I Like To Hear And Smell The

The Secret Of The Mountain Is That The Mountains Simply Exist, As I Do Myself: The Mountains Exist Simply, Which I Do Not. The Mountains Have No "meaning," They Are Meaning; The Mountains Are. The Sun Is Round. I Ring With Life, And The Mountains Ring, And When I Can Hear It, There Is A Ringing That We Share. I Understand All This, Not In My Mind But In My Heart, Knowing How Meaningless It Is To Try To Capture What Cannot Be Expressed, Knowing That Mere Words Will Remain When I Read It All Again, Another Day.

I Have Never Figured Out How Women Work But I Do Know That Their Skin Color Has No Significance. Black Or White, Every Last One Is Pretty Pink On The Inside And They Are All Impossible.

For Some Time I Watch The Coming Of The Night? Above Is The Glistening Galaxy Of Childhood, Now Hidden In The Western World By Air Pollution And The Glare Of Artificial Light; For My Children's Children, The Power, Peace And Healing Of The Night Will Be Obliterated.

In Zazen, One Is One's Present Self, What One Was, And What One Will Be, All At Once.

I Meditate For The Last Time On This Mountain That Is Bare, Though Others All Around Are White With Snow. Like The Bare Peak Of The Koan, This One Is Not Different From Myself. I Know This Mountain Because I Am This Mountain, I Can Feel It Breathing At This Moment, As Its Grass Tops Stray Against The Snows. If The Snow Leopard Should Leap From The Rock Above And Manifest Itself Before Me - S-a-a-o! - Then In That Moment Of Pure Fright, Out Of My Wits, I Might Truly Perceive It, And Be Free.