|Kannon in YUMEDONO (Hall of Dreams) by Tokyo Bijutsu Gakko|
Summer grasses / all that remains / of soldiers dreams.
Kannon is the Goddess of Compassion. Her Chinese name is Kuan Yin, and in Sanskrit, Avalokitesvara. A statue of the Kuan Yin stands, similarly as pictured above, in my apartment. My wife, a Taoist-Buddhist, cares for the sculpture with a love beyond regard for high art. Standing behind an attendant bodhisattva, the Kuan Yin is a living recipient of our most momentary aspirations and our immanent longings, as they rise and fall into the sky of the figured form with our sound, breath, movement and speech. With a physical offering, the life of the seemingly inanimate sculpture gives way to immortal reckoning. The statue has received such offerings as the favourite pleasures of my late grandfather (a can of sardines and a cigarette), as well as my Shakuhachi breathings.
I see my wife, long braided hair, in full red dress, dimmed by the party ambiance, she wails on her mother-of-pearl Egyptian doumbek, with the percussive force of a musical heart, true bravura of heartened artistry.
|Two Drummer Girl by Isaac Israels|
As I wade into a kitchen room, I feel the presence of sheer evil at my side. And looking down, blood pours delicately from a soft wound. The ghost of death blinds my nerves as my eyes fog with principal madness, looking at the mean-faced ignorant sex-fiend of my abusive past.
|Sitting young woman in Dutch Kitchen by Henrik Nordenberg|
That shared abuse, culminates in a shot, straight through the gut, though strangely a painless death as the water of my eyes bleeds my vision into an all too wakeful death.
Boiled threat of another animal’s blood
Given over to the insect mind,
A natural reason, the rational cycle
Filling 0’s with my precious un-devoured anchor
That holds human bread to the sand of the unfed
Screaming over shopping carts, cringing with nicotine blinks
Ruined men and women whose hearts run dry
Like the rivers that once fed their ancestral lungs,
Filled with the mythic bird
And they rise from the ashes of Hindu lore
In the European brain,
A tell-tale crime, getting skinny in between
In exchanging monetary behaviorisms
In the psychic deep of abundant perceptions
Closed doors sink into the undertow’s warning
excerpts from "Bless the failed pilgrim's march"