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The cabbie throws his head back and laughs; one of those deeply reverberating soul coughs that make you feel good even if you don't get the joke. He points at the cab in the next lane and says: "This old dude claims he slept with every woman in
Head out the window like a housebound basset on his way to the beach, he skates close in and roars:
"WHERE'S MY PONY?"
pork pie hat-
at a rakish angle
hides the old man's mirth
Originally published in Contemporary Haibun Online
begging bowls
two monks discuss
generosity
New Year's Eve in
We are sequestered next door to the ancient Buddhist temple; a grizzled old structure thriving with orange-draped holy men, living and praying together.
In their proximity, a certain reverence comes upon our crazy little blues band, and this holiday in a foreign land is expected to be subdued if not non-existent...
two monks
parting company
share the moon
It never occurred to us that the monks would get roaring drunk; banging on any convenient metal object, and creating a general anarchy until dawn. We cower on the balcony, bewildered by a chaos normally taken for granted on any Saturday night.
At one point, two monks in their traditional robes engage in a heated argument on the street outside our quarters; a sight we Westerners never thought could occur:
Human Nature shining through the light.
two monks
argue a riddle
with no solution
Originally published in Contemporary Haibun
I picked him up in a very bad part of town. No one would share the bus bench with one so massive, bloodshot and disheveled. I pulled up and yelled a terse "Get in".
My brother...
the mirror reflects
what exists in all of us:
a can of worms
Nine months of sobriety had come to an abrupt end with a walk from San Pedro to South Central; a stop at every liquor store passed, each one an inviting oasis of oblivion.
I came to pick up the remains.
illusion~
settled in the last half inch
of the last half pint
In my fury, I concentrated on traffic as he mumbled his problems into his chest. I had decided today would be the day I tell him everything...
subjective truth
The greatest lies ever told
are to ourselves
They work the rice fields in shifts. Dawn brings darkened trees to life as the noble White Heron shake their heads, flex their wings, and prepare for the hunt. From the west come their brethren: the Night Heron, all gun metal grey and ominous in their fatigue.
They share the same branches; hotbeds of mating and sleep. They work the same paddies; wet fertile fields of survival. They exist in a harmony composed in black and white.
Sometimes when the shift is changing, the two flocks, composed of thousands, meet in mid air...clashing, blending, joining, separating... I can almost see them exchanging low fives as they pass.
Eternal circles
create grand illusion
world without end
Originally published in Contemporary Haibun
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