Whispers perspire golden dirt…
Walking - I should be walking - streets of cities, hills - trails - mountains.
I should be walking.
The dust in the street, the lame, the blind. The silence of overbearing
streets alight with humming electricity charges, distorts, rhymes, sings:
Hearts crying dreams.
Whispers perspire golden dirt; the beard, the hat, the hand; a pocket full of
change handed over to a catamount at the stream crossing.
Everything still rolls across the plain or down a hill. Money flows like water
in the watershed to pockets of the few who have tilted the plain to their
own purpose.
I think of those ancient zen masters offering their heads rather than accept
an all expense paid trip to the forbidden city.
Show me a true emperor or king who has not robbed and killed. I see no one:
Earth King, Lion King, Wizard of Oz.
Dorothy meets Manjusri, Kansas vanishes in silence: Vimalakirti yawns.
John Bailes, Kotatsu Roko
Prospect Hill
Sunday, 10 April 2011
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