A Fly in the Ointment

Aside

A Fly in the Ointment

It is all fluttering away always and in different places. I never realized how entropy worked in life. As a young kid I thought it was just physics. It still is. So am I: a concept flying apart.
Driven until compelling ideas run out; extinction, not even a dinosaur.
I want. If we even know anything, then I would say, know well, “I want”. Get very close to I want: I & want, wanting.

Sitting here with the crumbs of my lemon poppy seed muffin, crumbling, crumbled. An entirety, as one hand or one arm; looking back, no, always moving forward: mountains, glaciers, seas; enormous brilliant being walking.
Sidewalks, stone masons, jack hammers, dreams; rhythmic, pulsing heart wanting this; just this; examining itself, just this whale rolling over in a sea of karma. Consciousness or not: compelled.
Man on a suicide mission avoiding source. It takes two but you are not two. What are you? One and three are not the correct answer unless you say so.
Delicious moments rise highly prized fashioning thoughts they appear differentially not necessarily what we thought they’d be or do.
Not unlike mountains or monstrous waves, whole ranges of being not isolate only alive even when plucked from the crannied wall, the one that is always there and no one sees, until we do.
A rainy day in the city: no lupine meadows, no view to a sky; wet and gray through walking umbrellaed and all the above. Precipitous plains of concrete; left over moraine, the ice age of a certain type of mankind.
Brilliant crepe: hermeneutics. These are important gems embedded in seeming background, already a jewel; hands painted on walls. 40,000 years: not very long at all. Did we walk here or take a taxi?
Enormous blonde lemon cakes slowly roll down mountains of chiffon gruesome sugary goo retarding the flow.
  
John Bailes/Kotatsu Roko :   Monday, 4 June 2012 :  Mr. Crepe, Davis Square

For Ashley…

For Ashley Almost a Month After Her Birthday
Residual thoughts of you fleeting
glancing, jumping, slipping through,
gone; dancing, floating, glistening
some pleasure of being
alive.
On a good day luminous:
buoyant trombones, pirouettes,
flamboyant hammers, video equipment;
trousers’ ass resting against kitchen cabinets;
some kind of music
smiling.
This though is what is happening now.
Rampant roses nervous proliferate
Nascent dreams resolute rise foremost
Mountains remain intent ferocious
Freedom rides elephants forward
Without anticipation, knowing
What she is this fragrance opens
Minds of all beings leaving                              
No walls.
John Bailes/Kotatsu Roko
Sunday, 3 June 2012
Prospect Hill

Not to mention John Travolta’s twisted double life.

The Trials of John Edwards

Obsequious frequent ornate tumescence:
Supine plains of propinquity pirouette.
Languorous resilience begins to blossom
at first furtive. 
Pearls hang over the highway;
thighs in opulent concordance.
Flirting alternate jurists wink and
jiggle in piquant effluvial phrases
flavored with flanks of fulminating
economic folly.
John Bailes/Kotatsu Roko
Concord Coach 1113
South Station Boston to Bath Maine
Monday, 28 May 2012
On the occasion of Zenshin Buckley’s 70thbirthday.

A Sense of My Feeling for Akshobhya’s Blue

The beauty of your glistening mind,
Dewdrops falling in sunlight,
Skies and ferns meeting,
Climbing out,
The great blue.
There is a blue found in the sea but not resident there.  It is really the sky reflected in the clarity of the water.  The white froth of our wake sets off a stunning contrast of color.  The blue of the water is a color you could expand into forever and disperse like a breath.  It is near indigo but no black, no darkness, only blue and the light breathing or one breath opening. The desire for that blue is great, but not like Hart Crane.  You could leap into it forever.
Is this blue, a metaphor, a door to walk through, a being to enter, immersed?  I could devote my life to this blue, that garden of roses at the heart but not black and white. 
John
Some time in 2005…in a letter to David Schneider/Tensho a man of many other high end Tibetan names as well.

John Bailes/Kotatsu Roko
remembered 28 May, 2012
Americans call this: Memorial Day. 

Akshobhya is believed to transform the human failing of anger into a clear mirror-like wisdom.

Completion
Where is completion?
Is something missing?
Is there something other
than our doubt?
Find our true doubt.
This immovable mountain:
Akshobhya incarnate;
doubt is faith, trust and confidence.
Just this mountain
made of five heaps
or whatever else
you might parse it as.
Entire doubt,
just this doubt,
is no doubt, is trust
and only opens as
Love.
Kotatsu Roko
Thursday, 24 May 2012
Bloc 11, Union Square, Somerville MA

John Bailes Dharma Talk Monmouth Zen Circle, Compassion Ocean Sangha Saturday May 5, 2012

This is a portion of a dharma talk I gave at Monmouth Zen Circle, Compassion Ocean Sangha Saturday May 5, 2012. It covers the first section of Dogen’s, Bodhisattva’s Four Methods of Guidance: Giving. We’re new to recording here and the last portion of the talk and the discussion are missing because I am mostly technologically inept.. It was recorded directly on to my “telephone”.

http://soundcloud.com/kotatsu-1/john-bailes-dharma-talk

I hear the lyric voice of this gruesome beauty in your free verse. which is why I love it so.

John High 

2:57 PM (7 hours ago)

to John

Taking off a tattered dress worn by the dead & dancing in mud

the girl glanced over the snows of an empty

field— the horse stood by the edge of a cliff

& the voices circling about their wandering

all of this time she had thought that she

& the boy were following them, that there was

some purpose & destiny in their pilgrimage, & now

she sensed in the night that we were

following her here in night, she & the boy trailed by

monks and ghosts & birds & trees & all of

the others, and in that moment in a perfect silent

pitch—we are here.


John Bailes 

10:53 PM (0 minutes ago)

to John


Destined to be here,
eyes open
or
not…

There’s something about 
an American poet 
who loves Russians 
and is a Buddhist.

There are all these boys and girls 
blind and dumb 
running around on the steppes, 
down to creeks 
and 
all that land and sky 
so alive from before time 
and even during; 
butterflies and bugs, 
mosquito swarms, 
clouds, horses, swords and slaughter: 
some kind of 
destiny.

Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, Gogol, the Czar; 
Akhmatova, Mandelstam and Mayakovsky; 
Stalin, pogroms, and Pushkin; 

Finn’s starving north of Leningrad, 

St. Petersburg;
 Solzhenitsyn’s archipelagos: 
Not one ever returns 
as in the river, 
Neva. 


Who is paddling now?

I hear the lyric voice 
of this gruesome beauty 
in your free verse 
which is why 
I love it 
so.

Did I send this one to you already?

Almost the end of April