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Mt. Kailash.

It is this mountain in Tibet which many cultures around that area of the world believed to be the center of the universe. Circumambulating it is regarded as a very virtuous act.

Opening this with something of a bloggish note. This poem was written the other day, sitting by the lakeshore at Center lake after a fine afternoon in the library. I borrowed some words from Tibetan for this one, Phaki translates to “way over yonder” while the translates to “there.” The idea I am going for is trying to set up distance in two scales without cluttering the poem by writing “In far-off North/and nearby south” Regardless, enjoy.

Sitting by the lakeside
day off of work.
Afternoon thunderstorms roll by
in phaki north
and the south.
Two ducks swim by the shore
soaked heads dipping beneath undulating waves.

Birthday party behind me,
in a simple wooden cabin.
A pink balloon escaped
out onto the water,
now it drifts along just barely above the waves.
The balloon’s bottom skimming the water’s surface ever so gently,
gliding along in freedom.

The party explodes out,
rough, Mexican men
stand about in their cowboy boots and jeans
and their bent down hats,
thumbs tucked deep in pockets.

They gesture obliquely in my direction
and comment in a language I don’t understand,
but I think I get the meaning:
“What’s with the barefoot kid?
Did you invite him?
Awfully rude of him to show up and just sit over their with his paper out?
Looks homeless with that beard.
We’re tryinta have a party here,”

So I go,
Walking slowly through the gentle afternoon rain.

Adulthood.
I’ve spent my whole life preparing for you,
twenty years, twenty-three days, fourteen hours, and fifty-eight minutes
pushing my shoulder to the wheel.
Grinding through bent bone over reams of paper and ink.
And I don’t even now what you are.
I’m lost in a sea,
drifting along,
grasping
at the cultural wreckage
of the men who have gone before me.

Guided by the glorious words of Buddha,
“All Dharmas are on fire,”
He said,
And that I can surely see.
As the greatest minds of my generation
burn brightly in the night before me.
Burning brightly through youth in search of life.
Burning up all of us every single day.
Who burnt through the night, strumming guitars under the heavens until everything was alright.
Burning rolls of money into the great boiler-fires of their colleges.
Burning alive in hell of box-store friers.
Burning in memory of time spent between schools.
Who burnt along in uncertainty of future.
Who burned with the fires of insanity, but now smoulder in isolation.
And burnt 10,000 cords of wood, sparks rising into the night.
And their ideas also rose, purifying their lofty souls. Gems of perfection, gleaned from book, percolated in dusty paper draft rooms, then were brought to froth and released into the starry night sky.
Who, with burning hearts set forth into the waters of three different schools.
Set burning for IAM, left for his service, then drifted into her loving arms
Who, clutching dreams of burning down their hometowns, gazed off into the sunset, seeing that great ball of fire sink below the horizon in beatific vision.
Who smouldered before glass altars, thumbs beating out rhythm and frustration.
Who burnt lines etched out of their souls into paper, recording what may be left to hear in times not yet come.
And now among the embers I walk
My face smeared
with the ashes of this charnel ground.
With both eyes cast heavenward
And my feet beating the ground.
I look about me
And find the road stretched out far beyond my sight.
With a tumult of thunder and sunshine on the horizon
I step forward
not knowing the direction,
yet glad to make the trip.

“You don’t even know,”
The great yellow face said to me,
“This is my domain,”
Its great, beady eyes
glistened
in the morning lights
inviting me into
the sterile world of
mass consumer culture.
Row after row
–after row–
of everything you could ever want.

Illuminated by the flooding white lights
which pour down from above
the herd marches through
taking box after box
in vain search of fulfillment.

And there I stand,
Amidst this flowing horde
of human cattle
shepherding them
through fields of consumer grazing
and out
through the slaughterhouse doors.
But the gleaming yellow face
haunts me,
“You belong to me in here,”
taunting,
“Didn’t you read
your orientation packet?
when you punch in
check your soul at the time clock,
we only want your flesh anyway.”

