A reflection on death as prescribed by Philip Kapleau’s The Zen of Living and Dying
death as having the appearance of an executioner, that is, as though a murder were standing in front of one ready to strike one down.
A cold breeze that strikes the gut pushing jelly through and into the viscera. Reaching and reaching on down and pressing on a cheap beer ponch. Home lost and found. A jolt in the legs. An awkward twitch - comes and goes. A freezing blue-white that washes the face inside out. Linoleum eyes violet shaded. They falter. The cold sweat blink. The commonness of consciousness drip drops forming a puddle in no form.
Gentle wild flowers bob in compassion realised on some summer courting hills. The town works clockwork beneath us all. A church slowly fills. Traffic forming on the hill. Traffic disappears. You take a cloth out to wipe your brow. Chewing a tall pice of grass - it’s sweet. Something muttered under breath.
A patch, a spot. The horse’s nape. Speckled and spotted. The undrained water on the road reflecting moonlight. The bough gently breaks - no autumn. A splish splash. Murky water distilled. No lotus. The man in the moon homeless. Hoof beats soft in their protein way. They, in themselves, a memory of the driveway framed by rhododendrons. Purple in its autonomous haze.
The wheat harvested. The hands rest on the table. Both cracked. A plate of potatoes steam. The steam collects on the ceiling. The window gently pushed open. A cat sneaks its way in. The fork cleaned on a cleaner bottom edge of a shirt once tucked.
The cotton bud ambrosia. The floating sandals and bathed feet. Clicks of lights. A crunch of floorboards. Something not quite there. A benevolence rooted in pity and despair. Forgotten scents. A memory. Snapshots of the pyramids. A film of sand on the windscreen.