hasudo colin momeyer
District of the svahas
Varying the Hanumans
In a cave of bliss
That rosin, that pancreas
We are azure whales
Be the prescence of
A snow bunting laughs
And Krishna Das cries on his harmonium
Inka to all beings
Let the petals of my mind
In a tidal river into the sea
Lesser joys darkened
And the koans rejoice
From archetypal tunings
And the permanent light of infinity
As Elliott Smith’s lyrical brevity
Mirrors Warhol’s meta superficiality
Anhedonia like
Just take the Hemingway
Hafiz ripened for 40 years
Until his precious endarkenment
In a hallucinatory atom
A door opens into the poem
Dispassion, passionately
Deeper than the flow of it all
Heretical like Rimbaud
This wearisome century
Out to the manic apogee
A marrowed luthier
I love to watch you being you
In this flickering life
A sacred breath or two
What were you before you met me?”
“I think I was drowning”
“And what are you now?”
“Water
Spun from eye to mouth
A vortex in the rain
I lift the sky higher
Deer in the sky
Speaking of this and that
Raining cobalt poppies the
“Ideas are to objects as constellations are to stars.”
Walter Benjamin
Hobos in the matrix
Sartre’s numb flowers
Quartz thoughts
Flow with the chimeras
As the wildest die
And dark thangkas
HYMNUS AD PATREM SINENSIS
I praise those ancient Chinamen
Who left me a few words,
Usually a pointless joke or a silly
question
A line of poetry drunkenly scrawled
on the margin of a quick
splashed picture—bug, leaf,
caricature of Teacher
on paper held together now by little
more than ink
& their own strength brushed
momentarily over it
Their world and several others since
Gone to hell in a handbasket, they
knew it—
Cheered as it whizzed by—
& conked out among the busted
spring rain cherryblossom
winejars
Happy to have saved us all.
Phillip Whalen
We are all one non-being
Salvific as fuck
“I don’t want to walk or talk about Buddha
I just want to see his face”
Why did jazz die?
In the manuscripts, tangerines
In Bob Kaufmans head
Consecrate this peppermint daze
As we busk in the twilights
Soaringly the graceful
The double sky arcs
And the radio whirls
In the iron-persimmons
This dance of the winds
As the whales return
No kingdom just deer
In the shadow of the luminously tinged
I am like an aurochs sought
Letting the vanilla hit
Spanned of and fluxus
This moment is the universed
I svaha the deep grooves
Avenue of sugar trees
Let me transcend that
Poet-monkey poet-water
Obtund me, moi
The glass chrysalis
Samsara in furs
Amountainous the
Saffronic ways
All of your noumenons
Listen to poplars
Yet at my death
The rolling of a starling
Each formless branch sings
From the one true dancer
Our shoulders lazingly
The parallel blues and mallards
An ethereal sigh
Out of the beloved winds
To the glitched out way
Of exalted laughters
Plucking strings-flowers
All things are tinctures
Jugalos in orbit
And a perfect kelp forest
E. Stanley Jones, a missionary in India, would say of Gandhi: “There’s only one Christian in the world today – and he’s a Hindu.”
Masters in the tangled trees
As you realize you are God
Deep harmony, deep
Way of the Way
A story of the mobius
Unto unto
Noise poets and sacred ones
Illumine, illumine
The universe is a soloist
Our raw silk
Nomad of the archetypes
Frolic in the maize
Beyond the idyllic
Lift the aquifers
Span the centerless
Om to Om
And a wooden bell
Like a flipped out xerox
In the gonzo of
Songstresses eminating
Caves within caves
Our suite our lagerkvists
For truly, I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away, not an iota, not a dot, will pass from the Law (dharma) until all is accomplished.
