meeting no one, just wind turning head

 walking mountain trail

hard frozen ground frozen brook

dog sniffs air sniffs ground --

everything draws in -- the cold 

stumbles down pathway back home

we shall be released

He didn’t think the 2024 election was rigged.

His followers didn’t violently oppose the electoral vote count today.

Fake news recorded his prevailing votes by Congress.

God’s in his heaven and women have to have babies.

The felon president-to-be files suit after suit to obfuscate justice for his crimes.

And all is Right with the world.

Canada will not become America’s 51st state. But its leader is out.

There will be excruciatingly absurd executive orders and whipped puppy dog congressional ploys.

Monks and nuns will chant and pray heaven reveal itself in our midst.

Hell asserts it now has clearance to attend all meetings in Oval Office, House of Representatives, and Senate Floor.

God goes on vacation to a far away galaxy a long, long, distance from planet earth and the Milky Way.

Pizza parlors suspend making large pies and will focus only on antipasto.

Universities and education facilities will cease teaching fact and will offer degree concentrations on gaslighting and blanket denials.

Blackjack tables will begin payouts on any draws that exceed 21. It will be called the new economy and will apply only to followers of MAGA who sincerely believe they could have won had they been luckier.

Taxi drivers will demand $100 down payment upon entering cab if you are not wearing a red tie or a button reading “I’d let him touch me.”

UPS drivers will begin making left turns and miss their deadlines in the suburbs.

Dogs and cats will cease their friendliness with humans…unless the humans in their household begin to genuflect every time Fox News says the Majestic Holy Leader’s name.

….  …   …

I’ve been reading Immanent: Inside The Pentagon’s Hunt For UFOs, by Luis Elizondo, 2024.

It cheers me to think that what is hidden will be disclosed.

Both anomalous threats and rightwing posturing pique will become clearer.

I watch the incoming administration with keen interest.

Any day now, any day now, we shall be released.

of almost remembering

 Yes.

We’ll look at this in prison this morning:

                           Dark Matter

by Jack Myers.

I’ve lived my life as if I were my wife

packing for a trip—I’ll need this and that

and I can’t possibly do without that!

But now I’m about

what can be done without.

I just need a thin valise.

There’s no place on earth

where I can’t unpack in a flash

down to a final spark of consciousness.

No place where I can’t enter

the joyless rapture

of almost remembering

I’ll need this and I’ll need that,

hoping to weigh less than silence,

lighter than light.

—From The Memory of Water, published by New Issues Press. Copyright © 2011 by Jack Myers.

a terra-ist manifesto

 Weary of these times

I do not plant bomb, nor shoot

Machine gun, nor assasssinate

Anyone, nor off myself — i will

However, eat sweets drink seltzer

And admire trees and mountains

And plan to have ashes scattered

אבי געזונט * abi gezunt

Colum McCann is good company.

He, along with Richard Rohr, reminds me that my holiday season was different, again, this year.

My shikantaza recliner, the window altar, the silent house, the rising and the setting of the days, the ever-near and almost-gone breath that encircled room, body and movement of cosmos.

A new cosmology, new theology, new mythology. The ever-unfolding and enfolding story of source, engagement, manifestation, and recombination of this encircling being.

She was a fount of Irish knowledge, and Russian knowledge, and even Jewish knowledge at times, a Helicon indeed, with some Greek thrown in and a smidge of Latin. Thankfully she never had to see me in the diaper, the nappy, the winter gear, down by those Salley gardens my love and I did meet.

He tilts his coffee cup and sighs. Empty now, just a small rivulet making its way along the inside of the porcelain. All life slowed down to this. The drip. The drop. The snow white feet.

Slowly falling, falling slowly. Out the window now. Big white flurries against the glass. That was a story she loved so much too, snow general all over Ireland, Michael Furey singing at the window, poor Gabriel left alone, the descent of his last end.

He tilts the coffee cup one last time and allows the last drop to fall on the newspaper where he watches it slowly blot and spread. A bi gezunt, his mother would have said. She was always one for the ancient phrase. You have your health, what more do you want?

