Good sir—you claim there is no “I”.
Your Buddha says it’s just a sham;
that all is one, and that is why
we ought to merge,
repress the urge
and give a damn.
You say desire upholds the ego
(selfish bully, source of sin)
but void of self-hood where can we go?
Scale the mountains,
flow in fountains,
gaze within?
OK; let’s cultivate the glow.
We’ll sit and let Samsara roll.
(Be careful lest your aura show!)
Then still the spin
and glimpse within
the Oversoul . . .
I find a catch in this your theory.
True, it sounds quite mystical . . .
in practice, though, it makes me leery.
Cynical jeers
give way to fears
logistical:
without an “I”, who pays my rent?
Why learn, why sing, why plant or reap?
Why should the criminal repent
if there’s no he
who wronged the me
with no harm meant?
Multitudes will be liberated by that recognition; and although multitudes obtain liberation in that manner, the number of sentient beings being great, evil karma powerful, obscurations dense, propensities o too long standing, the Wheel of Ignorance and Illusion becometh neither exhausted nor accelerated.
The Tibetan Book of the Dead translation: Lāma Kazi Dawa-Samdup
“Free Tibet” your sticker tells me… Yes, I think, perhaps I should—
and the noble thought compels me,
uninformed, half-understood.
Will their freedom help my Karma?
Upgrade my reincarnation?
(Soul who could not dare to harm a
fly… much less a Buddhist nation.)
Not to justify aggression
by the ever-brutal Commies,
let us grant no glib concession
to the Maoists or their mommies.
Slogans echo in the void,
shining in bardos of the dead;
stopped by the light, I am annoyed
impatient for the change from red.
A bumper crop of human woe beams forth a mandate to my brain while red Dakinis circle slow
in Buddhist hells of karmic pain.
The eastern concepts here diverge
and bow before brutality.
They make this driver long to merge
with incorporeality.
Then I glimpse a monkish fellow
swathed in saffron, calmly seated.
His, the cloud-borne sage’s pillow;
mine the traffic; stalled, defeated.
In his gaze of stern displeasure
I perceive the orient stars
calculating man’s mismeasure
trapped, exhausted, among the cars.
Flanked by Spirits wreathed in fire he extends an accusing hand: Western slave of base desire: come and liberate my land !”
I meditate before the stop light:
am I ready for the task ?
Should I just refuse it outright Can’t it be someone else ? I ask…
Must I free this mountain nation
from the Buddha, demons and Reds?
Shall your sticker’s declaration shatter the yoke and raise their heads ?
Somebody ought to free Tibet,
and heed this Himalayan cry.
Maybe we should get upset…
The red light changes. Cars pass by,
predestined for benign events
and unconcerned for persecution;
oblivious to dissidents
awaiting execution.
CONNECT/HOOK 