i saw your Buddha-nature
in the Buddha poster on the wall
my father’s eyes in the man

on the street your blue eyes
in the May afternoon sky tried to count
the blades of grass in the lawn
but could not wrap my mind around
the number, the pockmarked
apocalypse packed its bags and disappeared
so the people would web-search
to find out that it really meant
“a lifting of the veil,
revelation”
 
i didn’t see my Zapatista-nature
in the Internet picture
of the face with a black balaclava
but i experienced it
when the afternoon sun hit
the white metal rain gutter
on the side of the house
i didn’t see nothing because
it was so bright but it spoke
of a white-fire that cleanses the soul —
and the light-bathing from the long days
of the solar cycle, but when i touched
your skin...
 
the drone of Buddhists chanting
in the horrific machinery
of suburban manicured lawns
but in the lilacs all i could smell
was lilacs, in the cut grasses,
cut grasses, in the rosemary, rosemary
then dusk lingered in the mouth
speechless like chocolate melting
on the quivering tongue-red horizon
 
broken dreams in the artillery
of pawns marching across borders
choking on the dust of deserts
while elitists chuckle broadly
over broads and cocktails in air-conditioned
glass hotels when they should know better
than to throw stones, but when i touched
your skin...
 
i did not see the Buddha-nature
in birds blinded
from the Fukushima fallout
but it was felt as night fell over the town
a light went on inside, when day broke bright again
a man wore black and so i saw the Yin-Yang-nature
of the world but could not wrap my mind
around the rainbow or why the materialists
would want to desecrate the Grand Canyon
by mining uranium but after discussing it
with a friend we realized the root
of the problem is
mine and yours

but when we touch a human being's skin...