opening the hand of thought

My invariable morning zazen is disturbed. Incense smoke and koan introspection notwithstanding I can hear the bloody Japanese knotweed growing outside the back door.

It can't be bargained with! It can't be reasoned with! It doesn't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And it absolutely will not stop, ever.

The bomber and I have built a kiln. Any tendril shows a hair on its ass and I incinerate the sonuvabitch.

It can regenerate from 0.7 grammes of rhizome, but I have taken the mantle of a veritable horticultural Ghost Dog:

According to what one of the elders said, taking an enemy on the battlefield
is like a hawk taking a bird. Even though it enters into the midst of a thousand
of them, it gives no attention to any bird than the one it first marked.