The Dry Gulch of Consciousness

The ceremonial cloak of mindfulness
Is a stinky old rag
Leaving streaks and stains where effort is applied
The spontaneous blossom of mindfulness
Is a shining radiance
Given to immediate clarity and remembrance
The one, like a mule’s blinders
Or a sticky note, is a kind of aid
The other, like a thing and its nature
Is inseparable from awareness


The Poetry of No Poem

The air of the room pervades every crack and opening
Like it’s looking for something
The poet was a no-show
His no-poem fills the space
Like a lost wax casting of the venue

Cushion Crisis

I sit indifferent to the quiet
Aware of my breathing as instructed
I notice the dog is not barking
Where is the dog?
Now I am worried that something has happened to the dog
Dog gone it

Immediately if not sooner

Everything happens immediately
So mindfulness must happen sooner
Like a Kung Fu “catching arrows” exercise
How do you get to Carnegie Hall?
Practice, practice, practice


The Metronome

It only gives out one tick at a time
The others, the ones before and
The ticks you anticipate coming
Those, you have to keep in your memory
The dance dissolves under analysis
Like a good party busted up by the cops