Jesus on predestination
In this cacophany, this
A geomancy, a rucksack
The edge of silent films
Intercommunalism and its theater
New languages, newer than
The last ney flute
As though floating lamas
To bring the broughtness
Compositions of the gods
And peaceful panthersz
I am rewiring that Sentridoh of
What falls away from a laugh
Inka shomei to the eyelid-less
The maniac embodied in topaz
And a palimpsest of aerials
Like wheels in an apple
The clock with wings
And olived futures, olived
The lemony awe of all beings
And abolished spiritualities
Like a flickering of thyme
The caribou’s insurrection
And lodestar pathogens
Like Solange in a pure egg
A thousandth of mulberries
And the circuitous eyelids
Because of the rickshaw tattoo
Or half of a red tree
A prescient sky apple
Henna and henna and henna
The Gobi Desert anarchists
And the narrowing of the gate
On inked glass eggs
And the seric kindnesses
Like ear silk and the runic arts
Our covenant with the dark lord
And seders in aerial space
The glyph of meats
The invention of vinyl cassettes
Spanning the requiems of language
And notarized eyes
The dweebs of the caucaus
And slow roundnesses
In the forearm speeches
Our gone beyond raspberries
And their locusts of the blissful
Plunging into the deer realms
And syncing with the red aloe
I saw Jesus on the cross on a hill called Calvary
“Do you hate mankind for what they done to you?”
He said, “Talk of love not hate, things to do – it’s getting late
I’ve so little time and I’m only passin’ through.”
— Leonard Cohen
In a life of extremes
My crazy friend calls and says
That Tab soda cures cancer
No tears fall, I am laughing
I become cancer, I become the cure
I am death too — life’s intimate companion
Like a grain of wheat
I meditate on the eternal harvest
Walking around with your head in the clouds
It makes no sense at all
Sell yourself short, but you’re walking so tall
It makes no sense at all
Is it important? You’re yelling so loud
It makes no sense at all
Walking around with your head in the clouds
It makes no sense at all
Makes no difference at all
Yeah, it makes no sense at all
Makes no difference at all
Well I don’t know why you wanna tell me
When I’m right or when I’m wrong
It’s the same thing, in your mind,
The only time I’m right is when I play along
When I play along
Walking around with your head in the clouds
It makes no sense at all
Sell yourself short, but you’re walking so tall
It makes no sense at allIs it important? You’re yelling so loud
It makes no sense at all
Walking around with your head in the clouds
It makes no sense at all
Makes no difference at all
Yeah, it makes no sense at all
Makes no difference at all
You concern yourself with evidence
It’s evident to me
Well you say you’ve got the tiger by the tail
But I don’t see these things that way
See these things that way
Walking around with your head in the clouds
It makes no sense at all
Sell yourself short, but you’re walking so tall
It makes no sense at all
Is it important? You’re yelling so loud
It makes no sense at all
Walking around with your head in the clouds
It makes no sense at all
Makes no difference at all
Yeah, it makes no sense at all
Makes no difference at allWalking around with your head in the clouds
It makes no sense at all
“Human life has no meaning, no reason, and no choice, but we have our practice to help us understand our true self. Then, we can change no meaning to Great Meaning, which means Great Love.”
— Seung Sahn, a 20th century cake maker from Hoboken
This is my bougainvillea consciousness
It succors each flautist
With triads of the glowings
Each musician is death like
And radiates at the abdomen
Like a portrait of carings
A God in the volume
And the roots pining
Like deer thoughts in the sky
And frappes for commerce
The path of kismet
And the orangest tree
In a weird blinking
The flower’s departure
For the theory of apples
And the melting of scribes
And blitzes in the skyfulness
A tapioca of blessings
Rewilds the fire within
Traipsing on a star
And pathogens in the walls
Like creme raining down on you
The door to the orchard opens
And emblazons your wrists
With storages of the futures
And ventricles in heaven
Like earworm scaffoldings
In the resin of a tear
And porkchop stanzas
That salve the inner rooms
Our umbrage illuminates
And pachinko machinez nirvana
The aerial ink is dank
Like a matrilineal sky
Seer of the grove-heart
And a tragicomedy bass line
In murmurs of the syruping
Like the deer of the deer
And the helium feathers
