i always thought Buddha’s message traveled
west to east
india china japan.
that’s what it said in better homes and gardens anyway.
maybe the message made a full circle because my doctor said to us
“don’t think about anything.
none of it’s real.”
we were standing in line to make appointments.
one guy whispered, ”maybe he’ll put a turn table in the waiting room.”
another one mentioned ecclesiastes.
the rest of us connected dots.
i remember when subway tickets were $1.50
now they’re $3.00
but we still see double out the windows.
objects from the other side reflect into view
like the blank faces attached to bodies seated in orange chairs,
like the wet shapes on tunnel walls,
the green electrical box
and so many other unidentifiable things whizzing by.
it’s like looking into ourselves.
the last inhale is slow
like a clogged slurpee straw
10,000 years of condensed death ritual shooting up a spine.
daring towards the decline where
thoughts have no more tracks to wander.
there’s only abyss, gravity and no choice.
when montreal’s mercury suddenly rises in winter,
the igloo windows open a jar.
with streets no longer a ghost and
people gathering in street corner coffee clutch,
is it hearts sending the puck up the chute,
ringing the bell a high striker carnival?
a crow still perches atop a fence and
soars into whatever direction sky.
the stampede of commuters;
a tongue trilling spanish drum roll
dusty heart beats
jefferson burdick was a lawn mower part,
like all of us
crickets huddling in the grass
can’t hear the harleys.
i like the state Burdick died in,
plowing through borders,
stuffing baseball cards from his own collection into binders,
a gift and legacy and all that.
he didn’t bother using sterile gloves.
*for more on jefferson burdick,
see broken bats baseball
“maybe down the hall from picasso“