Eventually,

whether a plotting thief

a rich, plodding magnate

or a Lord of Materialism

parading as a “great Sakyong”

the ego

runs out of corners

to hide in

and must sit...

sit, sit, sit

in the prison cell

fashioned by

Shadow’s dreaming.

Eventually,

though the husk of the self

is weather-tough,

the armored version of things

gets peeled away.

Eventually,

though the

epic pain-body of years

still itches with the

doubts of exile,

the waxing moon declares:

“Dance!

Life is only heavy

part of the year.”

For a year now,

a group of far-flung travelers

have been paring everything down.

Burdensome beliefs.

Ear-worm messages of low-worth.

Scars of heart-mind

made by “teachers”

who lost the Way.

Golden baubles were melted down, or given back to earth.

Pictures of “gurus”

and “earth protectors”

were burned in goma fires.

Names were given back,

and robes too.

And the only presences

that these travelers bowed to

were mountains

cedars and waterfalls

each other

and Mother Sun at dawn.

The peach-ripe moon

slipped past

dark dogwood branches tonight

and for the first time

since all of this began

the hidden sun within this chest

discerned the subtle fragrance

of the “inner-incense”

in the heart of the world.