I’m not a teacher, not a sage, not a Roshi, not a writer or master or even a giggling dharma bum I’m my mother’s son & my mother is the universe—

What is this universe

but a lot of waves

And a craving desire

is a wave

Belonging to a wave

in a world of waves

So why put any down,

wave?

Come on wave, WAVE!

The heehaw’s dobbin

spring hoho

Is a sad lonely yurk

for your love

Wave lover.

I would I were a little tiny Jesus examining the mystery above the lightbody-cloud of the moon on still Marin nights, the flowers are my moon goddesses, & take craps naked. Horrible delightful the old retired harridan joys that wobble on the walking stick hill with nervous Collies yarking Yowk here in Journal Town where I wobble the card crate prayer bead Juju box with swing of wordage while Chas Olson reads my prose, man of the broad mysterious smoky Mountain Morn. (And everything is non-existent), heh.—

In a universe of waves quel difference betwixt one wave & t’other? T s all the same wavehood & every little unlocatable electron is a Tathagata pouring electromagnetic gravitational light at the constant speed of light (which can be heard in the sound of silence) & so this endless radiation of mysterious radiance is merely the minutia magnificent endless Tathagata Womb manifesting itself multiply & so not at all, for, all things are no-things but if this bores you it’s because you want bricks in your soup. Empty.

The Happy One is free

It’s a mystical mystery

It’s endless light

The golden eternity

Why read Don Quixote when you can read The Diamond Sutra or the Wonderful Law Lotus Sutra? Why read Mickey Spillane when you can read Gary Snyder & Philip Whalen & the Mexico City Blues? Why hide what you mean behind natural data?

What does it mean that True Nature is incomprehensibly beyond the veil of our senses and is like empty light? It means that True Nature is incomprehensibly beyond the veil of our senses & is like empty light. If someone were to say to me, Krap, cart your daddy over here & let’s hear tarbey? I’d say Wap, how’n you can cray that way when small fot find out all Sond your Oo like Where you like me & You like Me & OO La Koo Me the onta logical philosizer fonted in the crap ding? He’d say, Froo, this Sunday Blues is too tree drunk & dead tree, & I’d say push out the cork & can it, vant more moonshine potatovodka or go to church or tet, shet, the Lord is all this.

The American Dreamer

Star of Karuna

The Moon of Pity

Ti jean