Flaming Blades Until the End

Essentially the same,
At least the mornings
But the evenings,
With Zen Master Rama,
Forget it.
Nothing like it in the yuga.

There is really little to say,
Mystery is rumored to name them both,
Form and formlessness,
Air and granite
McDonald's and Maziratti
On and On
Into the babble of tomorrow.

Yesterday doesn't count
Unless you care about shoelaces.
They could have broken
On the sun-poached city granite
Where sagebrush Buddhas once weren't
Or were they?
Pass the tea, like a football.


Light is letting go,
Becoming cursor fields
In the operating system,
The mainframe of dream-time.
The poem is a dream
And so is the pen.
Come on. Who's reading this?
Not you or me, forget it,
Just dry fields of grass
Flaming blades up until the end.