Buddhist Monk

(6/8/2013-2015)


That is, again, a provocation, itches in their enduring silent bald

Forcing someone an order, and sacrifice your own humane?

How and who, can a man possibly grab such halo?
A light, a blacklight -
How can a man possibly retrieve semblance,
the flow of dead silver veins down river;
to join with the mad, the fool, in the wiser’s mind
where heart is located, at distance
on big lotus pedal
dropped by gold’s salt,
to transform beyond gold’s blood
And all else will be done before
it turns silvery and slips

Back in, smiles?
Smile of the rich, smile of the poor, the glowing teeth,
of satisfaction, up for man’s deliberate contempt
meditating their own kind
making senses circle of irony all over

When they cut his hair, it’s his throat
When they wash away his soul, Is it cleansed?
or colden?
In that courtroom, by judges; I really want to ask;
ask what whether is he a man, or beast painted
or fleshflash skin?
How can you let someone, another unknown,
criticizing, perjuring our own type?;
What you are, causes you to be not

You walk, and you slow in front of me,
No worry I have no harm – and you have none,
Since I have hoped so -
Until we see the knives, in your own
pure hands, majestically white