I have never
written a poem about a Buddhist monk
because the one I knew would not open the window of his soul.
He was in the business of unconcern and
trying to get the hell out of Dodge for good
so that the the great mandala
would not hook his saffron-colored robe
and spin his karma through another lifetime.
He told me that we didn’t really exist,
which to me is like buttering toast
only to find that breakfast is a scam.
I put a period on a blank page and then
“Now you’re getting the hang of it,” he said.
I didn’t think it was much of a poem
even though he said it was my best work to date
before assuming the lotus position,
as if he were posing for a Moody Blues album cover.
That’s when I put the period back on the
a Zen act of pure whoop-dee-doo,
but I still maintain that it wasn’t a
It was merely a bit of untethered punctuation
taught to me by a gaggle of Catholic nuns
who relished living every day in Dodge.
They were sometimes a mean bunch of black
but we agreed that buttered toast was buttered toast.
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