Hola

I tend to leave out certain words sometimes,
when speaking to them, so they understand.
Of course, I have respect for foreign men
just as for those who might call me their own.
You see, I am not one to go about
adjusting dialect or frame of mind
to fit that of the man across from me
unless communication might be lost.
So if I tend to leave out certain words
due to their coarseness on the ear or tongue,
it’s only so the chance for relation
is not lost in the garbled transmission.
In fact, when it grows late, and I have had
several drinks and just happen to pass
the busboy on the way to the bathroom,
all that I can muster up is “Hola.”

Temple

I will not go to Zen temple today.
I cannot face the sitting and the pain
of cramping knees and thighs. The silent room
grows unbearable from the passing trains,
and cars, whose drivers have places to go.
The bell sounds resounds, and each person then tries
to be the clevr’st so that Roshi knows,
that they alone are like the Golden Child.
They tumble over dead, or shout answers
to unsolvable koans they’ve been giv’n.
Those riddles will indeed be their demise.
But alas, I should go down today,
to settle down at least, to make myself
right with the world. To fully breathe at last:
this alone should be my intention.
How can it be, that good men do grow bored,
with touching bits of emptiness they find?

Storm Chaser

His mind is focused, poised with steady hands.
He’s ready, moving instinctually, letting go.
His body contorted, he gives his weight
to the approaching storm. His face is red
like sunburnt sky. The fire shoots from his eyes
as the ocean swallows the burning orb.
Could it be her, with flesh obscured by boughs
of evergreen? Or is it her, tumbling
through cotton ball clouds, calling his name?
A flash of white, he’s floating with the stars.
He looses grip, his forehead hits the glass.
Perhaps he’s been a bit too loud this time.
He listens, but hears only sounds of sleep,
and steel radiators in the night.