The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

May 27, 2015


The Buddha is perfection.

One must be careful not to get in the way of a truck.
It's harder to get around these days.
The news got around that the Buddha is imperfect.
I get wary of bad news that's even worse.

The Buddha is pure in body and mind and speaks truth-only.

When he says he doesn't get it, he must not be listening.
Either get out the weapons or get out.
Get below in the bad storm of the intellect.

The Buddha's words conform to essence and meaning.

It got cold out when I thought about these things.
I don't know what's gotten into her every evening.
He got down from the train when it was still moving.
I got down with her and everyone knew it.

The Buddha's body, space, time, power, and life are infinite.

You've got to be kidding she said listening to him carry on.
He got into the sutra box and was playing with god knows what.
Give me a minute, he said, I just got in.
She got through the interrogation with flying 'colors.'

The Buddha is infinitely patient and teaches single-sound.

He kept trying to get up in the morning but it was useless.
His get-up was tawdry like a mendicant monk.
I'm really getting into The Buddhist School of the Small Vehicle.
She got to thinking about mendicant monks.

The Buddha never sleeps, never wakes, never speaks.

He got caught in an unseemly affair.
She never got through the night without suffering.
She got to thinking what a seemly affair might be.

The Buddha is emptiness and non-existent.

I got to dance one last time dressed like an Arhat.
I got into the class and thought about whirligigs.
I got out a brush and paper and began to think.
I got beside myself with grief.
I got into a shrine without lock or key.
I got some last night.
I got up on a ladder and threw it away.
I got down when I heard the Buddha was dead.
I got over it soon enough and looked forward to a new her.
I got into trouble worrying about ladders and propositions.
I got under the weather but it was still weather below.

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