no — not ever

no — not ever.
the horror,
the terror,
of loneliness
is nothing, but
for the insight
that it is
ontological.

blue-gray city,
looking across
the harbor,
the steel,
sky, and waves
all seem
the same color.

stern faces,
serious adults,
so concerned about
some result,
so willing
to punish to
make it happen.

a hawk’s wings,
against sky blue,
a brown, red,
blue, and white
camouflaged
cornucopia of
multi-colored corn.

a proud, war-worn
face, 1940s cropped
hair, jaw raised
defiantly, vainly.

it’s mine!
no it isn’t!
you’ve had enough!
no i haven’t!

on the edges
of the party,
there was
a funeral.

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rainy streets

rainy streets —
endless tires
run the
endless roads,
cannot be still,
as if cars
are like prayer,
and must be
done ceaselessly
somewhere.

smiling faces,
hidden agendas,
fatuous men
in elegant suits
working the crowd
with compliments,
like waiters
serving wine.
radiant lights,
shimmering glass,
and women
in sparkling gowns,
disperse views
around the room’s
elevations and angles.
your wry smile
was like dark crystal,
both shadow & light —
affecting, yet
deeply sombre —
both attractive
and repulsive.
loneliness is purer
than feeling conflicted.

where is home?
you all only
think of yourselves;
therefore, this
is not home.

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seems related
to faith
in rebirth
and a kammically
moral universe,
namely that,
given even
moderate effort
and craving
in life,
the universe
will eventually
conspire to
place one where
one should be.
of course,
not worrying
intentionally
means that
unconscious
and biological
circumstances
drive becoming,
like samsara
on auto-pilot.
even nibbana
requires craving
craving’s end.
for positive ends,
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still requires effort.

biking home

aquatic nights
streetlights like embers
burning reflecting flashes,
washed over
with distorted waves of light,
shades of shadow eyes
under umbrellas
and trenchcoats
filing ‘way
in the darkness
like momentary showers
off tree leaves
in the wind
upon my face
upon my windows
defending
the sanctity of home,
actually quiet intensity,
nothing is so safe.