Forget the koan of the phantom palm;
stop counting how many hands clap in the void.
Instead, feel the ghost of a shiver in your spine.

Remember only this:
The abbot’s keisaku is carved from seasoned pine,
and it sings a sharp, splintering song
when meeting a slouching shoulder.

The gilded Buddha on the altar gathers a grey, velvet skin.
Do not reach for the feather duster—
the dust on his enlightened brow is a holy irrelevance.

Instead, crawl toward the latrines.
Scrub until the porcelain screams,
and each toilet bowl reflects a face
distorted by the labor of the low.

Holiness is found in bleach, not incense.

A perfect day for meditation!
Bang! Whack!

"Wake up!" a monk bellows, his breath a cloud of frost.
"Be mindful of the filth!
Keep sweeping the dust inside your head
until the floor is bare and all is white."

conforming
to no th
ought nor
concept of
de
light!