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i have been listening to sunlight's song again

the hum in the ears like too much caffeine
the feel of static electricity pricking up body hair

back here in the U.S., I remember Bodhidharma's face all
      over Japan
the red-bearded barbarian from india who they say moved to
      china and started zen
strange familiar foreign image, voted nippon's most popular
      gaijin for a thousand years running
(maybe because he never actually took that wild red beard to
      japan, so much easier to love from a distance)

the heavy chain of wonder anchored him to the ground
safely trapped by the computational complexity of the search
      for truth
but i am drunk, falling down drunk, on other men's wisdom,
      addicted to it

i have heard that a moth flies to the flame because it mistakes it
      for the moon
and i have heard that a finger pointing to the moon is not the
      moon and cannot draw it down
and i have heard the story of a hermit monk who gave a
      desperate robber everything he had
the clothes off his back
and stood naked in the night and said poor fellow, I wish i could
      give him that moon

i am drunk on the flame
or is it the moon? or the finger?
mistake them and i burn
but no one can give me the solutions

the buddha is not the awakened one
gate gate paragate parasamgate bodhisvaha --
gone, gone, we're all gone beyond

and the rocks cried out with the pain of birth
the pain of leaving
a necessary precondition for arriving

flying forward in space but backwards in time

--Tom Swiss

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