Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press #1

Introducing Dispatches from Heuristic Halo Press, founded in 2018 by Kyaw Zin Myint (“Marshall”) and A. Scott Buch (“Alex”).

Today we are featuring two poems by Marshall and one by Alex. Please feel free to share this Dispatch, or even to contribute your art, your poetry, your thoughts and words, in the future. Send them to ascottbuch@yahoo.com.

M.

Dog-Hare of the Firewater

I see Maung Maung again in Thailand

Not Maung Maung himself but the spirit of Dionysus

A ceremonial den like a cow skull,

The holy mischievous law-breaking that is

As much of Karma, especially in the Abyss

That we must in tantra have

Subtle wind through our bodies

And the blood of a god intoxicates

Us, who see in the fabric of a day

A great pattern of ecstasy like silk lingerie

Who wore out our bodies like clothes

Until there was only mad spirit left,

And there you glared at me—you rascal!—

Until I became old dust,

The distillation of existence

Pounded out of the Milky Way!

A.

Petals of roses red whizzed by a gust

            Flat on dried earth spiraled touching gently on the spikes

                                    of branches, no thrust

                                                kissing the primitive floor of nature

                                    Fertile soil mothering thorny stalks beauty on top

                        Crossing everyone’s sight: delight

            Obliged not regardless of whoever the gardener be

Fantasy of a magic garden still in every bees’ instinct, beautifully

                                    ‘fore all the delicate parts rest beneath earth.

                        Water flowing down from the north to the hearts

            Of the plains nourishing, growing and multiplying more plants

Blooming not only exotic flowers but bearing heavenly fruits

            Regardless, as bees don’t fly around instantly causing flowers to bloom

                        Who are we to yell at seeds to grow trees

                                    Let alone what those tree might produce

                                                Till, individually, we improve. . .

M.


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