Friday, June 13, 2014

Nothing's a gift

Nothing's a gift, it's all on loan.
I'm drowning in debts up to my ears.
I'll have to pay for myself
with my self,
give up my life for my life.

Here's how it's arranged:
The heart can be repossessed,
the liver, too,
and each single finger and toe.

Too late to tear up the terms,
my debts will be repaid,
and I'll be fleeced,
or, more precisely, flayed.

I move about the planet
in a crush of other debtors,
some are saddled with the burden
of paying off their wings.
Others must, willy-nilly,
account for every leaf.

Every tissue in us lies
on the debit side.
Not a tentacle or tendril
is for keeps.

The inventory, infinitely detailed,
implies we'll be left
not just empty-handed
but handless too.

I can't remember 
where, when, and why
I let someone open
this account in my name.

We call the protest against this
the soul.
And it's the only item
not included on the list.

Wislawa Szymborska

Sunday, June 1, 2014


I do not feel myself expanded as all that is, 
A part of everything, and everything a part of me. 

Nor do I feel myself as "That" within which all appears,
The Absolute, everything arising within me.

I do not feel "myself" at all.

Unless, by "I" you mean...

Not a thing alive,
But... Aliveness Itself.

Formless Aliveness in samadhi,
Or Aliveness in form...

Show me that place, where one ends, 
And the other begins?

Show me that place,
Where "This" begins and ends?

One thought of "I"...
and Heaven and Earth are divided!