The Anarchist’s Zazen

In tattered robes, no temple walls,
A monk defies convention’s calls.
His altar: street corners and alleys dim,
His sutras: whispers on the wind’s whim.

Bald head adorned with vibrant ink,
Challenging all to stop and think.
No rules, no vows, yet deeply free,
Embodying true autonomy.

In chaos, finds his inner peace,
As social norms around him cease.
Meditates amidst the urban roar,
Finds enlightenment on the grimy floor.

Begging bowl filled with punk rock dreams,
Merging extremes in mindful streams.
Koans spray-painted, bold and bright,
Illuminating the darkest night.

In rebellion, seeks the Buddha’s way,
Transcending form in shades of grey.
Anarchist heart beats Zen’s slow drum,
In paradox, his truth has come.

No master but the present now,
To self alone, he makes his bow.
In breaking chains, he finds his home,
Freedom and stillness, yin and om.

So in this monk, two worlds collide,
Conformity and chaos side by side.
In perfect balance, wild yet calm,
An anarchist’s enlightened psalm.