Dreaming in Lotus Land

Siddhartha sitting under a tree in a lotus position,
Mahogany skin and chiseled Asian features,
Holds out a soft hand and says
Desire leads to suffering.
There is a knife in my hand, Buddha.
I desire to remove it.
The longing for the touch of a caressing hand,
Feel of a warm body pressing yours in a joyful embrace.
Between the ways of hedonist and the aesthetic lies the Middle-Path:
Balance, restraint, mindfulness of the present.
Never to be shadowed by a pained past or
Haunted by an ambivalent future.
Free of neuroses and anxiety.
There is a knife in my hand, Buddha.
The reddened stigmata trickles into a rose-pretty
Pool on linoleum tiles and the gold-flecked green
Is complimented by a spreading stain of warm liquid.
In the stain’s pattern I conjure images of past and future.
Regarding the visions in my mind, pulling the cold blade
From a tattered, pulpy palm,
Wrapping layer on layer of surgical gauze over my
Hand,
I watch as the blood crusts over on the tiles:
The longing for the touch of a caressing hand,
Feel of a warm body pressing yours in a joyful embrace.
Dark eyes twinkling from her gentle, round face.
One can ride a wave of Melatonin pills as they
Spill from a plastic bottle in waterfall arch
And gently tickle the tiles
And splash the blood.
Such a sleepy beauty
For contemplating your inner self.
Why do we ask the questions when
We have the answers?
Desire leads to suffering.


Joy in a moment.
Joy in an eternity.
Joy in a moment.
Joy in a heartbeat.
The longing for the touch of a caressing hand,
Feel of warm body pressing yours in a joyful embrace,
Stigmata seeping through palm gauze to haunt your present
With the acid burns of internal trauma.
There is suffering in the world.
There is death in the world.
Every moment in your lifetime is precious
Because it won’t last.
And every memory is a faulty remaking
Of something forever lost.
Joy in a moment.
Joy in an eternity.
Joy in a moment.
Joy in a single heartbeat.
There is suffering in the world.
There is death in the world.
Every moment in your life is precious
Because it marks an imprint on the fabric
Of the universe.
And no amount of gauze wrappings
Will keep the stain of images from seeping through.
Lost loved-ones are alive somewhere
Because the past has always been.
And everything that can happen does,
Because the future always is.
Space and time are one fabric that
Wraps and unwraps and never ceases,
Even when memories fade,
Even when tears stain cheeks with salt,
Even when hearts cool,
Even when joy caves under weight from within.
Why do we ask the questions
When we have the answers?
Desire leads to suffering.
The longing for the touch of a caressing hand,
Feel of warm body pressing yours in a joyful embrace,
Stigmata seeping through palm gauze to haunt your present
With the acid burns of internal trauma.
A past that never dies.
A future that always is.
Joy in a moment.
Joy in an eternity.
Joy in a moment.
Joy in a single heartbeat
Why do we ask the questions
When we have the answers?
I cannot say, Siddhartha.
I cannot say.