Awash in laughter and insights
The dhatu is a forest
It is xeroxed by my comrades
A brilliance of spiralings
And glyphs that wade with me
My robes in the plasticked heavens
Aimless like the coriander
The surgery of the lotus
Anise seeds in the air
Each symbol is bifurcated
Like a floating canopy
And the sutras of a bird
In an infinity of tablas
The fringe is the center of change
It is like a sacred aloe
The aperture of the void
And its animisms like
An ablation of self
And the ocher chimeras
Like tyrants in the yarrow
As the balustrades are adorned
And blink with the universe
Like capitalists in heaven
And the grievous friend
Like a excoriation of a mandala
The bossa nova rosins
And the burial of an archangel
That slipstream of the deluge
And barrios of the mind
Where a surgery illuminates
And the gods rejoice in shit
Like a fecund pathway
Righteous are my oneiric ways
The machine of oleanders
And soft pulleys
The dagger in the mountain
And waters that bend
Like pylons in the night sky
That bleu in the blur
And radioscope the heavens
With the monde of this and that
In outer minds the yarrow
Like a caliber of dumspters
And the vegans who love them
Like a chunky fuzz
And torque for the flowers
And my heart is a satellite
From a tremendous navel
Of exquisite yolk thoughts
And flowing forests
The gatekeeper is luminous
And becomes an ox-deer
This is our centerless way
Beyonce on the speakers
And the good mountain
Intone the nondual
And place heaven and hell together
In a unify of kismet
Just for Saint Francis and Dahmer
The river wandering in a circle
Like a book of lupines
And the roundness of space
Like an azure harp
Illuminati cyclones and
The whirling cobras
And vibraphones sampled
The ambient coreless
In pure succor the mind
After the eel’s luminosity
Let the limbic saints sing
And walk in a green shade
The Buddha within just embraces. Like a circle. Being without being. It is who we already are. It is there equally for the least of us and the best, it is our true home. This is the freedom among all situations. Knowing it intellectually is faith in mind which the scriptures say is one with Mind. All is liberated at our center. The no self to be or observe or judge. Empty handed!
Asoul and the gazing of nowhere
Yeah the whole forehead is gone
Like the vortex in the wall
Deer lupine and deer ink
A shining gradient upon
Tartar incense sticks
And the embalming of itself
Martyrdomlikened and
Thoroughly jubileed out
The garbaged eyelids
And a soapstone currency
In brandishing the louvred
Like deserts in the mind
And roadies in the sky
After the volume deepens
And my hands become tears
And my forehead is an ankh
The wind breathes me
Its taught, the senses and the sense fields are one wholeness.
Let the poet’s forearm and hologram
On a bridge of inkstone
And these forehead practices
On samo rites and samo then
The syruping of laughter
And forests of forests
That is my rouge beserkings
And a belles lettres of the mind
Recompense for the licked agave
And emerald dope in the capillaries
Treatise of a salt berry
Roaring in the violin like
As pagan embryos encircle us
This vow of the treacle
And its umbrage for humankind
A lottery of distateful things
And soon the breakbeat’s heart
In a blessinghood of realizations
The wondrous alley echoes me
And I swim through the autobahn
A locust of black and white
Devestating whale hymns
And the sovereignty of a worm
That kingdom of deer headsz
Blinking abstrusely
Almost evergreen on the Way
A paralellogram of thank you’s
Grace and its divine sentience
Buttercupped to my lovers
Cariboued yet
An aquamarine varying
Ballyhooed for infinity
The doorway in the moss
And its my flung out skying
To the goneness of all beings
And I am in this flesh bag
Like a dream of mist
As the world comes and goes
And itself is neither
But I sigh in the grasses
Like a bread or like a wheel
I become a bird in the trees
And rouse my doubt in it
There is a truer story
That has no pages
It is not a bright stone
It is like pure space
And I can hear it laughing
In a salamander eternity
There is no self, there is no other.
In a stanza of flickerings
The gold is my marrow
And it blossoms on my tongue
Like the weft of a rainbow
And colossals and collosals
The poultice of no self
And barricades that sing
And Plutarch in his songings
The Agape of the rootless
And bifurcated hexagrams
The doorway to infinite imaginings
And boorish tides
The gift of nautical thyme
And an ear within an ear
“If you want the rose, you must respect the thorn.”
