India

on my way home i saw a sign

for “Mastering Meditation”

(i tried meditation once

but found far more interesting things going on

on television than in my head)

and it made me think that i might go

to India and find myself—

not just find myself, but fucking find myself

(it sounds more rebellious, more fiery,

more spontaneous that way).

i’ve been told that i would fit in well

there, as so many come up to me

as a brother, a friend, a nice Indian boy

for their daughters, and i don’t have the heart

to remind them of my last name.

i will go (fucking go) and ignore this study book

on my top shelf: i will go, shave my head

to keep the bugs out of my hair

and simply wander: i will carry my bowl

for rice, shit in outhouses,

bust up a sweatshop and save a village—

a vigilante with a buzzed head

while the parents speak to me in Hindi

to rearrange the marriages for their daughters

but i tell them all i want is a little rice

and maybe some real curry that someone told me

i should try once.

i will finally meditate by the Ganges

and raft on a floating corpse

so that i can laugh (fucking laugh)

in the face of death.