Narrow Road > Deep North

z

Creaking of birch or the sound of the bell? When does sitting begin and end? Alone out here it's hard to tell.

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Braced against Winter, the tall pine creaks above us.

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Roots entangle weathered bones. Bulbs sprout, grasping for life.

Even now, I am torn between the clouds and these living stones.

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the year winds down

conditions cut across my body

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“not mountain sermons”

A sentient being studying the impurity of self. How steep is this solitary teaching? How many years to climb it? ◇

I study my no-idea, preaching to an open hall. The most astute of monks, listening all winter, spring, summer, autumn.

Practicing my no-dharma is certainly not the way. I am only a fool on a mountain, preaching to an assembly of birch.

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my zen cuts ************! clear across the mountains!

my no-dharma strikes the granite bedrock! hopeless!

exhale! my not-poems are dashed against the cliffs!

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This Whole Sky (2020, 7 page typewriter zine) Words by R.a.Szy

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Narrow Road / Deep North (2020, 17 page typewriter zine) Words by R.a.Szy

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Flat Mountain (2020, 14 page typewriter zine) Words by R.a.Szy

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That old hermit, his appearance is of a priest who has abandoned the self, yet he comes round my woodshed daily to complain, telling me,

“There is no place I can travel, and not still hear about the bitterness of the world!”

A shame! He refuses to budge! Stubbornly carrying his mortality — a burden heavier than any pack.

Up the mountain, down the mountain, even here among the winds blowing down through the pines.

I tell him over axe swings,

“This decadent age is in your bones!”

KWATZ!

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