Poetry

Burning

Dust crashing
Gas burning
Stars forming

Continents crashing
Rocks burning
Earth forming

Trees crashing
Forests burning
Life moving

Rocks crashing
Iron burning
Tall buildings

Air crashing
Fuel burning
Planes flying

Cultures crashing
Passions burning
Endless jihad

Planes crashing
Buildings burning
Bone Machine

It's burning
We're burning
Nowhere else to be

What is this burning?

He's touched your perfect body with his mind

The words to a song.

He's the Christ.
He could be the Buddha.
He could be you.
He is you.
He is, if you let it be so.

Walking through life,
driving through life,
being in life,
being life,
being,
be.

Who is it?
Who wonders who it is?
Is it?
It?
What is it?
Who wants to know?
How will I find out who it is?

No way to write of it.
No way of it.
No way.
No it.
No.

No self to speak of.
No self to speak.
No self.

Walking through the room.
Who's there?
Who's walking?

Who? Who? The owl wants to know!

Ask the owl! Who! Who!

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Flashing existence
One way journey into night
Earth, the Bone Machine

Bone Machine: the title of an album by Tom Waits. He could be you. He's pointing at something. Let's be sure to find what's being pointed at and not focus on the fingernail like some cat.

Bone Machine
Existence flashing
Into night