Orbits Swirl Spaghetti in a Stock Pot ~ Friday, November 7, 2025

Is it not too late? It is now too late.

In meditation, so, while just sitting
sound becomes just sound, scent becomes just scent

if thoughts burn frankincense and sandalwood
time floats by as clouds, skeins used for knitting

notice on the ground, nothing more, a spot
optical illusion, straight appears bent
tenuous connections under the hood

tranquility meets equanimity
oodles of noodles spin within a pot
orbits swirl planets and vast galaxies

leftover pasta, marinara sauce
ate cold spaghetti, lines form strange axes
tell me the meaning of effect and cause
empty stomach devours humanity

if you believe, I have anxiety
to sell as pure fear and trepidation

in meditation, shikantaza sits
slowly emptiness eats my sanity

nerves unwound as skeins of clouds, balls of thread
orbits just sitting, an invocation
witnesses black holes swirl to call it quits

turbulent thoughts twirl a mustache to feel
oils and beeswax, shea butter, not for bread
organize your thoughts, feelings, as actions

leftover pasta, marinara sauce
answers the riddle to my reactions
tense with fear, trembling, denial, grief, and loss
emergent feelings, emotions unpeel

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