Sunday, June 21, 2026
as true as bread
my father moved through dooms of love
my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height
this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if (so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm
newly as from unburied which
floats the first who, his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots
and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.
Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead called the moon
singing desire into begin
joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice
keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly (over utmost him
so hugely) stood my father’s dream
his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.
Scorning the Pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain
septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is
proudly and (by octobering flame
beckoned) as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark
his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.
My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)
then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold
giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am
though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath
and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all
Poem by E.E. Cummings 1894-1962, © 1940, 1968, 1991 by the Trustees for the E. E. Cummings Trust from The Complete Poems: 1904–1962 by E. E. Cummings, Edited by George J. Firmage.
Saturday, June 20, 2026
अस्माभिः सह यत्-अस्ति तत् गणयामः, लेखानुरूपं च कुर्मः
a whole within a whole within a whole
a hole within a hole within a hole
a nexus between horizontal extension
same nexus between vertical extension
with that which counts between
with reminder to pray with presence
Let us count and account for what-is with us *
अस्माभिः सह यत्-अस्ति तत् गणयामः, लेखानुरूपं च कुर्मः *
small-c, large-see
am I a catholic
(the question occurs)
yes, an unchurch(ed) catholic
no front door, no pews
no tabernacle, no holy water
no 'thank you father’ at door --
I am all-embracing, nothing
left out, related to everything
but the tea candle is still aflame
looking over to wood stove
where incense stick earlier burned
gone now,
only invisible fragrence
all the mother sentient beings
A random reading of Buddhist scripture remembering Robert Thurman, from The Flower Adornment Sutra, an excerpt:
Although there are no analogies adequate to illustrate
the gateways of liberation possessed by all those bodhisattvas,
I now nonetheless use these analogies
to briefly explain their powers of sovereign mastery.
Foremost wisdom, vast wisdom,
genuine wisdom, boundless wisdom,
supreme wisdom, and especially supreme wisdom—
Such gateways to Dharma as these have already been set forth.
This Dharma is so rare and so very extraordinary
that, if one who had heard it could recognize and approve of it,
could have faith in it, could accept it, and could praise it,
then being able to act this way would be most especially rare.
For any common worldly person
to believe this Dharma would be extremely rare.
Only one who had diligently cultivated pure merit in the past
could then be able, by the power of past causes, to believe it.
Of all the many types of beings in the world,
there are but few who wish to seek the śrāvaka disciple vehicle.
Those who seek solitary enlightenment are fewer yet.
Those going forth in the Great Vehicle are very rarely met.
But to go forth in the Great Vehicle is still comparatively easy,
for being able to have faith in this Dharma is rarer yet by twice,
even more so if one were to retain it, recite it, teach it to others,
cultivate it in accord with the Dharma, and genuinely understand it.
Even holding a great trichiliocosm atop one’s head
for an entire kalpa without moving one’s body at all
would still not qualify as particularly difficult,
for being able to believe in this Dharma is what is truly difficult.
Even standing in empty space for an entire kalpa,
holding up ten buddha kṣetras with one’s hands
would still not yet qualify as particularly difficult,
for being able to believe in this Dharma is what is truly difficult.
Even the merit gained from making gifts of delightful things
for a kalpa to beings as numerous as the atoms in ten buddha kṣetras
Chapter 12
—
Foremost Worthy 367
would still not qualify as especially supreme,
for the merit of one believing in this Dharma is the most supreme.
If one served as many tathāgatas as the atoms in ten buddha kṣetras
and did so for an entire kalpa, [his merit would surely be vast].
[However], if one could recite and retain this chapter,
his merit would be most supreme, surpassing even the merit of that.
At that time, after Foremost Worthy Bodhisattva had finished speak-
ing these verses, the lands of the ten directions shook and moved
in six ways. The light of the māras’ palaces became obscured, the
wretched destinies came to a standstill, and the buddhas of the ten
directions all appeared directly before him, whereupon they each
rubbed the top of his head with his right hand and, in a single voice,
they praised him, saying, “It is good indeed, good indeed that you
so quickly proclaim this Dharma. We all rejoice in accord with this.”
