The Feast of Saint Never

There is a bundle of sticks wrapped tightly with a single strand of twine. The strand is cut. The bundle relaxes with each branch collapsing into its natural resting place without volition or effort.

A muscular tensing of the mind. Outwardly grasping and dodging. Inwardly at rest. Completely satisfied. All needs met.

All that can be done will be done. The stopping point is the juncture of past and future. Where these two meet it is a death and a birth. Nothing came to stay or go. Nothing to occupy or be occupied. It is always devouring a feast of never.

The ramparts are the treasure. We defend our guns with guns. My bundle of sticks must be tied tight. Restlessness is the test. What don’t we know? All activity is a graduate course in stillness.

Be undone. When I actually account for my thoughts the vault is empty. Where is the thief? He didn’t come, stay, or go. All things are the arrival and departure of spaciousness.

Like a finger snap. The infamous one hand appears before the justice of the peace. All that can be done will be done. All sound is the conduct of silence by other means.

A bawdy joke was not raised in a vacuum. Now tickled, now horrified. Can I ever put this book down? Alms for the poor judgment. Let them jingle in the collection basket. Offer the mandala of bawdy jokes. Whisper a prayer for a fool with a tool.

My mother raised me right. She was a Buddha like you. Sleep fitfully, my love. Awake with a start, and then sleep no more.

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