This heart is a work in progress,
with much yet to be revealed.
What’s not revealed is fine as well
since there’s no rush, no finish line,
no chimes to peal, nor one last meal
before the flickering lights go out.
Tonight is just the way it is, because
the world’s the way it is – never born
so it never ends — it simply changes
now and then while we fabricate
our dreamy fantasies of meaning.
Sunset on the Lost Coast,
and then the wild wind’s chilly sutra
chanted in the dusky crack between two realms
invokes another night’s inevitable emergence.
Sea stacks tower and glisten in the icy moonlight
flooding the shore, while this torn heart hangs,
impaled upon their sharp spiked points
like a hunter’s hapless trophy.
Who can answer for this throbbing wound
planted within our chest, the one that never
seems to heal, the reason we never rest?
Here it is, in so many words,
what words can’t quite convey:
whatever we call life,
it’s nothing more than that
from which we tend to turn away.
The pretentious musings of abstruse dharma,
philosophy’s cool and elegant pantomime,
provided me with no lasting peace.
It only held a blurred mirror
to my inarticulate ruin, seeping
through the chameleon masks.
Even the most confident mimic
is still but a noisy fraud.
How easily all knowledge,
no matter how dearly acquired,
invariably withers and melts away
in the consuming furnace of existence.
Just so, with each lame new script,
a tell-tale stench of raw cardiac fire
rides the blown breeze towards me.
It wreathes the wound — the deep core knot –
that which only sought a hiding place,
separate, unchallenged, impervious,
to cocoon within its thoughts.
Brother, this wind can cut right through you,
it can slice right to the heart.
The more you resist the worse it gets
while you waver between dreams
about the future and regrets
about the past.
Why not let it take
the whole damned thing
and be done with masquerades at last?