I don’t know who’ll I be in my next life,
Maybe Adolf or Saint Therese,
Or Oscar Wild or John Cleese,
Some person committed to some one thing.
If only it were good.
If only there were some way of keeping things so.
When these fragments of my mind disperse,
And I’m left with only one thing,
Would it be to sell souls in verse
to vendors of used cars,
Or to play with number theories,
Would I sing opera to seated culture,
Or finally vulture a life on mars.
Should I take a vow of poverty with my mind?
Oh to find the way.
For I am he, unable to pass the third gate,
For all that I own, language and mathematics
And stories and fun and making gin
From morning to late
And writing poems in bluest light.
This camel still cannot pass.
Perhaps I could meditate.
And though Dazu Huike chopped off his arm
The Buddhas couldn’t focus their mind,
No movement no stillness,
Nothing enters or leaves,
Nothing to drop or pick up.
This and only this.
Time to wash the dishes.