Homage to Lucille Clifton
on the difference between
eddie murphy and richard pryor
eddie, he a young blood
he see somethin funny
in everythin ol rich
been around a long time
he know aint nothin
really funny
— Lucille Clifton
I hear two voices from the rallies
one brings tears to my eyes.
This isn’t hope, it vehemently says.
We doin’ this
whatever it takes.
The sounds of the rally can be heard behind
her young impassioned voice:
irregular, alive.
She barely has time to give the interview
so many tasks await her
safety committees food first aid
and transportation.
We are tired, says an older angry voice.
We been sayin’ this
forever.
* * * * *
Three Skinny Mormons
Poets!
Unless you’re Rumi, abjure
the imperative
— please!
Regularly telling us to love what is
travel light
look up
and so on. Plus
lose the pointing gesture
as if you’re so blissed out on the present moment
that all you have to say is
cheep cheep cheep or blackberry blackberry blackberry
meaning
it’s all there if you have ears to hear
the wild geese overhead.
You know who you are
and so does every yoga teacher from here to Hawai’i; not that this
is anything new
e.g., Rilke in maybe 1899 stepped up to the plate with
“Let everything happen to you, the beauty and the terror,
bah blah blah.” You
talkin’ to me, pal? Let me tell you –
that ol’ beauty-and-terror
will roll right over you in any case
whether you let it or not.
Now I’m sitting on the floor in Half Spinal Twist
(Arthamatsyendrasana to those in the know)
and a dharma teacher on my iphone is smoking hot.
I love this guy! He’s got hold of some
profound thing about what we hopelessly want
of our minds, just what I need today
but he says things like “if he would have done it right”
and “that was literally a bombshell” and I’m sitting here in Twist
silently
correcting his grammar
every time. Next day three skinny Mormons
on my doorstep when I get home.
You know the drill:
black pants, white shirts,
fellow human beings
burdened with an intolerable truth they’re desperate to
offload. “These things are true,” one actually says
with burning eyes.
“I have evidence,” says his frantic friend. I don’t think
as I sometimes do
of the world-wide consequences this crap can have
e.g., last night’s images of a migrants’ camp so inadequately served
the whole place stinks of feces and wads of used white toilet paper
line the roads. I don’t ask them in a rage,
HOW DO YOU VOTE? On the other hand,
in spite of everything I know and mean to be
neither do I listen
and take them at their best
and play their best back so they can see that they are
very good
and are seen
by people like me
and even loved as Jesus meant us
to love one another. I don’t do that, God help me.
Like the cock that crowed when Peter denied the Lord,
instead, I laugh three times before they leave.
“Why talk about the dharma?” asked the great
Zen Master, Charlotte Beck.
“My job is to notice how I violate it.”
* * * * *
When In a Time of World-Wide Plague
When in a time of world-wide plague
you take a walk and feel great –
veering into the empty streets to avoid other people
raising a hand in greeting and thanks
when they avoid you –
the badly-repaired potholes underfoot
the more-or-less grotesque wild turkey flock that lives
in your neighborhood –
just being in the ungovernable air, the drizzly day,
the sky, parked cars, nothing to do with your plans or regrets –
you may say to yourself,
we’ll always have Paris!
meaning, if things go seriously wrong, pandemic-wise,
you can remember
the walk you took that Tuesday, today,
striding like Chikusai into the wind.
Was there ever a stupider thought?
You know you can’t keep …
anything; nor does your future
isolated
intubated
self care one bit
about your fabulous walk.
But
who will buy
this wonderful feeling? as it says in the song.
You could tell someone later, you suppose –
but that never works. Your mind darts off to India
where someone else is out in the world and
if not elated still
thoroughly content.
Arched on his cart, face to the sun
he is about to take a nap
around him seethes Mumbai
biking and hawking and crossing the street.
Where is that photo now?
His orange plastic wares are lumpy
but comfy
and the sharp world blurs.
You doubt that man is still alive. And yet …
Slow down,
he seems to tell you kindly from the Other Side. Take this.
And here –
I’ll share your bliss.