Dialogue, Saturday Afternoon

Buddha: Think it's enough?
Christ: Don't think, feel.
Buddha: Feel it's enough?
Christ: Nothing is enough.
Samuel Beckett: Would you two please take this conversation somewhere else. I'm waiting in this chair for anything to become clear.
Buddha: (to Christ) Did you hear that?
Christ: (looking around; says nothing)
Beckett: hmm...Looks like snow.
Christ: That's clear.
Buddha: I could loan him my hat.

Exitus. Nihil reliqui. Tantum vox manet.

Litany flake

For shelter,
For warmth,
For food,
For companionship, animal and human...
For giving.

Nothing, but
gratefulness!

Blowing

Snow.

A lot of it.

Leaving with no sense of return

Hijra, departure.

It is when we leave who we think we are. The narrative takes a turn. We stay to hear the words. A storm is coming. Maine, February. Too seldom, snow.

Cars go up Barnestown Road. Pickups with plows, like cats at dinnertime, keen with anticipation. Single white birch at road into horse barn across way.

Sloth, slow-moving into afternoon, a seldom solitude, hermit's paradox.

When the poet's words are roadmaps of feeling.

To a new country.

the next word you speak will become the world

He was saying that poets say the world before it (whatever "it" is) becomes the world.

How can you say something before it comes to be?

Peace.

True and no bullshit peace. 

What is beyond god

If god is all there is, what is beyond god?

Perhaps, we might say, nothing.

Here.

Here is gone beyond there.

There is nothing here.

Here is nothing there.

Crucified there returns here.

Someone asks: Where are you?

No one responds: I am here.

And thus, what is beyond god?

Nothing, no?

Know this...

Yes!

no holding

Zazen is not football.

It touches down to earth.

With nothing to gain.

Only loss.