(—from novel,  Thirteen Ways of Looking, by Calum McCann, 2015)

And Rohr:

Father Richard Rohr summarizes a pattern of five stages of change that have taken place in religious and cultural institutions. He calls these stages the “Five M’s”: human, movement, machine, monument, and memory.  

It seems that many great things in history start with a single human being.  If a person says something full of life that names reality well, the message often moves to the second stage of becoming a  movement.  That’s the period of greatest energy. The church is at its greatest vitality as the “Jesus Movement,” and the institution is merely the vehicle for that movement. No single person can ever control the movement itself through any theology, doctrine, or dogma. We cannot control the blowing of the Spirit. The movement stage is always very exciting, creative, and also risky. 

It’s risky because God’s movement in history is larger than any denomination, any culture, or any tradition’s ability to verbalize it. We feel out of control in this stage, and yet why would anybody want it to be anything less? Would we respect and love a God that we could control? Would we really respect a church that presumed it could predict and contain God’s actions? I don’t think so, yet that’s what so much immature religion seems to want—control over God by worshiping and talking about God “correctly.” So, we move rather quickly out and beyond the risky movement stage to the machine stage. This is predictable and understandable, even if unfortunate in some ways. 

The institutional or  machine stage of a movement will necessarily be a  less-alive manifestation. This isn’t bad, although it’s always surprising for those who see church as an end in itself instead of merely a vehicle for the original vision. When we don’t realize a machine’s limited capacities, we try to make it into something more than it is. We make it a  monument, a closed system operating inside of its own, often self-serving, logic. By then, it’s very hard to take risks for God or for gospel values. 

Eventually this monument and its maintenance and self-preservation become ends in themselves. It’s easy just to step on board and worship at a monument without ever knowing why or longing for God ourselves. There’s no hint of knowing that we are chosen and beloved by God, who invites us to an inner journey. In this state, religion is merely an excuse to remain unconscious, holding on to a  memory of something that must once have been a great adventure. I’m afraid that Christianity is no longer life itself, but actually a substitute for life or, worse, an avoidance of life. The secret is to know how to keep in touch with the human and movement stages without being naïve about the necessity of some machines and the inevitability of those who love monuments. We must also be honest; all of us love monuments when they are monuments to our human, our movement, or our machine.   

(--The Vitality of Movements,  Sunday January 5, 2025, C.A.C.

I'm staying with the human, and the movement which moves -- inner to outer, within to without, resonance to absurdum. 

I first studied the Theater of the Absurd in 1964 reading and attending a conference on same at St John's College in NY . An English professor at Callicoon pointed me to it. The juxtaposition of classical language studies with the Franciscans and the insights of Martin Esslin on Absurdity remains a Do-si-do that still spins my consciousness these sixty-one years later.

For now, I'm healthy enough to sustain the centripedal and centrifugal force of this go-round. 

What more do I want?

. . .

• * abi gezunt! (Yid. אַבי געזונט): the first word is Slavic: compare Ukrainian aby (аби), Belarusian aby (абы) and Polish oby, both meaning "if only", "hopefully". The second word is Germanic, cognate to High German gesund. The phrase thus means "As long as you're healthy!"; often used as an ironic punchline to a joke. Wikipedia 

there and gone

 Ran out, turned back

turned again in the road

Squirrel, runs under my tire

And thump, it, sadly, killed

trading in what isn't wanted

No need to break your bones.

Nor to worry which way to go.

What is at your feet should suffice. 

Sticks and Stones: Another Story About The Buddha

(--by Jack Myers)

A young man set out on a life-long journey to discover 

the secret of how best to live. Collecting sticks along the 

way

he traded them as kindling in return for a morsel of food 

and some advice on how to best live.

He collected baskets of stones, and to people’s delight, 

arranged them into graceful gardens of silence, 

asking only for food and advice on how best to live.

Wherever he went, he traded in what wasn’t wanted

for what went wanting, a stick for fire, a stone for prayer, 

while the things men said about the lives they lived, 

which led in all directions, allowed him to live many 

lives.

He learned that each man regretted the prospect of death, 

and thus, regretting how he lived, lived distressed by that 

dilemma.

And because the paths they tread were paved with 

complaints

no one could see how the young Buddha lived, 

by feeding sticks and stones to hunger. 

