on a list of games that buddha would not play, number 8 is
the salākahattha:
dip your hand into red dye,
strike the wall, and figure in rouge or rust, a horse, or wolf.
little rogue riding hood, or snow white,
virginity is a cringe
title i want to write
but what would the buddha think of my bloated thinking?
or epistemology (i mean fuck,
what a rush!) i’ll share
with you, a near-rotten poem, or a reinvented wheel
of brie, or dharma. same thing.
rein it in. turn me over to gnaw my droopyservings,
then blow me and the darjeeling. together
we dip into the dark water, and strike up
dripping horses. a hot conversation piece on the backsplash.
figures, between the two of us,
only i would bake up a metaphor
of cranberries to little mouths
(we’ve all read this fairy tale)
like blood in the brie,
studs in its shitty skin’s cream, but i won’t tell.
the game is no longer my celibacy.
bye, red-robed monkhood, and millenia—
old leaves. hello, confidential body, come
apart to reincarnate.
carnality is a thousand scotsman’s
wolf whistles rolled into pastry and zen
freezer butter, there for you
to vacuum up. uproot.
like a brute red in carnation.
like this volta, we always get turnt
on near the end. at our little deaths, i’ll handprint you
another wall lime. green tea next time.
