white as a ghoul as if I'd seen a ghost,
hollow inside, I was hollow inside
yet, I couldn't find out what the reason
as to why I was observing the heist,
my mind floating above myself watching.
I stood stock still listening to the safe,
tumblers falling perfectly into a place,
eyes useless, only ears, all ears, prelude
lightly playing before the real action;
literally, all I hear, falling rice,
if my ears burn, I sense my nose twitching,
nothing smells worse than gossip, like a knife
gliding past muscle and bone to my lung,
yet, this moment of solitude, I breathe
ordinary breaths, deep and shallow, long
ugly, mucus-filled, black lungs, I bathe
yellow phlegm in a pool with every cough,
occasionally, blood mixes with spit,
under the circumstances, I listen
kiss the air when it cracks, like blind man's buff,
neatly pulling the handle open, tag
orbits of electrons, the elliptic
wonder of planetary motion, wrong
intuitions guide us on the path, spot
telling mistakes takes centuries, loosen
artificial constraints, to place the ring
lightly on her finger, within a bog
luxury hides, like winning tic-tac-toe.
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"It is utterly different, too, from the unconscious state of the patient under anesthesia upon the operating table." (p. 30)
~ Zen Training: Methods and Philosophy
by Katsuki Sekida
Weatherhill, Inc. New York and Tokyo, 1975.
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Acrostic:
why am I telling you
you know it all
From "My Life" (from The New Yorker)
by Matthew Zapruder
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"Like a patient etherized upon a table"
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/44212/the-love-song-of-j-alfred-prufrock
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