Monday, March 9, 2009

the buddhist at the back of the bus

so how is your air
back there

while above
jets streak stuck
in a rut
across the sky’s skin
kindling kinetic melodies

bald without a head to hold hair
a breath
a slurry of slapstick and bone
to be conked by a conquering rod
selflessly staring at nothing but emptiness

come to
to this

an ophidian slither in the
now happening sliver of here
snapping fingers
guessing at the time of day

it is never always
it is always just never

and we find snails in the ruts of the stepwell

be off guard
to sink into the gist of it
just in case of a smile

be all and one of none
together gathering the lone lotus
not standing upon words

to be agile
in the slide of seat underneath
gazing at a callus of stuck-gum on the seatback
hooded in a brown robe
grinning under wire-rimmed glasses

a moment
in the felt-penned graffiti on the windows
the music escaping from headphones
a finger slightly lifted

not there at all