I live in a vegetarian co-op with fifteen and a half other people. I am most jealous of this half. Her name is Cedar and she is 8 months old. I often ask her, as I tickle her feet and ribs, "what's it like to be the true dharma?" She answers with silent, watchful eyes and the unmistakable pure star-light beam of perception.
I write pomes the way Duschamp placed a urinal in an art gallery. Everything is already here. Occasionally, my mind opens up to take notice. The hand moves, ink is spilled, and words couple, together into groups packs pods...
I prefer the haiku form of five-seven-five. When analyzed, it is emptiness. Nothing is already here; only numbers and syllables. When complete, it is everything. The whole world in stanza. And yet, there is no difference.
Haiku are meant to be cherished. They are meant to be forgotten. I often throw them away. Because I am a fool, i believe: the whole world in stanza. This is the same as no pome at all. Make great effort to perceive this.
— daigu 3-18-09
while soundly sleeping
spring exploded like fireworks
on the midnight sky.
there was nothing.
yet all throughout
the silent beat
of orange wings.