David Bozzi’s Poetry

My Master

is invisible.
Has no name.
Needs no defense.
Causes no controversy.
Can not be addicted to.
Can not be attached to.
Can not be the object of a club,
organization or religion.
My master defies all my knowing.

Once I believe my master can be defined,
has a name,
needs to be defended,
is controversial…


once I believe I need my master
or cling to my master
or make my master out to be the object
of some religion,
or any object at all


I have defied my master’s teaching
and have lost my way.

The Fine Art of Invisibility

Master is a snake
slick and silent
strikes down like lightning.

Master is a toad,
sticky tongue
sticks out
catches flies…

Master is invisible.

“Secret is sitting still,” he whispers.

Invisibility is the true Ruler
of the natural world.

Master says those who practice the fine art,
do it alone.
But should never be so surprised
when someone taps them on the shoulder.

I set a time and place.
“I’d defy time, but I’ve plans
and things to do. Perhaps tomorrow,
surely not today.”

“The world is a broken appointment,”
Master warns.

“And today,” he follows,
“Is there any other day?”

In the waiting room, I realize,
that in truth,
nothing works in theory.

Master says,
“There’s a carpet spark on my fingertip, here take it.”

I accept the charge.

Thunder erupts from a silent sky.
And in the crack of lighting
and the absence of words
I shake my head and disguise and
become naked
under a dying breeze, dying breath,
burning in a fire
fathoming the one
behind the eyes.

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