Burn the gong, hammered bronze
singing its OM, burn cedar planks
and fragrant shavings, burn boards
with knots that swirl and dissipate
like ghost melanomas. Altars vanish.
Teakwood platforms burn,
casting rays into an ocean of black
cushions, rafts nailed from the broken
sides of boxes that once held
our original faces. The forest blazes
as crews of fire fighters dig trenches.
and their crimes burn from their hearts.
If they removed their masks
and inhaled, they would breathe
a mercy that consumes everything.
 |
| A. J. Bunyard |
Huey Newton's shotgun is Manjushri’s sword of non-dual wisdom.
Silkscreened on my shirt, Black Panthers 2000,
another millennium of the dharma wheel's turning,
spokes revolving in a sky of flames that consumes all impurities.
And the hub, a pivot at the center of suffering, a still point
pierced by compass needles tracing parabolas
between centers of gravity, is me, Black Panther
Bodhisattva, sitting in silence as the rainforest drinks power.
About Brandon Lamson
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