…And I do
In service of the gleaming yellow face my body toils while my mind longs to escape.
In spite of all that I am
All I ever was.
All I want to be.
I submit,
praying that,
by Amida’s grace,
My soul will survive.

I. Haibun no Hoshi

Alone we strode, drifting through the endless void. From the gargantuan nebulae of our youth we emerged, setting forth in this vast expanse. We flare up, sending messages to our long departed cousins. Some of us have swelled by our pride, expanding until we devour our children whom we hold nestled in our embrace. Others ended their lives in tremendous bursts, lighting the night sky with their anger. Then, they spent out their eternities in a variety: some burnt down when the fires of their rage had cooled and waited out perpetuity, spinning in hyperactivity. They pulse out their cries of woe, inundating us with their brackish sorrow. Others simply accepted their time and formed the clouds which birthed my cousins and I. Even further, some of us could not accept our deaths and in their vain grasping at immortality they fell in upon themselves. Their strange squeals announce them, for in their quest to be everlasting light, they have become the dark harbingers of death. I can hear their cries constantly.
After these billions of years, I can feel my demise beginning. To my small children who rely on me, I am sorry for what I shall do to you. To my future children who shall be born from my ashes, I pray that you live your life, then pass calmly as I shall.

At eon’s close
How shall I end?
Fall’s setting sun.

The Wal*Mart Tv Network is Hell,
Ksitigharbha come save me please
I’m begging you
–Did you know that Wal*mart now makes Great Value movies?–
I hear the voices all day long
I can’t stand my own mind
Advil when I close my eyes
Sargento when I try to th
–I should know, I’m in one–
ink
My headphones are the only solace
Music keeps the madness out.
In peace I am carried off to a calm land.
Dwelling in the deep pool of music.
Until work pulls me back.
Pushing my cart around, trying to wri
–Discover the adventure of the Jensen Project Today–
te this poem.
But all I hear is the woman telling me what.
And the men telling me where.
As my heart struggles to tell me
Get the DVD in Electronics
My Heart tells me
Try delicious new Kraft Singles
tells me
Cure your ills with advil
tells

Escape.

Last night I sat
under the bright,
cold moonlight.
The grassy bank damp against me,
The pale white aura hanging around me.
Chang Er smiling at me.
And I sang
joyously
cried to the Moon
and saw her in the water before me.
Han Shan would have jumped in.
But my heart is pledged.
Though in summer months
She will live across great waters.
And this lovers’ moon will be our hearts’ refuge.
On that night I will sit
‘neath the sea of stars
Chuang-tzu in my hands
and her face in my heart.
Until seasons turn
and P’eng brings her back
to my arms.

POETRY IS BETTER THAN SLEEP

Comes life’s call to me.

And like the minuteman that I am,

I snap ready

To my pen and book.

Now I scrawl, putting these words down.

A yawn, but life calls:

Make haste towards the poetry!

Make haste towards the poetry!

Make haste towards your reward!

Make haste towards your reward!

Poetry is better than sleep!

Poetry is better than sleep!

Art is the greatest!

Art is the greatest!

There is no life save art!

I cannot write about love in times of peace-
when we lie as a couple on the river bank
hands clasped together, eyes locked, heartbeats as one.
When the whispered “I love yous,” form a
decadent chorus as angles singing “gloria”
When the placidly flowing water carries us together downstream into the wide ocean.

Nor can I write in times of war.
When the thunder of our separate wills crashes and booms upon the sea.
When cannons sound and small children
Wail at the loss of their future.
When we say goodbye and step
into the roaring silent dark
And we do not know.

________________

I can; however, write about love just after the storm has passed.
When we lie on the rain-slick bank
With the rich smell of dampened earth all around us
And our hearts soar through rainbows like Noah’s doves.
When the dust of war has settled and
we can see the sun setting over the deep mountain ranges to the west.
When linked hands pull us close
her head on my chest, hearing
the strong, reassuring heartbeat.
We look up into the starry sky
and see that we are small.
Just two people who love each other.
What more do we need to be?