Something's Bound To Happen
I dragged my sorry ass out of bed this morning,
slurped down enough coffee
so as not to nod off,
and staggered downstairs to my cushion
in the Zendo,
where I sat
in the dark
just with
a straight back,
teeth together
and the breath
for forty minutes.
There's no point
to this.
Or better yet,
the point
is not to have
a point
or a goal
or a reason
to get caught up in.
But ask anyone
and they'll tell you
how when you're there
with yourself
early morning
after early morning
for three years running,
something's bound
to happen.
Especially
when you make a little room
there in that space
for whatever it is
that kicks and screams
and leaves you up all night wondering
what the fuck sake happened
that got you
into some 2500 year dead mystic's
headspace
in the first place.
Which is why
when it dawned on me
how its not just all them
I've loved
and ran from
or ran off
who're gone,
but the ones
still sticking around.
Eventually,
they'll go too,
just like the things,
and stuff
and places,
and memories,
and whatever else
I've used to carefully craft
this delicately balanced semblance
of a life worth living
from the rags and scraps
of lost dreams and childish hope.
Now let's face it:
this is not,
at first glance
the most uplifting realization
to come bounding
through the door of mind
all slobbery and barking
these last few days.
But I'm learning
to take what I get
and be damned glad for it,
which means
this moment of clarity,
after we dispose of its sad sad trappings,
could not be more expressive
of the truth of life and death
were it cast in gold,
wrapped in silk,
and carried
on a silver platter,
which may be why
it still haunts me
here and now
at the end of another day.