--Poetry (October 1997)

 If someone discards decency, pick it up.

If love is abandoned, take it in.

If wisdom is ignored, say hello.

We can live this way, learn from what has been tossed away, become grateful for what is found.

something's in the air

feeding livestock

sunflower seeds

cold morning

birds fly in

fly out

this aerial farm

with realization of thusness

 A theater piece in lower house with agonizing antagonists steely-jawed unwilling to cast their measly three votes for Geppetto’s boy on first vote for speaker of the house, third in line in presidential succession. Then time froze. Nothing moves. An hour passes.

Then mirabile dictu, the master’s voice, deus ex machina crawls through the ether up the east coast from paradise, saying to two of the holdouts— “this is my toady son, and you are vile nobodies, vote for him now or I will castrate you and toss you into the boiling sea.”

And going forward, it was done, and there was cheer and much rejoicing in the land of delusion and defilement. 

The spiritual light shines alone,

Far transcending the senses
And their fields;
The essential substance is exposed,
Real and eternal.
It is not contained in written words.
The nature of mind has no defilement;
It is basically perfect and complete in itself.
Just get rid of delusive attachments,
And merge with realization of thusness.

—Pai-chang (720–814) dailyzen

Dawn light gives shape to bare branches and treetop line looking east. 

The holiday season was spent reading, walking from front room to wohnkūche and back to feed cats and refill water bottle. Sitting in armchair at large window with brass cross hanging from hundred twenty five year old ceiling beam. Watching dawn morning star, dusk evening star and daylight birds, as trucks and cars traverse Barnestown road.

A shikantaza tilting compact recliner beside windowsill's altar where Buddha and Christ, Madonna and Child, original tree stump and single candle, complete the oratory of sona in situ — (sound in its original place), primum verbum in primo loco — (the first word in the first place).

Sacred word falls silently into what is being born.

All creation longs for true appearance.

Do you see that mirror reflection? 

Enter there!

sip of water

black watch cap on head

In this room without heat, eye-

drops, pill, chant, nod, sleep

walking in peace, he said

 In prison this morning we talked about there being no outside,

Only inside moving its edge further and further

(Ok, an admission, there is an outside)

It's what remains after love has exhausted itself

Source generates expanding energy

Movement is what God is

Hence there is nothing

Outside God

what did they think they were voting in

Yes

We’re in for

A rough ride

It will take

A little while

To overcome

But we will

We will…

Won’t we?

κενοτάφιο*

*cenotaph (plural cenotaphs) -- A monument, generally in the form of an empty tomb, erected to honour the dead whose bodies lie elsewhere, especially members of the armed forces who died in battle. 

I cannot find 

your body

It is gone --

only 

earth

cenotaph

where once 

you passed 

sanctus, sanatio, visio tota, visendus

The Tibetan lama points out buddhists see Buddha as teacher, not a god.

not God, not creator -- but teacher. You are your own master.

The christian monk furrows brow.

And I think -- after all these years it should not be disturbing that no 

creator, no God -- might be a reasonable way to look at things.

No judgment, no condemnation, no deus-ex-machina with rusty bolts.

Just learners, teachers, practitioners, experiencers, explorers, inquirers.

God has had a long run. No one understands why, if there is a God, so

many painful, unkind, thoughtless, violent atrocities occur in world.

No amount of rationalization and theologizing excuses the evil and suffering.

But if we were to think that God might be coming to be, if God is not yet, 

if semi-conscious beings were becoming more conscious, and thus less 

cruel -- perhaps there is hope for God.

The material universe and unfolding of possible manifestation of 

generous and loving way of being could be looming just over edge of 

emergence.

Until then, massacres, bombs, vehicular rundowns, 

assault weapon killings,

abusive men and abusive women, 

bullying and horrifying acts of crippling

vengeance, anger, and hostility -- these are what we have. 

Yes, we long for God, for creator, redemptive healing. These are buses 

slow to come.

What we have is the beating heart of humanity and natural world.

These heart/minds seeking safety and nurturance, continuation and 

thriving manifestations of nascent nature and possible maturation.

