When Conditions Come, I Arrive; When Conditions End, I Depart — Self-Resolution, Self-Resolution — Also Seeing Off Xutang

Life is short — if one does not resolve the upward path, clinging to words and binding phrases, the great limit arrives — and there will be no time for regret

Light flows, the sky's reflection clean
Mountain sounds remote as emptiness
A single path unknown to man
Flickering in and out of the evening clouds

Pitiful guest within the net — spinning in confusion.
Who dwells among the four great elements? Who enters heaven and earth's cauldron?
Form and spirit, empty and existent — what binds, what is bound?
Arising from conditions, not a unity — like illusions, reflecting and shimmering.
In confusion, knowing begins with objects — worries arise from youth.
The five aggregates are falsely woven — form and vessel cannot be relied on.
Dusty thoughts chase after conditions — the three realms, desolate and vast.
Habitual tendencies dissolve as one walks — don't let the field of merit grow thin.
The blind turtle crosses the bitter sea — how can the floating log be found?
Vainglory is a dream in a mirror — in an instant, boat and ravine are gone.
Where is the poor man's robe? — The bright pearl is there, truly there.

Without wine, meals have no flavor
Without poetry, wine has no interest
Having drunk up the water of a thousand rivers
How can one utter a single word

Each generation produces its heroes — each misleading the masses for decades — today, just look at the internet guests — in the lewd forum, the wavy society, stirring sour drool

A thousand and some hands, twenty yuan apiece — regular clients and new flames always biased — if you're flush enough for five mouths — send you off with 20% off, sealing our dusty fate

Clouds confuse and mist obscures the old pavilion pool — her longing and his love remain unresolved — what day will the spring night see your rising again — across the river, wind and rain are all lustful verse

Love rises at the moon by heaven's edge
Essence is born from phlegm at the bottom of the heart
The red dust has many amusing things
In the Eastern Land, there is a Recitation Forum
Grand indeed, the Viagra Tower
Firm indeed, the Holy Maiden's Nunnery
Spirit-wandering adds vigor
Day and night, pounding the Dragon Pool

Doggerel doesn't matter
As long as the quality is there
Rub a few times now and then
Revolution is always victorious

The Great River flows east, occasionally I look back — reining the horse, leveling the spear, competing to go upstream — the homeland's divine oil protects the body — romantic figures become even more romantic

Roaming heaven and earth, trapped by heaven and earth — a heart that won't fall still yearns for the bird-wind — the bear does tricks, the dog barks — the hero and the bear are all the same bear

Chasing wind and wrestling rain, still just a bird — cracking stone and driving clouds, that's not a hero — There will always be **like Liu Adou — suddenly donkey-hooves show up to fool the serpent

Dog - gerel is also reci - tation
High enough and still keep fit
No - thing to say but must speak
Got gas? All to - gether zip

If below won't cut below
Then there's really a problem
Coming and going, all becomes earth
Why insist on uniformity?

Spring comes but flowers won't bloom
Rain scatters but birds still cry
The moon surges through the waters of a thousand rivers
Who can say what is high and what is low?

Old Owl erupts in sour speech — Old Madam erupts in angry speech — day doesn't understand the darkness of night — wooden bird, dumb bird, in labor again

Sex is the primary productive force — technology can't compare with visiting a courtesan — when eating eggs, eat atomic eggs — striding boldly into the new century

In the old days when the family had little rice
On the Eastern Sea I was a salt smuggler
The gun is a bird flushed from the woods
The heart is like a cat mourning the mouse
Painted on the two breasts in cinnabar
Black and white described in one breath
Who speaks of the valor of yesteryear?
Today's sirens work the platform

Who is not born of nature?
Who does not arise from nature?
White night and black day
Another century done

In the human world, life's grievances are empty — wine, lust, wealth, fame — desires all differ — why does Eden have its forbidden fruit? — who seeks sin, dreaming in heaven?