The End of Chapter Twelve
(--from, The Flower Adornment Sutra
The Great Expansive
Buddha’s Flower Adornment Sutra
An Annotated Translation of the Avataṃsaka Sutra
By Bhikshu Dharmamitra
With a Commentarial Synopsis
Of the Flower Adornment Sutra
Volume One
https://kalavinka.org/ebooks_NEW/Avatamsaka%20Sutra_Vol%201_English_ebk_08-19-23.pdf
Friday, June 19, 2026
不詳 ... (ふしょう) ... fushō
Everything that has a beginning has an end.
Bankei describes the unborn mind in glowing terms,
What I call the “Unborn” is the Buddha-mind. This Buddha-mind is unborn, with a marvelous virtue of illuminative wisdom. In the Unborn, all things fall right into place and remain in perfect harmony.1.
Bankei gives an idea of how the unborn mind functions with this quote,
The Unborn manifests itself in the thought, “I want to see” or “I want to hear” not being born … The reason I say it's in the “Unborn” that you see and hear in this way is because the mind doesn't give “birth” to any thought or inclination to see or hear.2
(--from Unborn Mind, Kuden Paul Boyle, Forest City Zen Group)
Who was Bankei?
Bankei Yōtaku (盤珪永琢; 1622-1693) was a Japanese Rinzai Zen master, and the abbot of the Ryōmon-ji and Nyohō-ji. He was a major Zen figure of the Edo period and is best known for his emphasis on a minimalist sudden approach to Zen which simply relies on the unborn Buddha mind. He became well known in Japan for his public talks in colloquial Japanese which were popular among laypersons. [1] wikipedia
If there is no beginning, is there no end?
A passage in the Hsin Hsin Ming which gives another perspective on the experience of unborn mind reads,
When discriminating thoughts do not arise the usual mind ceases to exist. When thought-objects vanish, the thinking-subject vanishes. When the mind vanishes, objects vanish. Object is object because of the subject. Subject is subject because of the object. (--ibid)
What does it mean to say there is no beginning and no end?
Does the unborn undie?
How does this question apply to the strange christian narrative they call the ressurection?
Is there a fundamental understanding within both buddhism and christianity that “things are, without beginning or end”?
Is my mind too compromised to even come close to comprehending this unborn and undying narrative?
It turns out, that Bankei didn't just make up this term, “unborn”. It appears in the Heart Sutra as the characters fu-sho which gets translated as “not born”, “uncreated”, “not appear”. We can go even back to the Pali Cannon and find the Buddha speaking about the unborn. In the Udana book of the Khuddaka Nikaya (Ud 8.3):3
There is, monks, an unborn — unbecome — unmade — unfabricated. If there were not that unborn — unbecome — unmade — unfabricated, there would not be the case that escape from the born — become — made — fabricated would be discerned. But precisely because there is an unborn — unbecome — unmade — unfabricated, escape from the born — become — made — fabricated is discerned. (--ibid)
Can we still say “Here I am” throughout this meditation?
Or, in fact, is that all we can say?
clear light, odd sound
low flying sound
turbine engine
flies over house --
as Tibetan chant
for deceased former monk
drones on
ངལ་གསོ་ཡག་པོ་བྱོས། *
* ngal gso yag po byos -- (rest well)Chants and prayers for Robert Thurman.
Robert "Bob" Thurman passed away on June 16, 2026, at the age of 84. He was the first Westerner ordained as a Tibetan Buddhist monk by the 14th Dalai Lama.
