on a spotless mind.
It is THE WAY of things,
zen art and experience as it flows
out and into everything.
If it flows away
through fingers from
a mind too slow to absorb nothing
it is already gone. Fingers
are poor tools to hold such things. It is a journey
to find the place of art - it's lodging -
a place where it holds heart
and fluid conversation.
Under trees bound in barb wire,
like Siddhartha sat tempting
women to rub his belly
that had not yet become plump,
art bestows its grace upon generations
of tight lipped Siddhartha's.
He became a painting, a stalwart
creation of his destiny holding swords above
beatified by his own reclining form.
He was not grasping - gasping
for control over his art.
He was painting as a many armed follower;
working as fast as Khali.