Perihelion: An Online Journal of Poetry and Mayhem
The Santa Cruz Issue
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Pam O’Shaughnessy

Mustangs of Samsara

In the beginning, nothing comes
In the middle,
nothing is
In the end, nothing goes.
     - Milarepa

in this samsara there are demi-animals
which engender cowboys coiling lassos
so they do not go feral like mustangs

small dusty horse-anomalies
in a mathematical function their feathertails seen in profile
picking their way at dusk atop the cliffs

causing rope & bullets to arise
and in the new balance for the moment
nothing more needs to arise nothing needs to fall

but the small horses
think they tumble
think they hear a thud
their hides abrade along the dirt

they disappear
new horses arise
or things like horses
horses that don't run off

ropes go slender
bullets are taken from rifles

o anything will exist if needed
for balance
every horror
every transcendence

a horse-goddess aggregates
in the play of quanta
her cheeks are greek
in their gravity
her neigh

calls into being a cowboy-
god and for another blinding moment
nothing is coming nothing
is being nothing is going