achieve mastery
in the throes of thanatos:
gain through sacrifice

Pardon my latest absence. Even though I haven't been posting or leaving comments, I still read my regulars when I get the chance. For me, for these past many months I've been writing this series of haiku and senryu, it takes extreme concentration to get into the correct state of mind to produce quality work. I have to immerse myself around the sensitivity of nature without distraction. Sure, for every serious note I have a flippant or amusing poem peppered around, but even those take effort. Sometimes I take time off to soak in the universe or idle with friends and entertainment. Lately, it has been hard to find will to wake up.

We all know the ills of existence; inequality, war, water that's not potable and et cetera. We could spend endless nights untying these knots, mulling the Rubik's Cube of life. I've come across a deeper problem, one which answer is almost too hard to swallow. I always knew something was a little off with civilization, since I was an adolescent and the clues became clearer and the material was easier to understand. The corrupted value systems and authorities we're born into I rejected and thus gave up certain comforts. But the truth of evil never came from the Monster's mouth: they do a slick job of keeping their tracks covered, so I was just left with conspiracy and the sick feeling of that which I knew to be right would be drowned or ignored.

Finally, it was spelled out. Every dot connected. I implore anyone with the attention span to watch this.

The Japanese get a lot of flak for their whaling policies.

But as this work by Ichiyusai shows, killing and eating this delicious behemoth is embedded in their culture. They'll take them down with a sword, if needed.

valued to be the
embodiment of my soul—
an anachronism

a man with no name
caugh between reality
and expectation

sleeping and shitting
the pinnacle of virtue
is a mindless ox

I am so hungry;
this picture of a rice cake
does not satisfy

weary traveller
an inn without vacancy
a road without end

this sadness is not
of my station, but for the
human condition

polishing the sword
my thumb begins to quiver
uncontrollably

four in the morning:
moon will serve as company
through insomnia

air thick with perfume—
sense of smell desensitized 
from tobacco smoke