The tones make such shapes,
Equal to creation
But only due to
Impossible tension
If polarity ceases
For even an instant,
Sound's perfect wheels
Turn into sand.
That is the way of
The Material World,
The standing wave collapses
The moment conflict ends
Into the ether
Of things as they are,
So it is with Dukkha,
The wobbling wheel
Of Apollo's chariot,
Under constant, jarring
Stress, for any resistance
Is friction,
To the train you missed
Or the one you've waited for,
As you stare down the bare
Track of the now.
In English we call this
"Suffering," by which
We mean the ego,
Observing others pain
And deciding not to die to it,
The man in the tent
Staring, who wouldn't be there
If you hadn't had it Buddha plush
When the tanha stick
Pulled the whole in two
Like pearl divers prying
Purple oyster valves loose
For the shiny lotus jewel,
The resistance of form,
The tense geometries
We break our teeth on.
We call it attachment
Or craving take your pick.
The illusion of sides
That you can choose
Without blowing a fuse
And sending the loosh
Where black oleander
Won't save you.
The birds who swoop
In black circles
Won't stoop to help.
Black is where you grab
For Nirvana is a candle
Blown out, a phase
Collapse where all
Are allowed to not be
Without you, who
Tune continuously,
For the frequency
Is the experience
What the Hermetics
Called rhythm,
The perpetual move
To harmony or chaos
You choose, ultimately
Whether that pink bedroom
Frock is best suited
For waiting on the platform
Where you are alone
With everything gone
And no word of whether coffee
Will be served when it reopens.
