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When Mountain Poems
begin to ken for a yen
to yearn more than tired
terrain, landscapes dimmed
in the dull grey monotony
of drizzled tears, a pity
a nothingness of nothing:
not to have lost the lack
but to have never had
an emptiness of void so void
of anything -- its something
to behold as told in a swill
of ill literacy subverting art
in a one by one progression
of poorly wrought thought
or shocking lack thereof.
Listen: a lone koan bemoans
the echoed tones -- repeating
the lost hope of mountain slopes
barren, fading from view
to something more or less
just pretending Zen.