Many paths lead from the foot of the mountain, but at the peak we all gaze at the single bright moon.

sick of it whatever it’s called sick of the namesI dedicate every pore to what’s here

Like vanishing dew,a passing apparitionor the sudden flashof lightning — already gone –thus should one regard one’s self.

don’t wait for the man standing in the snowto cut off his arm help him now

we’re lost where the mind can’t find usutterly lost

it isn’t that we’re alone or not alonewhose voice do you want mine? yours?

that stone Buddha deserves all the birdshit it getsI wave my skinny arms like a tall flower in the wind

I’d love to give you somethingbut what would help?

Hearing a crow with no mouthCry in the deepDarkness of the night,I feel a longing forMy father before he was born.

clouds very high looknot one word helped them get up there

born born everything is always bornthinking about it try not to