He sits serenely beneath the bodhi
tree,
detaching
himself from electrons
and
the ocean’s endless rhythm roll,
from
yoni and lingam and pleasure
squeezed
like juice from a plum
lest
longing nest in his soul like a lovebird
living
in a constant state of desire.
Give
me satin skin and a wine-flavored kiss.
Grant
me the world, its hardness,
the
here and now of its clawing roots
that
break rich sod with the audacity of sin.
I’ll
dine with courtesans and eat ripe fruit,
consort
with astronomers who crave entire galaxies
though
they be a billion light years away,
though
they tease the eye with wanton light
beyond the grasp of all but refractory ways.
My
eye is lusty for forbidden sights.
I
would have more grain, bigger barns
and
then eat, drink, and be merry for more.
Do
not die to the self, do not extinguish the flame.
Rather,
let it burn the bodhi tree,
erase
the Buddha’s subtle, slippery smile.
The
Sirens call, and I will not be chained to the mast.
Let
them torment me with their island arts
until
I moan, drunk with a life that was born to last.
~William Hammett
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