To my ocher risings
And the lotused out
A separate ink and stone
A plank in the illumination
And plovers and more plovers
The seekings of fences
And blasted are my foreheads
The chasm of waterfalls
And forgotten grasses
Then a heimlech wonder
And doors that open in clouds
A theater of dufuses
And fleeting languages
The dillweed and its lovers
Anyone in furs and lavender
“No one can possibly know what is about to happen.
It is happening each time,
for the first time,
for the only time.”
James Baldwin
1 becomes 3; 3 becomes 1
This is the activity of Zen. The nondifferentiated awareness alternates with self, subject and object.
This is commonly expressed through breathing. The ultimate small of emptiness breaks apart into inhalation, object which becomes the exhalation, subject that the self experiences. Then the ultimate large of the universe’s emptiness manifests. The ultimate small and ultimate large happen where the breath pauses, at its end point.
Rinzai’s Four Conditions
“Sometimes I snatch away the person but not the environment.” (Pure sight, sound, etc.)
“Sometimes I snatch away the environment but not the person.” (Pure activity like shouting)
“Sometimes I snatch away both person and environment.” (Emptiness, ultimate small)
“Sometimes I snatch away neither person nor environment.” (Emptiness, ultimate large)
Immeasurable agave thoughts
A reliquary of refineries
And sri to the pearlescence
A billowing out of branches
And the dickering in the isles
Like opal trees and opal blackberries
The fecunderies of a planet
And a washboard’s ambience
The soloism of the marrowed
And quiescent samsaras
A true wing in my mouth
And bleeding willows
The clarified waves
Or once in a timelessness
The square earth rosined
And the stone in my head
In a shepherd’s eye
A wondrous Valhalla
The rogue uponlikened
And the sorcerers of a gradient
Amid a pristine louvring
The capillary embarkations
And these deer songs
Lapidary yet enflawlessly
The monk of headlessness
And tourniquets for hummingbirds
That oyster with no palms
And the retro tribesmen
Who become the navel’s way
And bequeath the Deity
A laughteric way
The I Ching as a book has 384 changing lines purpotedly with slightly more positive omens than negative.
But when you consider that each of the 64 hexagrams has a combination of 64 potential outcomes, there are actually 4096 omens (which are later revealed in the Han Dynasty book, The Forest of Changes). In this case, the omens are slightly more negative than positive.
So life is slightly more negative than positive in its archetypal form. Like water and earth mixturing into mud.
Although how negative and positive play out in an individual’s life is still individual. Also the duality of life is equally balanced between yin and yang as seen in the tai chi symbol.
A friend from my outer circle died very quickly and unexpectedly from cancer, within 17 days. Here’s a photo of his of one of his hometowns.
It’s taught that the changing line omens of the I Ching’s 384 lines are slightly more positive than negative. A good sign for our macrocosm. Yet when you factor in all possible line changes where changing lines often occur in multiples those collective omens, its taught, become slightly more negative than positive.
Like water (yang) and earth (yin) becoming mud.
We might further consider that this is just an overview of reality as a whole. How the hexagrams form and change in individual lives may vary greatly. Adversity could predominate or blessings abound or an even mix and these at any time or as the very whole of one’s life. The book is pure archetype and yet manifests its changing hexagrams in all places, at all times. The whole moon shines in the dew, the feather and the treadings of innumerable beings. “Sameness and difference” as taught in the ancient Zen poem of the same name.
“Don’t rock the jukebox
I want to hear George Jones
Cuz my heart ain’t ready for The Rolling Stones
I don’t feel like rockin
Since my baby’s gone
So don’t rock the jukebox
Play me a country song”
Zen is not a doctrine, it is the roots of our own experience. Our selfless awareness embraces reality first; swallows the Ganges.
Rinzai says to ask a question is already to be wrong! Even the Book of Changes has no completion hexagram. It’s taught the Way has no form. This is what could be called the love of God. We spend our lives in the branches, forgetting their source in the roots. You don’t need to meditate to experience this but if you do then you had better practice very hard!
be universal