The Part and the Whole

The many in the one is the characteristic of universality;

The many not being the one is the characteristic of particularity;

The universal is formed by many species which are in themselves identical;

Their identity is shown in the difference of each in its own essence;

The principle of the interdependent origination of the one and the many is wonderful integration;

Disintegration means that each retains its own character and does not become the whole.

This all belongs to the realm of wisdom and is not said from the standpoint of worldly knowledge.

By means of this skillful device, you can understand Hua-yen.

Adapted from a verse by Fa-tsang (643-712 CE)
in Hua-yen Buddhism: The Jewel Net of Indra
by Francis H. Cook

The Reconnection

I.

picking the itch
a defrocked flower and
an Indian maid
with a third ear
middle

faceless alabaster
slides head first
into the silty stream as
a pumpkin sun
sets on cattails


II.

starwheel
throwing off suns
helping to remember
stolen dreams

collapsible staircase
ascending
approval
one-on-one

a pair on bikes
"We could catch up."
kaleidoscopic
mushroom cloud

so glad to see
the Blue
amid a whirling field
of stars

There is something more.

a panther in silhouette
against the sunset

a turquoise fly
transmogrifies and

a ruby-throated hummingbird
flies on by


— by Chris "Starbaby" Hayden

as transcribed by Sally Paradise in The Kharma Comes

from "Nixon's Kids (My Generation)"

In fifth grade, an experiment
        Was tried on some of us to see
        If more kids simultaneously
In class was more efficient.

We had not one or two but four
        (To teach us all according to
        The strengths of every student who
Had tested high or low before

On various subjects) one of which
        turned out to be the niece of that
        old Presidential candidate
They'd kicked around: Old Tricky Dick

Himself, who also happened to
        Have lived just down the street from us
        In Yorba Linda. So what does
One do, but hold a vote to choose

Our own class president? It soon
        Got ugly, way beyond just signs
        And slogans, promises and lines,
Until we nearly, once at noon,

Had us a riot by the bars
        At recess when some seven guys
        Deplored the war we fought disguised
As just containment of Karl Marx.

I can't recall who won that day
        But never mind: Miss Nixon went
        To the inauguration bent
On stating America's way.

But having for one's teacher the
        Niece of one so powerful
        Had merit undeniable
And took me places unforeseen.

For instance, once when Nixon flew
        To the southland for a stay
        In his new place in San Clemente,
I dragged my parents, joined those who

Went out to see if Air Force One
        Would sink into the tarmac of
        Our little airstrip. Heads above
The rest he waved, the favorite son,

And I was quite inspired to write
        A news account of that great day.
        I showed it to Miss Nixon, a
Great source for her of no small pride;

She sent it off to Uncle Dick,
        Who sent it to his pilot: shall
        Lt. Col. Ralph B. Al-
Bertazzie tour his bailiwick?

And so we went, my parents and
        The press and I to El Toro
        Where Air Force One awaited for
Our entourage. I took a stand

From that day forth: I'd try to train,
        Become a pilot, hopefully,
        Serve God and country faithfully
And told Miss Nixon of my aim.

But then one day at recess I
        Observed a sonic boom fly by
        When we'd just learned astronomy
And all about the speed of light.

I ran across the asphalt lea
        To my beloved, said in glee:
        "Miss Nixon, everything we see
Is in the past!" She looked at me

And said with utmost certainty,
        "No, it's not!" I turned away
        And never held her in that way
Again. I still think she delayed me.

Consider That

The Sun never rises;
our star never sets.
It appears in the east
as Earth turns from west.

Americani Christiani

Walking past yuletide homes
—some pretty,
some pretty tacky—

funny how too many Christmas lights,
when you get right up close,
makes a house look dark.

Across from St. Patrick’s,
a cross painted in six white
Christmas lights

illuminates the stars and stripes
billowing in a breeze,
cold porch steps,

and a plastic, light-up crèche
where Mary meek and Joseph pious
gaze upon a childless manger.