.
He wears no priestly robes.
He sees the plastic buttons on his shirt
as sacred
without foundation
he chants a mantra with them
to ward off disaster.
A seeker asks,
“Does this work? Does it
prevent disaster?”
The monk responds, “No
disaster ever befell me
while chanting this.”
What disaster could befall such a monk?
They saw him once
cutting a new board for the window sill.
The sun brought its peace through the clear glass
a crimson peony bloomed outside.
He did not measure the wood
then cut the wood.
He was measuring,
he was cutting,
a radiant body,
taller than the room.
In the heart of one of them
a three-headed monster
became calm.
Sentient beings dissolved
into sentient being,
for the time being
being was time
time, being.
His hands in the sunlight
his eyes on the wood,
a mouth long released from chatter,
a body-mind speaking hymns without words:
there is just a spine now
a blade of grass or a tree now
a curving river or a mountain
now standing or walking three steps
over the universe
neither here nor there
making space for us to move
without starting
or getting ready
or coming to an end.