A conference of birds flew down.
and I know the birds of the air belong to no one. )
between silence and dawn i built a bedroom whose window
looks out upon all existence. seeing without being.
silence becomes knowing and every thing seen in
this way is loved. is one’s own. (but appearance
still belongs to no one)
appearance is a conference of birds flown down
from above, bright tumbling starling murmuration
of knowing into loving. s
o about your head.
sudden secret language, primordial markings, the script called
being -- stellar remnant languaging
until concept experiences
all of this comes from forsaking small talk. the
banter of ghosts, decay’s chitchat. gossip is always
of the dead.
tired words, exhausted, worn out
angry words spreading fatigue like
plague bites of infected fleas.
let your mouth, finger tips, eyes be the full moon’s
luminous drunkenness. Li Po could find 100 poems in
a draught of that lucid wine.
(i too am drunk on the namelessness
t.k., tsogyelgar, traktung khepa