Red Pants Brown Robes

“Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean.”
~Ryunosuke Satoro~

The temple down the street

I see it every morning

every afternoon coming home I imagine

the venerables scurrying around purposefully

or

lounging on their mats

reading and sipping tea

like a Buddhist Platonic verse

Red tile roof

how exotic for the small town carpenter’s girl

Surely those tiles can’t endure like ours

asphalt and paper and tar

I must  feel the rough edges

and the grooves that fit so smoothly to believe

Black pants or beige pants

yes, sometimes beige pants to the meditation hall

skin on my legs

creating obscenely loud friction

as in silence I mount  the three incense gilded stories

finally perching breathless, like a pretzel

on the cushion.

my thoughts; in – two..three……four……..five……….out –two….three……four……..five……….six…………seven…………….

wiggled away to you

my red pants hot pants

rooted through my beige and black

‘hello’ ,the brown robes told me to nod to you

and yes, indeed, you did disappear

cool breath inside the soft moist dampness of my nostril

cool flow over each hair, every membrane

warm breath from my lips

abdomen released, shoulders dropped, I breathe a sign post to nirvana

but your head peaks out

laughing at me, jester, you kiss my lips

and water my red pants to root on that cushion

the click of old bones under brown robes

soft soles connecting to the wooden floor boards

sticking and pulling away

under the red roof

from the other side of the room, only a whisper from my twitching closed eyes,

tenderly untangled my delicate tormentor and kicked you back

in – one..two….three……four……..five……….just say hello and carry on out-one..two..three……four……..five……….six…………seven…………..

those brown robes chased you down ate you alive

Now

Under the red roof

My brown-robed, bitch-slapping monk

is dying.

Did you and all the other third floor daemons

eat her from the inside out?

Or, was it the lounging monks idle

human nature? not even robes can soothe to death

In my beige pants red sparks fly

I see across the lake over the hill through the houses

I imagine her there

Shrivelled up in her rough, wide, brown robes, shrinking

and the red roof settles in my bones, will endure there

much longer than paper and asphalt and tar

my senses overcome by subtle autumn decay.

Copyright 2012

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