No pleasure in this flesh

There's no bodhi in this body;
no pleasure in this flesh.
The peak climax of orgasm:
the harbinger of death.

I haven't met a pleasure
that did not end in pain.
The newlyweds on honeymoon
years later are estranged.

Wine, it leads to drunkenness.
And drunkenness is bliss.
Bliss, it leads to headache, yeah,
and then we're back to this.

There's no bodhi in this body.
No comfort in this skin.
Sped along from cradle to grave
and then reborn again.

The fresh lightness of newborn.
The heaviness of age.
Tick tock the clock of moth and rust
and turn another page.

There's no bodhi in this body.
No pleasure in this tongue.
The first bite always tastes the best
the worst is when it's done.

It wants to go on tasting.
Such is the body's greed.
The appetite of treacherous tongue
it far exceeds the need!

Sick we are from excess:
the aftermath of feast.
The stomach turns and then we retch
and beg for right release.

There's no bodhi in this body.
No pleasure in this flesh.
Lovers turn to enemies.
If not, there's always death.

Above reproach

He sits on high,
above reproach.
A lofty perch,
I can't approach.

But his sitting,
is not done solidly.
His lofty seat
is tottering.

I approached his seat.
I scaled the height.
Disarmed my person
of sword and knife.
In peace I come
to exalted height.
In peace
so let not wrath ignite.

The sentries bristled,
they abused me so.
Exalted heights
I cannot go.

They were just about
to throw me down.
When that one spoke
who wore the crown.

They sheathed their blades,
withdrew their fists.
Those bodyguards,
they did desist.

I spoke in soft,
appealing tones.
His words like thunder;
from exalted throne.

I asked him how
he came to sit
on such precarious
precipice.

"My seat is solid!
My seat is might!
My seat on this
exalted height!"

Did it escape your notice
how can it be?
Do you not feel your seat
is teetering?

His sentries bristled,
they abused me so.
To exalted height
I'm loathe to go.

They were just about
to throw me down,
when that one spoke
who wore the crown.

"You've hidden weapon!
Your tongue is edge!
If again I see you,
you're good as dead!"

Cast down, I fell
from exalted height.
Naked I am
of sword and knife.

My tongue is clumsy
where is its edge?
If again I see him,
I will be bled.

One thing's certain.
One thing is true.
The one that bleeds;
it isn't you.

This just a concept;
not yet believed.
Betrayed I am
by trembling knees.

I approached his seat,
though I'd rather not.
I scaled the heights
too often sought.

His sentries bristled.
I gathered mettle.
Increased the bass;
reduced the treble.

I don't come
to stand against.
Nor do I demand
any recompense.

Abuse me thoroughly
if you must.
Death is coming.
Oh this I trust.

But tell me,
how you came to sit
on such precarious
precipice?

Don't you notice it
tottering left to right?
Have you considered a seat
at proper height?

The height you sit,
you cannot stay.
As rain,
you're sure to fall one day.
As thunder,
you'll make fantastic sound--
on the day that's coming,
when you're thrown down.

I don't come
to bring you dread
with stuttering tongue
you say is edged.

But if you must be cut,
then let blood fall.
Better a few drops
then lose it all!

But me? I'm one
of little might.
Of trembling voice
and stature slight.
Disarmed I am of
sword and knife.
How foolish to ascend
to such a height.

Bodyguards thus treat me
as one abhorred.
I can't yet bellow
Lion's Roar.

I want no contest.
I want no fight.
But have you considered
seat at proper height?

I'd rather see
a few drops fall.
Then have to
watch you
lose it all.

You sit on high,
above reproach.
A lofty perch,
I can't approach.

But approach I do
again...
again...
Knocking,
please let bodhi in.

To shoot the Buddha

Since I don't want to,
I'll go ahead.
And if I see the Buddha,
I'll shoot him dead!

Draw the sword,
cut off his head.
Only looks like Buddha,
to the demon's bed.

Too late.
I've arrived.
I've criticized.
I'm here in hell
with the best of guys.

You're raucous and vile.
My kinda guys.
But whatever happened to
that one so wise?

He was plain and boring
and not much fun.
But he reminded me of something:
the place I'm from.

Oh woe is me.
And me is woe.
Should've shot that Buddha;
he is my foe!

If I see him again,
I'll shoot him dead.
Draw the sword,
cut off his head.

How often does
True Buddha show?
So the ones I see
want to drag me low.

And the boring one
is well-disguised.
Never guessed his virtue
upholds the sky.

And me,
just what do I uphold?
My way.
By way.
Counterfeits sold.

Just find a good one
and stand behind.
Just go by his words;
don't offer mine.

Whatever you think
that must be best.
I'll bow and agree
like all the rest.

If I won't stand for you,
How can I stand for me?
If we won't stand,
how can we stand free?

Not just standing,
stand for what?
"Gee, I'd sure like to,
but I just... but..."

Sit down.
Be quiet.
And realize.
Our raucous friends
are the devil's guys.

Narrow pathway:
one by one.
The lonely thread
to the Bodhi Sun.

Wide and easy.
Cool and breezy.
"Gee, I'd sure like to,
but the world, it needs me!"

Needs me for what?
Fertilizer maybe.
Six feet under
and vibrant daisies.

Vibrant, that is,
'til they wither, decay.
My way.
By way.
Pass away.

As long as it's proper,
just go ahead.
To smell the roses
is the demon's bed.
It's better to go hungry
than overfed.
And if I see the Buddha,
I'll shoot him dead.

I laugh when it hurts

Seldom
I'm talkative.
Frequently terse.
I've never been good,
but I used to be worse.

Always
I'm thinking.
My cognitive curse.
I've never been quiet;
I used to be worse.

