Houseless
If only someone had paid me
for punching air with all I had from a horse stance,
sitting back straight, eyes downcast on a meditation bench,
and writing poems and novels for thousands of hours,
I’d have enough to buy a house.
I never did what my culture rewards.
I didn’t mix cocktails or build bigger cars,
so I’ll make do with these walls of skin
this frame of bone and sinew. Hair droops down my forehead
like the branches of the willow in the front yard,where Roshi Koshin’s
deaf Dalmatian, Meister, rests his chin on his paw.
Books signed by countless authors overflow the library shelves.
I stash them under tables, behind chairs, and in kitchen cabinets.
I built the guest room extra large
to hold Sensei Lennox with his voice like Marlin Perkins,
Mike Wells who counterpunched
before the thought of attack traveled the nerves of my arm,
Aiki George – Mr. Rogers with a sword cut that could cleave a locomotive,
and John Clodig avatar of wu wei with a touch like a silk scarf
until you meet the ground.
My neighbors complain about kiais,
the relentless slap of trainees falling on tatami,
late night poetry readings, the densho ringing at 5:00 AM,
and all that chanting of the Heart Sutra.
Even though the guest room dwarfs a Saturn V hanger,
I add an extension to hold Roshi Koten’s informal talks,
Reverend Tri’s whispered, “Who are you?”
and Jikyo Sensei’s udumbara smile.
Zen masters and martial artists crowd physicists into the garage.
Alex Dzierba builds a particle detector of Legos.
Aruna gets a proton beam from a vacuum pump, horseshoe magnet,
and microwave oven. Phil and Nick crank out cross sections
on a TRS-80. Jim Griffin wakes from his nap, scribbles corrections,
and goes back to sleep.
I brew tea from Bodhidharma’s eyebrows and stroll the garden
to view four moons: the moon itself, its reflection in the pond,
the moon gate, and the reflection in my cup.
I look over the dragon wall at a sea of darkened living rooms
lit only by flickering TVs and weep for the homeless.