When nature is frequent, thought grows frequent too
When thought is frequent, the tongue grows poor
Heaven and earth are but a single sheet of paper
Each character, a star

The wallet is nearly dry
Who will fill it up?
The poetry forum has its Springs and Autumns
Yet it's the Kangxi-Qianlong era again

Traces of the Great Wall still visible
What a pity the Epang Palace is already gone
The First Emperor had many benevolent policies
He just buried some rotten scholars

Where in heaven and earth is there not purity? — Confucius the Second deleted poems and falsely claimed sagehood — from then on, heaven and earth had but one color — a thousand years and yet ten thousand years of flourishing

This nature, that nature, nature is not nature — I beg the poets to look more carefully — where in heaven and earth is there not purity? — why must one's belly be as sour as a pedantic scholar's?

Climbing the west tower alone, the moonlight cool — Jinling spring rain drips on red blossoms — a thousand years of refined scholars across the divine continent — winning a landscape ten thousand miles long

A thousand years of great scholars, so many
Yet none compares to a single commoner
Even hearing the dharma is still at one remove
Who is attached to applause?

Xiaoren is no sir
Just a floating duckweed on the vast sea
The four great elements have yet to settle
Drifting with waves and riding the swells

No need to look at the appearance
Naturally an ugly freak
Sallow-faced and bony-thin
But the heart is still quite wicked

Why play these games?
The lofty gentlemen never get things right
Tang wind linked with Song rain
A thousand years and still no clearing

Qi is deviant, heart is deviant, nature too is deviant — deviant and straight coiled like a snake — green mountains don't necessarily carry flowing water — above, floating clouds half-conceal them

A guest within the net of red dust
What traps me is this knowing
Without knowing, heaven and earth are vast
Everywhere, wonders of their own

Without mind, mind has already settled
Yet mind settled is neither being nor nonbeing
Being and nonbeing both unsettled
Still only halfway there

Burdened in the red dust by this body — who is not a corpse-bearer? Body comes, body goes, with nowhere to rest — heaven and earth always retain one point of truth

Has the summer heat ever truly oppressed? It's just people going topsy-turvy.
Water and fire, their natures like illusion — fish and shrimp throw themselves into the cauldron.
All things, their forms both empty and existent — circles and squares, what binds what?
Glass and clay are one body — perpetually reflecting and shimmering.
People are blind not because of their eyes — it has nothing to do with light being strong or weak.
Trees dense or sparse — the cicada's tune is hard to rely on.
Dusty thoughts chase after carriages — how can outlines be preserved?
Prosperity flourishes then declines — love has always been thin.
In the great furnace between heaven and earth — birth and death, who can grasp them?
Parting thoughts ride the wind away — passing over mountains and ravines.
No self, no non-self — if you don't understand, don't force interpretations.

Lofty scholars are all old men — Xiaoren's head is not yet old — lofty scholars often lie about lazily — Xiaoren must rise early
Lofty scholars gnaw on book covers — Xiaoren's belly is full of grass — too much grass to chew the cud — can't even think straight
Though just a rice weevil — can't tell millet from paddy — sees a beard and calls him "sir" — sees a bosom and calls her "ma'am"
Always making jokes — everywhere a living treasure — body like a three-inch nail — bone-thin, skin pallid
Shoes covered in bird droppings — clothes covered in fleas — never scrapes off the dried mud — never sweeps the filthy dust
Has one more bad habit — wants to hug everyone on sight — regardless of beauty or ugliness — young lady or village crone
Day and night, clouds tumble and rain falls — features already withered — looks like it won't be long — before being wrapped in white shroud
Not a single redeeming quality — but one good thing — doesn't eat the emperor's grain — doesn't wear the master's coat
No incense burned at temples — no prayers at churches — no yearning for heavenly halls — no longing for overseas islands
Not-dharma in the dharma of dharma — not-Dao in the Dao of Dao — no heart and no lungs — not a worry in the world
Hair black or hair white — teeth black or teeth bright — Xiaoren or lofty scholar — all are made of clay
The lofty scholar does nothing special — eats, pisses, and bathes — once the great name is established — everything goes upside down
Shark fin secretly scooped with rice — eating jujubes in front of others — watching the sun set at South Mountain — under moonlight, visiting the madam
Inner sage blows hot air — outer king stirs the paste — talks literature and talks war — opens his mouth and rhetoric pours out
Looks down on everyone — tests anyone he meets — his tone bigger than the sky — wants to protect the people
In the end, just a rotten skin-bag — better to blow up a bunker — or maybe stuff in some medicine — tie it up and let it dry
Five thousand years from now — might be studied and debated — why emulate the First Emperor — vainly preserving one's youth
Dig a hole on the hilltop — wield an iron pick at the grave mound — bury heaven and bury earth — who says heaven and earth are vast
Don't plant catalpa on the north hill (wood radical) — don't plant oak on the south — the wild goose's claw leaves no trace — who cares how vast heaven and earth are

Xiaoren has nine tails
Part sable and part dog
Once played with Shang and Xia
Why bother wildly beating the earthen jar?

