Not Being a Poet and Drunk as Well or; The Way of the Samurai
Most days I sit on the beach and act like I’m old—and I’ve seen a lot.
This is the way of the Bodhisattva…or the way of the Samurai…or something like that—
either way, you have to picture yourself as dead, every single day.
And while I don’t quite understand what that means, exactly, I remember how my knees used to tremble when you are near,
and how I could sense your presence from a distance.
And because I heard once, that of all the senses, smell and memory are the most connected, I know that you can never be too far.
Because there are so many things that remind me of you ,when I think hard enough you appear before my eyes.
But it’s bad when one thing becomes two and that’s part of the way of the Samurai as well, and it reminds me of that old Zen proverb, that, “it’s the side of the mountain that sustains life, not the top”
and I think that goes to show what I mean.
There were cosmic vibrations that surrounded us when we kissed, and I shake all day thinking of the mystical bliss that we once shared when we were together,
and how sacred I hold those memories now.
There’s a bird in the house and I heard that’s bad luck, but not in this family-
yet, something doesn’t feel quite right and this bird won’t get off my back.
Things haven’t always been normal and nor will they ever be, but when I remember what it was like to look into your beautiful eyes and know for an absolute certainty that I’d be staring into those same eyes for the rest of my life I felt that impossible connection we all strive for.
Sometimes, I guess, the world we live in is a dream and it takes a nightmare to wake us, just like when I make my morning cup of coffee with salt and cream instead of you, Sugar.
And somehow all of this has to do with my mental state, and the forces combatting inside of my mind; each vying for their spot as the master of this skull sized kingdom and the galaxies that exist within it.
It’s these wandering thoughts and this galloping neurosis that I must overcome.
Like, honestly, how does the bird fit into this poem? Is it an noble eightfold path or a twelve step program that i really I need? and when will we get to spend our days in thousands of lovely ways,waking up at the same time, staring into each others eyes, singing simple lullabies, letting tongue do the talking, and my lips do the walking?…
I want to read you like a book in braille. Wake up without warning, cavorting- though yawning;
waiting to see what kind of coffee life pours us in the morning- and how we’re going to take it.