Full moooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooon . . . .


the veil is thin
the wind is cold
the ancestor taps your shoulder -

who is it?! Turn!!
is it - you?

Full moon is tomorrow, Friday October 22nd. Tell us what you saw when you turned to face the ghostly ancestor.

September 2010

Our September Selections come from old friends Richard Velez, Joyce Pointe, Patrick Mizelle, and Deanna Hopper; and from new friend Dan D'Agostino. Dan's passion is composing sonnets for each of the Buddhist Realms, or modes of experience.

September Selections 1 & 2

September Selection #1

The Animal Realm

Reflexive rapture when he saw her first,
And sudden shudder: he was incomplete.
He lost her forever on the crowded street.
Now forever she's the engine that drives his thirst.
So the upward thrust has been reversed:
Consciousness itself is in retreat.
Repeat the loss, repeat, repeat, repeat
Of her in him for whom the whole was cursed.
From a distance he never sees her in a blur.
She's the jewel pure, teaching clear
He's thrown aside the common life to hold.
Joy-blind, led by the scent of her
To a land empty, windswept and austere,
Through songs of love he shivers against the cold.

--Dan D'Agostino

September Selection #2

rain falls gently
on men cutting grapes
damp drops trickle & seep
( go, go, go )
into clusters
into clothes and eyes

stained-dark hands strain
(go, go, go)

in the core of the sweet ripe fruit
spores open their eyes
- - and acres and tons to go -

go, go, go -

-- Deanna Hopper

September Selections # 3 & 4

September Selection #3

refuge

where I’m at’s
not where it’s at
maybe moving targets
should be mirrors
understandings
maybe errors weighty
carapace of terrors
place to go until
I know x marks the spot
I’m here

--Patrick Mizelle

September Selection #4

Moon Half

flew by
shadows follow
feet above
the pavement
looking up
now down

--Joyce Pointe

September Selection #5

I read what some Buddhist wisdom has to say regarding the nature of desire then go on to check out some porn and then wonder why I’m mired in Samsara….
So, as it turns out, the world IS actually flat and the sun also rises out of an illusion setting to reset and starts again when Zen is when only to one day one moment what happens and where does it all go to never come back (maybe; maybe, Baby) and did I ever tell you I love you and who is Jeanine Filey and what is her relationship to me? Why do we live? Why must we die? Perhaps more important, why do we do so so poorly? Why do we write these lies; these critical components of language critically comprising “Existence”; said “Existence” apparently leading nowhere always, always with no hope of a return? Death. Shit. Shit! A theme develops. I negate my Buddha nature as I find myself hating on Trip and his relationship with T’Pol yet feeling a need to apologize. Like John Gribbin said, “Surface complexity arises out of deep simplicity.” But we, in saying that, recall also what the venerable Bruce Lee once observed: “Kata is a form of standing death” and the world, as it turns out, IS actually flat. I’m searching for Zenny and for all I know Zenny’s dead in the City of Fallen Angles where she lies comatose in coma tense making coma sense while I who always struggled to say the right words to the right person at the right time and always failed still struggle to say it to people who look like her in the dark; 40 days in the desert and 40 years later and I still struggle to say too many words too late as I go nowhere unattended and unheard as I make my way to a deeper darker more dangerous mystery that speaks volumes of whodunit without ever intending to whisper a truth in pursuit of dark women; shadow women; as the mystery pursues me in turn and possesses me as it has always since back in the day and this endless chase goes on even as I know even as I know that it will destroy me and I will perish and disappear as if I never was and will never decipher even as I finally close my eyes and heart thinking “Don’t compromise your game, Homitus”
and everything fades to black (end scene)

-- Richard Velez