Saying it's good, saying it's not good
Just grass on a wall
Last night the wind but no rain
Why rise so early?

Please again and again
The great men always get their way
The Yellow River's water won't clear
A thousand years and still no peace

Bored yet chatting on
Don't stay up till midnight
Xiaoren lacks refinement
Watching the banana leaves without rain

Xiaoren lacks good sense
Stumbled into the realm of great men
Didn't know the household had laws
Thought it was all a game
Master-people, people-master-master
Probably no different either
Why always act like a dog
Everywhere serving the rulers?

Master-people, people-master-master
Isn't about democracy
If there's an injustice
You can report it to the authorities
Wind is high, rain still fierce
Every household shuts its doors
The Yellow River, thousands of miles
How much soil sinks in its current

Don't take chapters out of context
It's neither form nor vessel
If you don't look at a thousand years of bamboo
Every one of them is a cruel magistrate

Writing poems must be in old style
Playing people must be in new style
One heart red as fire
Loving the Party and loving the people

Can poetry reach the heights of Yellow Crane Tower? That's beyond my ability — democracy and freedom are all detestable — ghosts and monsters, humans and demons each have their reasons — which Enlightenment figure can serve as a beacon?

As if playing, as if gaming
How can form and qi bind you?
The wild goose flies a thousand miles away
Who still insists on boring through?

A wanderer of the three realms
Neither gods nor ghosts are deluded
On the day before King Yama's court
Even without wine, we'll sit face to face

On stage and below the stage, it's all a show
Who among them is drunk?
Illusory people create illusory scenes
Don't try to interpret their meaning
The four great elements combine by chance
Following karma, each goes east or west
The tide comes, spring waters rush
Naturally, they must cross the dyke

Pick up the brush and stand a thousand words
Why need a draft in the belly?
Poetry is also prose
Don't draw a circle and imprison yourself

Pitiful guest within the net — spinning in confusion.
Who dwells among the four great elements? Who enters heaven and earth's cauldron?
Form and spirit, empty and existent — what binds, what is bound?
Arising from conditions, not a unity — like illusions, reflecting and shimmering.
In confusion, knowing begins with objects — worries arise from youth.
The five aggregates are falsely woven — form and vessel cannot be relied on.
Dusty thoughts chase after conditions — the three realms, desolate and vast.
Habitual tendencies dissolve as one walks — don't let the field of merit grow thin.
The blind turtle crosses the bitter sea — how can the floating log be found?
Vainglory is a dream in a mirror — in an instant, boat and ravine are gone.
Where is the poor man's robe? — The bright pearl is there, truly there.

My Issue with Xutang
Comment on a netizen: well-versed in the teachings but not in the lineage — text and thought are all fine,
but this has nothing to do with the upward path. Of course, not everyone will take such words to heart, so the staff-blow has no gate in the modern age.
Humanistic Buddhism, humanistic Demonism — all are spinning within the aggregate of conceptualization, creating karma within the aggregate of volition, planting seeds within the aggregate of consciousness — including the writing and reading happening right now. Sentient beings are originally empty — confusion and awakening are self-imposed bonds.

Poetry is a small matter
Life and death is the great matter
Whether living or dying
Has nothing to do with lifespan

The Way of Heaven is originally nothing — suffering gathers in emptiness and existence.
The void shatters of itself — clinging to it like straw dogs.
Mountains are and are not mountains — shedding the collar, no elbows left.
Without true contemplation — don't pretend to roar like a lion.

Illusory mirror, dust rising
Empty flowers, wind dancing
Originally, nothing much was happening
Falsely adding drums of gold
I shall depart on a long journey
If there is affinity, I shall come again
Self-resolve, self-resolve
Take care, take care