If you wish to say that this longing, this emerging desire to become what 

we might become --

energetic pulsation which could be called "creator/god" as it comes to be,

ok -- call it such. But we are not yet there. Nothing out here is capable 

of making the-loving-thing so attractive and compelling that a resonant 

YES would muffle

all the cacophonous NO acts and utterances experienced, and

shuddered under.

So...

let the teachers teach, meditators meditate, holy ones be holy, 

generous ones be generous, beatific ones be the beauty they see, 

the sanctity

they are becoming. 

Allow these to become what is possible to become. Choose real life.

Choose the good that beckons out from within. Choose to become

the God we once thought was already here. Not belief, but inner

urge to trust what we must become, to be what we are becoming: 

sanctus, sanatio, visio tota, visendus  -- 

holy, healing, full vision, to be seen

consonance

consonance (n.).      late 14c., "pleasing combination of sounds, harmony," from Old French consonance (12c.) "consonance, rhyme" and directly from Latin consonantia "harmony, agreement," from consonantem (nominative consonans) "agreeing in sound," present participle of consonare "to sound together, sound aloud" (see consonant (adj.)).  From early 15c. as "agreement among persons as to facts or opinions." Meaning "accord or agreement of sounds in words or syllables" is from 1580s.     (--online etymological dictionary)

67 says watch pulse

heart emojis flashing

I am technologically alive

light incense in chapel/zendo

buddha and kuanyin watch,

cross and virgin stay stoic

the big rain has stopped

cabin porch wet

rusted bell gives itself sound

Once I wanted to know --

now only to word breath

one consonant at a time

radical emergence, birds approaching feeder

 It is time for practice

Looking into what is here

Quietly, silently

If you love anything

Practice, practice, practice

Reveal what is true, here

yes, we’ll see

 It’s after midnight

It must be now new year’s

No, that was 24 hrs ago

When New Year’s Eve ended

No, really, then today is…

Yes today is the 2nd 

Then… i missed it?

Yes you did, miss it

Such a shame, i might have

Celebrated, made noise, sat zazen

Silly, silly me, i missed it

Yes you missed it

No going back, i suppose

No, no going back

Well then, onward, no time

To waste, we must prepare

For next year, next new year’s

I’ll be ready for it, just you see

flying out of sight

 I cannot settle on a book. The one on Deutsche Bank is too lugubrious in criminality and complicity to worldwide used viscous engine oil personality our next president.

The novel about a maine town crime does what many attempted reads do for me, remind me of arbitrariness of details to leave in or take out. 

The lady poet inserting into gentleman poet’s life felt too self absorbed and self referential. 

I settle on Colum McCann’s “Thirteen Ways of Looking.” 

(Silly statements on a Wednesday evening. Like all opinions, extraneous.)

facing the obvious

 Such an odd feast, Mary, Mother of God.

I admit to liking that God has a mother,

However poorly, at times, in the gospel, 

Jesus’ comments brushed passed her —

But more than that, the prospect that

The Creator had a mother, retroactive or

Rethought as it might have been, Mom,

Creating the Creator, speaking Logos

Into matter and language, nursing boo-boos,

Suckling the goo-goo intake of breast milk

la nostra mamma — our mother, hidden, humble,

Let down by eight billion offspring, and the 

ancestry of so many more who never called her

On weekends

Mary

Thank you

I’ve forgotten

Your face.

waiting sentence in the bull pen

1.

Reading about Lowell and Hochman

Meeting at Russian Tea Room

He is leaving his wife, he tells her

Walking, says he wants to marry her

He reads her “Brooklyn Bridge” on it

After Crane goes off stern into depths

2.

Watching DaVinci on PBS, the genius

Of it, how art breaks through, as

Lowell might compose a line of

Poetry out of mania and alcohol —

Book-worming on Marlborough his

Paean of West Street distress

3.

It is New Year’s Day, strawberry &

Blueberry pancakes, eggs and sausage

he went out and peed by lilac bush

 coffee brewed and

chocolate donut

from moody's diner

good enough start

to new year

cat on lap

dog

on

rug

now stretched on beige rug

Pouring rain

Ensō dog takes

two steps out

barn door, looks 

back, decides

he can wait