I. Dukkha
August heat and aerial moisture
drives us to the river; to jump in
and drink its amber liquor—
it’s a calming haze and a cigarette after.
the foam shimmers, this sunlight deludes
in slick industrial passage;
the water’s cold.
nearby the bitter dry grass and shrubs
are ready to kindle; to feed the flames
birthed from the swelter we breathe—
the water reaches not so up to it.
above us only rollers paint the sky
not sponge dabs or brush strokes
but it’s utterly smooth:
i need to see roughness to know i can rattle
i need to see roughness to sooth it out with my hand.
up is endlessly slick—
here is jagged and brutal.
when we lie out naked
the vittles cling to us as we roll;
when we rise the desolates prick our feet
when we stand: our blood is all the moisture
these barren morsels shall drink today.
this strip of Earth is barren,
but the air surrounding us is so fertile
that even to feel it against our faces
makes our minds wander:
as a swarm of sweaty palms
the river currents rush over the riverbed
quenching the eroded rocks below,
and they smooth out like the skin on our backs
when tampered with. it’s all part of a vision
—sacred, perhaps, is
what the LORD commanded of us—
where we can swim with the gushing current
and we can feel the foam pop against
our torsos and our loins.
all this makes me thirsty,
all this makes me know that no rivers flow in this building
where we sit,
side-by-side
hoping for a slice of air to cool us,
and for, if anything at all,
a way to ease the burning on our skin
and on our flesh—
it’s too much to handle right now
without a glass of wine in my hand
and a bottle of champagne on my head.
this land is of dying, suffering,
we are of dying, suffering.
II. Dukkha Samudaya
across the table, through the haze
a streetlight concerto bears the night,
holds the starlight steady
under which we (tired from the drunk)
leave our padlocks empty—
it’s been a long time.
the vodka flows and the wine engages us.
burning chicken smells ground us—
we are not in Eden any more, darling;
we are not surrounded by fertile hills
and ramped plains. instead,
we sit in a crowded bar and imagine what the other
would look like sprawled out on the floor;
i imagine you under my bedsheets,
in a slumber that only exhaustion and strain
can induce.
around the bend there’s a car horn
and once again we shake our heads.
are you alright?
i’m okay.
just okay?
could be better.
let me pour you another drink,
let me wet your lips and you can wet mine.
of course—who knows who leaps up—
every word hangs in the air
because i can’t drink them in
as i can drink this glass empty.
are you okay?
i could be better.
another drink?
could be better.
she brings another; my hands tremble
and my fingers curl around the glass.
it’s so cold but my hands give more moisture.
my words should only be so chilling.
when you brush your hair aside
my throat dries up. you tell me to speak
but i can only dream—what you would look like
without these lights on; how soft your body is
when i lay my bony frame upon it;
how when you finally fall asleep
i can finally fall asleep, too.
the bar is loud.
are you okay?
i’m fine for now.
i could be better.
III. Dukkha Nirodha
light up;
a light out
from the tunnel—
here’s a way for us
to shake off
these feelings
desires
these
in
fa
tu
a
tions
these
amores juvenis
a light now;
a light when?
we need it
to anoint us—
by simply kissing us;
rubbing our aching muscles;
and not fucking us
—to tell us that it
is there
IV. Dukkha Nirodha Gamini Patipada Magga
Prajñā
ONE
starlit echos tantalize the
eyes; the pupils dilate, they
open wide. the water drifts to
show the temp’rate kisses that we
scorn obtusely. deadly symbols
scare away our hands; they kill us
dead with beauty—blinding us
evermore with fleshy torches.
TWO
kisses always kisses; always
aimed at lips instead of hips and
bones. when minds align they cherish—
hearts denied remember only
hurt. but how does recollection
make intention? understand the
body, understand the mind and
think of double, not of single.
Sīla
THREE
girls, rejoice! the boys are here—they
want to play! and said they’ll travel
arm in arm to pick the flowers
growing tall beside the river!
boys, rejoice! the girls said yes!—they
said that we could grab their hands to
follow them and kiss them by the
riverside! to pluck their flowers!
FOUR
Annabelle came home one day to
find her husband naked. then he
said profusely are you my wife?
Annabelle conceded it; she
buttoned down her blouse and skirt. he
fell asleep but Annabelle got
up to make his dinner; salty
tears adorned the steaks she made him.
FIVE
stirring coffee; looking out the
window; alive and well. statues
still parade the park where
girls and boys remember how to
play. remember when you used to
know to play? remember when you
had concern for games and for
making pawns from those in dresses?
Samādhi
SIX
it’s enough to put the bottle
down; enough to put the light from
cigarettes completely out but
not upon the skin of dear ones.
it’s enough to steal the bottle
‘way from angry hands; enough to
spray the flames with water while you
count how many times you’ve done it.
SEVEN
evermore remember what your
mother taught you—boys always
will be boys and girls should always
keep their hands outside their dresses.
evermore remember what your
father taught you—girls never
know to keep their hands out where you
want; remember to remind them.
EIGHT
take these verses; pick apart their
veins to find what makes them bleed. a
hint and recollection makes you
see the light before your eyes. now
take your thoughts and keep them picking
out the rivers, when currents
flow about the land to quench the
throats of rightly tired women.
Nibbana
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