Jasmine or Dirty Socks

[Vimalakirti]

There’s nothing inconceivable about what isn’t there, and so it’s called the greater or the underlying or the essential or the absolute. It can easily be called any of these easy things, but it can’t be called inconceivable because it isn’t there.

There’s nothing more inconceivable than what’s there. There’s nothing more inconceivable than the final product, especially when remote from the centre, on the farthest edge, the last faltering step of the procession, just this side of lost. What’s there has the highest unsoundable weight, an actual but unplaceable whiff of jasmine or of dirty socks.

So the harlequin lets go of all praise or blame, renounces any claim to unity or simplicity. What’s there stays in motion, he says, and steps forward.

There’s nothing inconceivable about the incorruptible & perfected. It’s round & cold.

There’s nothing more inconceivable than the corruptible & imperfected. Even the greatest hieroglyphic painted in the blood of armies or the ichor of avatars, floated up by incense or rolled down in the Earth, falls short.

So the harlequin lets go of all praise or blame, renounces all claim to unity or simplicity. What’s there stays in motion, she says, and steps forward.

 

[intrepidlover]

There’s nothing inconceivable about what isn’t there, and so it’s called the greater or the underlying or the essential or the absolute. It can easily be called any of these easy things, but it can’t be called inconceivable because it isn’t there.

There’s nothing more inconceivable than what’s there. There’s nothing more inconceivable than the final product, especially when remote from the centre, on the farthest edge, the last faltering step of the procession, just this side of lost. What’s there has the highest unsoundable weight, an actual but unplaceable whiff of jasmine or of dirty socks.

So the harlequin lets go of all praise or blame, renounces any claim to unity or simplicity. What’s there stays in motion, he says, and steps forward.

There’s nothing inconceivable about the incorruptible & perfected. It’s round & cold.

There’s nothing more inconceivable than the corruptible & imperfected. Even the greatest hieroglyphic painted in the blood of armies or the ichor of avatars, floated up by incense or rolled down in the Earth, falls short.

So the harlequin lets go of all praise or blame, renounces all claim to unity or simplicity. What’s there stays in motion, she says, and steps forward.

That is very poetic but I have no idea what you are talking about. But perhaps you just mean it to be poetry.