As a child, I wanted to be like the Samurai.
I remember watching old kung fu movies—
how after each battle,
Samurai in full regalia would slowly wipe
the blood from their swords, revealing
something so stainless
and so pure. It was beautiful.
But years later, when the battles were
my own, I was surprised to see how
blood wasn’t quite the same.
Cleaning on hands and knees
a mess on the floor. It was something
which had to be gotten rid of. It was
a life, only now red and splattered.
It’s hard for me not to marvel at the Samurai.
I mean, how could one be so
uncompassionate and yet so graceful?
There are nights, still, when they come for me
in dreams. Arriving like spiders
from some woodwork of the subconscious,
blades drawn and slashing.
As usual, I run from death.
And as usual, they turn
me into a cloud of red ribbons
which dance and spiral for a moment,
until settling slowly to the ground.
The next morning
when I am supposed to know
it was all just a dream, but don’t,
there is the trash
that I haul. And there are
the paper shreds
which need to be sorted and recycled.
Shreds of some draft
from some Buddhist teaching
on compassion. In the parking lot
I am often found
digging through the cans,
I am often found trying to piece it all together.
— Bryan Kraus
As a child, I wanted to be like the Samurai.
I remember watching old kung fu movies—
how after each battle,
Samurai in full regalia would slowly wipe
the blood from their swords, revealing
something so stainless
and so pure. It was beautiful.
But years later, when the battles were
my own, I was surprised to see how
blood wasn’t quite the same.
Cleaning on hands and knees
a mess on the floor. It was something
which had to be gotten rid of. It was
a life, only now red and splattered.
It’s hard for me not to marvel at the Samurai.
I mean, how could one be so
uncompassionate and yet so graceful?
There are nights, still, when they come for me
in dreams. Arriving like spiders
from some woodwork of the subconscious,
blades drawn and slashing.
As usual, I run from death.
And as usual, they turn
me into a cloud of red ribbons
which dance and spiral for a moment,
until settling slowly to the ground.
The next morning
when I am supposed to know
it was all just a dream, but don’t,
there is the trash
that I haul. And there are
the paper shreds
which need to be sorted and recycled.
Shreds of some draft
from some Buddhist teaching
on compassion. In the parking lot
I am often found
digging through the cans,
I am often found trying to piece it all together.
— Bryan Kraus
As a child, I wanted to be like the Samurai.
I remember watching old kung fu movies—
how after each battle,
Samurai in full regalia would slowly wipe
the blood from their swords, revealing
something so stainless
and so pure. It was beautiful.
But years later, when the battles were
my own, I was surprised to see how
blood wasn’t quite the same.
Cleaning on hands and knees
a mess on the floor. It was something
which had to be gotten rid of. It was
a life, only now red and splattered.
It’s hard for me not to marvel at the Samurai.
I mean, how could one be so
uncompassionate and yet so graceful?
There are nights, still, when they come for me
in dreams. Arriving like spiders
from some woodwork of the subconscious,
blades drawn and slashing.
As usual, I run from death.
And as usual, they turn
me into a cloud of red ribbons
which dance and spiral for a moment,
until settling slowly to the ground.
The next morning
when I am supposed to know
it was all just a dream, but don’t,
there is the trash
that I haul. And there are
the paper shreds
which need to be sorted and recycled.
Shreds of some draft
from some Buddhist teaching
on compassion. In the parking lot
I am often found
digging through the cans,
I am often found trying to piece it all together.
— Bryan Kraus
As a child, I wanted to be like the Samurai.
I remember watching old kung fu movies—
how after each battle,
Samurai in full regalia would slowly wipe
the blood from their swords, revealing
something so stainless
and so pure. It was beautiful.
But years later, when the battles were
my own, I was surprised to see how
blood wasn’t quite the same.
Cleaning on hands and knees
a mess on the floor. It was something
which had to be gotten rid of. It was
a life, only now red and splattered.
It’s hard for me not to marvel at the Samurai.
I mean, how could one be so
uncompassionate and yet so graceful?
There are nights, still, when they come for me
in dreams. Arriving like spiders
from some woodwork of the subconscious,
blades drawn and slashing.
As usual, I run from death.
And as usual, they turn
me into a cloud of red ribbons
which dance and spiral for a moment,
until settling slowly to the ground.
The next morning
when I am supposed to know
it was all just a dream, but don’t,
there is the trash
that I haul. And there are
the paper shreds
which need to be sorted and recycled.
Shreds of some draft
from some Buddhist teaching
on compassion. In the parking lot
I am often found
digging through the cans,
I am often found trying to piece it all together.
— Bryan Kraus
As a child, I wanted to be like the Samurai.
I remember watching old kung fu movies—
how after each battle,
Samurai in full regalia would slowly wipe
the blood from their swords, revealing
something so stainless
and so pure. It was beautiful.
But years later, when the battles were
my own, I was surprised to see how
blood wasn’t quite the same.
Cleaning on hands and knees
a mess on the floor. It was something
which had to be gotten rid of. It was
a life, only now red and splattered.
It’s hard for me not to marvel at the Samurai.
I mean, how could one be so
uncompassionate and yet so graceful?
There are nights, still, when they come for me
in dreams. Arriving like spiders
from some woodwork of the subconscious,
blades drawn and slashing.
As usual, I run from death.
And as usual, they turn
me into a cloud of red ribbons
which dance and spiral for a moment,
until settling slowly to the ground.
The next morning
when I am supposed to know
it was all just a dream, but don’t,
there is the trash
that I haul. And there are
the paper shreds
which need to be sorted and recycled.
Shreds of some draft
from some Buddhist teaching
on compassion. In the parking lot
I am often found
digging through the cans,
I am often found trying to piece it all together.
— Bryan Kraus
