came to town one burnt orange Thursday,
trailing occluded fronts and
isolated pockets of impassivity;
in his lonely footfalls strange lilacs bloom,
smelling of dusty Tee Vees and
fabric softener, their color dictated by
extensive market research.
With robes smooth and forehead creased,
he pitches Enlightenment—
now with up to twenty per cent
more Inner Peace
and a fresh pine scent—
to the girl standing still for pennies and
cheaper smiles; to the man
content with bagpipes and cigarettes; to
the bottle redhead under glass,
writing sestinas, spending her
lunch hour skinny-dipping
in the Oh Ee Dee.
The rudest Awakening:
He hears not the ting of knife on crystal,
but klaxons when he sees
that Buddhas abound with no one the wiser.
There is Rain, then, a bold new scent
from those who brought you Umbrella. And
the Buddha of Sofas and Blinders beams wetly,
suspended in silkthreads of awe.
(first appeared in Vallum 4.2/5.1)