“The pen is the tongue of the mind.” ―Horace
The Zen poet’s mind―still as an inkwell in an oil field; humble as a page of faint praise; silent as one hand clapping in a forest falling on deaf ears―is as sharp as Sam Samurai’s sword: like a steel stylus, shredding erudition into pulp fiction.
“Writing is a very focused form of meditation. Just as good as sitting in a lotus position.”
Sam Samurai’s sword cuts off delusions of inadequacy, but not without a shriek and a grunt, albeit, mercifully, brief. The Zen poet’s pen parries pitchforks of self-praise, modestly as sable stroking pages of raves.
“Meditation is a way to be narcissistic without hurting anyone.”
―Nassim Nicholas Taleb
Sam Samurai’s sword defends the Zen poet’s noblesse oblige toward self-critical thought. But the flashing slashing, while dashing, is just a lot of thrashing and splashing. While the Zen poet’s pen brushes page after page of gushing praise, in the hush of a soundproof confessional.
“Saints have no moderation, nor do poets, just exuberance.”
Sam Samurai hones the cutting edge of the divine defender of Imperial subjects, while meditating on the god of warriors. The Zen poet dips a pen in a well of black gold with one hand clapping in a forest of shredded pulpwood, while meditating on fibers wicking ink.
“Zen does not confuse spirituality with thinking about God while one is peeling potatoes. Zen spirituality is just to peel the potatoes.”
No comments yet