You
go ahead.
I don't want to be first.
Frequently hiding.
I used to be worse.

Can't stand the water.
I can't stand the thirst.
I'm frequently vacillating.
Used to be worse.

Seldom
I'm talkative.
Loquacious in verse.
Always repeating;
uncomfortable first.
A bit unexpected,
I laugh when it hurts.
Don't tell me you're serious,
I'm just 'bout to burst!

Yes
I've a meanstreak.
I know where it hurts.
I'm pulling my punches;
don't want to get worse.

A bit unexpected,
I laugh when it hurts.
I've never been proper:
I used to be worse.

No graves in Egypt

Were there no graves in Egypt--
Moses, dear?
Were there no graves in Egypt
that you brought us here?

From the land where we toiled
endlessly.
Even on sabbath,
relentlessly.

Our masters were greedy,
unjust, unfair.
But at least that was yoke
that we could bear.

The desert heat,
we cannot stand.
The hunger and thirst
and scathing sand.

Our feet are scorched.
Our throats so parched.
Our fellows collapsing
as we march.

We've endured the hardships,
but not this bad.
The tears streamed down,
but never this sad.

Were these dark days
coming anyway?
And the desert sun
just might allay...

The most bitter and painful
and rotting tears.
The festering doubts,
and robbing fears.

So before we raise
our fists to curse:
If we never left Egypt
would it be worse?

Were there no graves in Egypt?
No place to lie?
Is that why you led us
to the desert to die?

We have no grounds
which to complain.
Our forbears endured
much greater pain.

Our tests and trials
cannot compare.
They were much more hearty;
we're loathe to bear.

Content with bondage
Content as slaves.
You turned us into
homeless knaves!

Content to toil
for nothing gained.
Our children learned
to do the same.

So before we raise
our fists to curse:
If we were still slaves
would it be worse?

Were there no graves in Egypt--
Moses, friend--
that you brought us to the desert
to meet our end?

---------------------------

This piece also has a counterpart.  Check out the prequel BFE

What's in it for me?

What's in it for me?
Yeah, what's my gain?
I wanna feel different,
yet remain the same.

What's in it for me?
Yeah, divert from loss.
Never once questioning
just who's the boss?

Mechanical outcomes:
zero and one.
If not my way,
then I choose none!

What's in it for me?
Yeah, that's my block.
We say that's freedom,
but that's our flock.

Fly toward pleasure,
flee from pain.
Everybody else
they do the same.

What's in it for me?
Why should I move?
That's the burden
I demand you prove.

What's in it for you?
Yeah, what's your gain?
Compare and compete
for power and fame.

Zealous jealous--
that poisoned itch:

I can't stand to see you rich!

Yet before long,
it's all just dust.
Who keeps the time
by moth and rust?

What's in it for me?
Yeah, that's my greed.
A viral, crippling,
heart disease.

What's in it for me?
That's my decay.
Half life. No life.
Waste away.

What's in it for me?
What's in it for you?
The gain and loss
obstruct the view.

What's in it for me?
Don't answer that.
No thought of gain:

Authentic.

Act.

Applause

The world's applauding.
Don't pat the back.
You've forgotten all
the things you lack.

Like mercy, compassion,
benevolence.
Wisdom, faith,
and tolerance.

Philadelphia:
have you ever been?
If you bothered knocking
would they let you in?

Or would they bid
you stay outside.
Chastised for not
coming by.

Have you hugged
a post of rusty nails?
Skin so soft,
comfort prevails.

You don't want
to endure the pain.
That's exactly why
you have not changed.

You cultivate with
many words,
but when it comes to action
you lose your nerve.

You hide so others
cannot see
that you're not what
you ought to be.

You can hide from others;
that's cake to do.
But how can you ever
hide from you?

You don't want
to endure the shame.
That's exactly why
you have not changed.

The world's applauding.
Don't pat the back.
You've forgotten all
the things you pack.

Like arrogance, jealousy,
a heart that's lax.
Greed and craving
for sideways tracks.

A seed's been planted.
Well, has it grown?
Don't praise virtue,
reap your own!

You note your faults,
but don't remove.
You catalog,
and don't improve.

Discard self-pity.
Stand upright!
Your vision's blurry.
Use your sight!

The world's applauding.
Don't pat the back.
You've forgotten all
the things you lack.

Mirth

How can I stand here
with a foolish grin?
How did I even
enter in?

A stowaway on
the Dharma Boat.
Why am I treated
without reproach?

I get worse.
I don't improve.
Why am I offered
delicious food?

Why am I not whipped,
thrown to the sea,
abandoned there to drown
endlessly?

I have no merits.
My good points, few.
My two eyes all but
obstruct my view.

We must give an accounting
to heaven and earth.
How can I be given
to fits of mirth?

How did I come
to be your kin?
How did I even
enter in?

How can I stand to
be so lax?
How can I dare
to speak of pax?

My faults are many.
My virtues, none.
How can I approach
the Bodhi Sun?

A stowaway on
the Dharma Boat.
Why am I treated
without reproach?

A saintly vessel.
An upright crew.
How can I dare
wear white and blue?

Multitudes,
they shriek, lament.
I fold my arms,
and won't repent.

Disasters descending
upon the earth.
How can I be given
to fits of mirth?

War and Famine.
Plague and Death.
How did I receive
the boon of Breath?

Inhale. Exhale.
What's that for?
How can I dare
treat life as chore?

There's something
that I vowed to do.
How can I take the false
for true?

I can't just stand here
with a foolish grin.
There must be a reason
they let us in.

We must give an accounting
to heaven and earth.
How can I be given
to fits of mirth?