Met Mr. Zen at AK’s inner city basement apartment

in Kathmandu. Struck by the sculptured lines of his face,

the interior resonance of his eyes, were he

a creature of my whim, I’d make him a painter

and be done with it. By his hands I’d draw forth forms,

the rhythms of which would scan space

and lure us in. This, the net color brings forth,

this the swing across the abyss. Had this

whimsy borne artist, legs, he’d walk on air; had he

eyes, he’d refract light caught in immaculate

stone; had he hands, he’d crawl out of your ear

and shout out the libretto of his crossing

Flung stone in air, clearly defined ink black

under currents that need not imagination

to fuel their expanse. Absorbed by thin/ thick/

thick & thin rice paper scattered on the floor,

the paintings of Mr. Zen, their ligature unfurled,

further the light, and yet in their execution

there is an element of surprise

not unlike death. Descendant of the cross is Jac,

ascendant of the unmarked symbol:

point of light/ point of departure/ point of no return,

urn of ash,  ash of blessing, given the name,

given the form, formed in flight

that infuriates the air, rasping our eyes like struck

stone, like spine slivered from flesh, arc

and stasis, pause and renewal, one swatch of color

less or more than eyes behold

holds us there. No compulsive of habit is Mr Zen

I’d make him a prophet and be done

with it. All that follows/ all that is/ leaves no mark

but this.  Ethereal blunders redeemed

with whimsy



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