Chanting and prayer from Tibet House:
https://youtu.be/VDdCk0EphLw?is=JeZw9XbfLFUjP1ST
A talk he once gave:
https://youtu.be/inT2JzRwOaU?is=Uj1F3qmhjvgTZxNq
And this one:
Thursday, June 18, 2026
temet nosce
when the vase breaks
flowers scatter
glass shatters
one cannot understand
what one is doing if
thinking about it
one is not one when
it becomes two -- oh the joy
should one come to know this
why monks and nuns have no flotation devices
when Kierkegaard retold the story
of Abraham and Isaac he was telling
about the commander telling bunker pilots
to shoot the shit out of an Iranian girl’s school
they did, they did not withhold the knife
they slit their daughter’s throats
but it’s ok, the commander got richer
his nestlings got stupider, the people
dimmer, the country more baffled than ants
scurrying to bet on sports and buy red hats
When last I looked, the stymied were legion
the ugly reprobates were having suits cleaned
and the monks and nuns were trying to balance
their teetering boat on river rapids careening wildly
it’s simple, there is no safe passage, the biblical story
was edited to reflect a test, a test (ha!) instead of this world
山道
We watch The Mountain Path - 山道 -
learning with China's Buddhist Hermits
a quiet reflection --
each step, each face, each glance
how difficult the hermit life
how joyful seeing it
this mountain path
these huts and happy hermits
i remember thinking, who writes like this
Documentary on Charles Bukowski
his wanting to do nothing, drink, sleep,
sex, and write
AI Overview
Charles Bukowski is most famous for his gritty, unapologetic "dirty realism" and for popularizing a hard-drinking, anti-establishment literary persona. Through his raw poetry and novels, he chronicled the dark, unglamorous side of urban American life—specifically in Los Angeles—focusing on outcasts, alcoholics, gambling, and poverty
I read him in the seventies and eighties
he was raw and notably monotonous
something of his writing says
just put it down, don’t dress it up
someone collected some Bukowski quotes:
--from 95 Charles Bukowski quotes that blew my f*cking mind.
closed gate, dishes in sink
Hissing tires on wet road
Buddha watches me
There is a hermit
In this vicinity
Hasn't been seen yet
Wednesday, June 17, 2026
o say can you see, can you hear
The loyal courtiers of the naked emperor
Are also naked
What a world
Admiring each other’s tuchus
Their posteriors shiny buffed
With gold leaf and green dollars
This new aesthetic
Gauche, vulgar, perverted
An American symphony
For the deaf and dumb
Tuesday, June 16, 2026
the possibility of sheltering and caring for each other.
Reading preface on porch to Responding to Loss: Heideggerian Reflections on Literature, Architecture, and Film, by Robert Mugerauer.
Straw hat shading eyes.
Thinking about how worlds open.
How there are innumerable worlds within what we call one world.
How every hour is a different world.
Abstract
The Crossing opens the enigma of whether we live in a chaos or in an ordered realm. In McCarthy's novel of death and destruction almost all that one cares for is taken away, seemingly without human or divine pity, though a few things, such as a church, are stubborn, refusing to pass. Heidegger's explication of Heraclitus and Anaximander considers how things are out of joint in regard to time: the insistence necessary to things generates injustice because by persisting they do not let other things come forth. Contrary, another rereading of Anaximander tells us that things also have the possibility of sheltering and caring for each other. In the end, we have only the conflicting testimony on both sides of the case. Clearly our usual understanding of nature, mortals, and the gods is woefully inadequate; nonetheless, we are called to respond, to make a judgment ourselves.
I understand why some do not like Kierkegaard or Heidegger, McCarthy or Jean-Luc Marion. There is a cost to reading them. Our frugality reveals our interests.
And so, the day slips away.
Address and responsiveness. So too Toynbee's challenge and response. How we go on.
I suspect it’s silly to continue to read philosophy after all these years.
Might be.
And yet, and yet, and yet...
everywhere I hear the tweet of birds.
At practice Sunday someone said that Confucianism was too rigid for them. That’s understandable. The tight lines of duty up and down the scale can easily feel constraining.
Meng hao-jan might have been listening.
Confucian and Taoist: though different ways,
They merge here in all this forest and cloud,
Our two minds joined together in such joy
As we talk and laugh in the day’s last light.
Ready for sleep, we return
To high twilight windows,
Gaze across distant peaks aflame:
It carries thought back to red-cliff beacons,
Brings memories of towering coastal peaks.
With a creek’s windswept sound so crystalline,
Who needs the tune of a silent mountain sage?
--Meng hao-jan (689-740)
Wikipedia says "He had the desire to pursue a career in politics in his youth, but never succeeded in securing an official position.[1]”
He stayed as a hermit in his locale and practiced landscape poetry.
春眠不覺曉，
處處聞啼鳥。
夜來風雨聲，
花落知多少。
In spring slumber, I am unaware of daybreak,
Though everywhere I hear the tweet of birds.
Last night came the sound of wind and rain;
Who knows how many flowers must have fallen?
--Mêng Hao-jan; 689/691–740)
Perhaps his duty was to wind and rain, sound and flowers.
We are lucky to have each one of us telling what we see and feel in one another’s presence.
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