"The Calligraphic Art of Writing Gibberish" poem (無心書)

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The Calligraphic Art of Writing Gibberish

*—after the manner of abstract ink-play (無心書)*

The brush obeys no master here,
it spills like rain on thoughtless seer—
a dance of *sumi* drunk on night,
each stroke a *koan* dipped in light.

*"What meaning hides in splattered black?*
*The paper knows but won't talk back.*
*The sage just laughs and grinds more ink—*
*truth is the space between the blink."*

Wild geese of text fly upside down,
their kanji feet don’t touch the ground.
Half a *ten* (the sky forgot),
a *hito* melts where *tsuki* trots.

Scholars sweat to parse the mess—
*"Surely this means Oneness? Yes?"*
I rinse my brush in midnight wine...
*Ah, the second line’s a vine.*

Tourists gasp at *"depth profound"*
while dogs bark at the hollow sound.
The auction house bids six years’ pay
for *"Zen’s last word"* (I drew a stray).

At dawn, the maid sweeps scraps away—
one clung to her shoe like *wabi-sabi* clay.
She pauses, squints... then hums a tune,
*the only soul who read it right by moon.*