“Sitting quietly, doing nothing,
Spring comes and grass grows by itself.” –
From Zenrin-kushū… so maybe by Tōyō Eichō or maybe by Bashō Matsuo.. but def by some Zen folks from Japan, possibly Edo period.
There’s more poetry below, if you want – but really you can stop here – all that needed to be said have been said in these two lines above!
Xs & Os
What’s up, fam? How are you? How are you toes? Are there lilacs growing on your chest? Are you tending your mushrooms of loneliness? Is the sky, window, and the breeze still yours? Are stretching your hands toward sky and opening your lungs to the fresh air?
My dearest brother Zack W is here in D.C. and oh how grateful I am for his presence, man makes me happy and boy I am proud of him for where he’s in his life as a brother should! Sup! I was talking to wonderful Z. about solitude, language, relationships, sex, eggs, bread, and all.. (More chats to happen over beers – man just arrived here in D.C.).
Anyway, after our breakfast, right before I start my work day I read the lines above, and it brought a pause.. and welcomed it was.. so all day these lines have been playing in my head. As me and Z talked about happenings, as I write this to you, as I think about you, as thoughts of you form many shapes in my head, as my solitude wears a new silhouette for the day, as my loneliness flirt with my alone-ness, as I pretend to be me, as servers walked around the cafe quickly, as the costumers drink their coffee, as names and numbers stack up in my spreadsheets, as emails pop up, as I worry about my body and my poetry and my soul, these words from Zenrin-kushū float in my brain (right behind my eyes) and then I look outside;
Songs of Myself
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any
more than he.
I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may
see and remark, and say Whose?
Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the