[A] First Course

A schoolyard in morning And ranks of kids in white and blue. Uniforms, all squinting. Someone's Eyes are always closed at the moment That is frozen.

You recognize yourself as a mop Of unruly hair that has tamed itself By disappearing.

You turn to the one on your right And you have forgotten his name. The girl on your left you remember Having seen somewhere, perhaps In an airport lounge boarding a flight.

In Memory's Alley one doesn't look for The missing. The only thing for sale, At a heavy discount, is forgetting.

This girl with the red earrings, made of Plastic crystal, says, "I live in a house With a blue door over which a rose Bush hangs from a trellis". He with coal black eyes, says, “My father Is a barber and when he holds me In his leathery hands, I smell sweat Of a thousand bodies".

You begin to shout, "But tell me your names!" You hear I & I. How do you remember your name then?

[B] Middle Passage

The other day I was fishing For a certificate, a prize for finishing When in that box I snagged her Or her bones.

Even as she looked at me A tree was growing in the crack Between reality and the other Reality that previously stood there.

She always told me, "One can't Recall every detail of someone's Face." I said, "Yes yours I can". She demanded to tell her what I remembered.

I began detailing her birth marks And moles, my fingers tracing air, Such is the nature of skin. But what Is the thickness of her tongue? The taste of her labia? The depth Of betrayals and lies?

When Buddha was dying, he taught the gathered seekers "This is the way. Follow it and you will find freedom." But they carved up his bones and built stupas Over those relics. Around these the penitents circle, Gathering merit. What is freedom?

She asked for no exotic burial: No Viking ship at sea, no chopping Of the corpse for vultures of high mountain passes, And definitely no swaddling in linen.
She asked me to put her In a stove at 411 F.

I circle around the unearthed relic
Wondering at what temperature does Memory turn into ash?

[C] Exits

You wake up at nights Looking at your own obituary In newspapers printed in languages You don't understand.

How were you remembered? Did people weep in the streets? Were your good deeds praised? Did they proclaim that you managed To cross River Styx, and now sit At the right hand of God Almighty?

Exit lights blink their red eyes. Both sinners and saints, all forgiven, End up looking like angels When they surface in these columns!

You stay up all night, opening books looking for explanations and justifications.

You sit in leaky boats, in the middle of a flood, arguing who has the better oars!

Poorna* says: Don't stay in dark tarvens, moaning about error. Walk into a cathedral of trees. Get drunk on light's grace!

Poorna* - One who is complete, like the full moon. It was also the name of my great grandfather, a mystic and a poet.

Use the sickle of longing To reap stalks heavy with desire.

Let the grindstone of practice Turn you into a sack of flour.

Load the ovens of love with dough And make thousands of loaves.

Invite the city for a feast. Give away Everything you possess. Go hungry.

Poorna says: Only when the ego is emptied, Does one hear cosmic beat of the inner drum!