On my back porch
at the new moon in December
Buddha celebrates the birthday of Jesus.
On my back porch
at the full moon in May
Jesus celebrates the birthday of Buddha.
Sure they are “one,” more or less,
but not the same.
They love to compete in poetry slams.
They keep the rivalry positive,
giving each other compliments like,
“Damn that’s good! But mine is better.”
They know its all for fun,
because every word of scripture is an egg
with something stirring inside that wants
to break the shell and emerge
as a flame of silence.
Between the seasons,
during ordinary time
after one holy day and before another,
they hitchhike to Kansas
and meet on the outskirts of Topeka,
truth tramps
slamming each other with verses
from the Lost Revelation of the Bi-Polar Harlequin.
"I changed water to Ayahuaska
made from celestial poppy stars
and drank all seven barrels."
"My mind is a neon bubble of no-thing,
so don’t get wasted on martyrdom."
"Moderation will get you nowhere."
"Nothing wrong with a clean shave, Rabbi."
"What's with the belly, Tattagatha?"
"The Milky Way is my frisbee."
"I churned God's anger into ghee."
"I remember more lives than sand grains
in your desert of self-flagellation."
"All the information in the universe
is one weird quark of my hemoglobin."
"The sea turtle with the elephant on its back
carrying the world in his tusks
swims in the ocean of my emptiness."
"Yeah well I have ten thousand arms
bearing swords of un-knowing,
ten thousand eyes gazing
through wounded black holes,
ten thousand mouths all shouting Neti Neti."
Finally, like all truth tramps, they get hungry,
throw their arms around each other’s shoulders,
and swagger down to Happy Jack's Diner,
where they bang on the counter, laughing
out of control and shouting,
"See that apple pie? We want the whole thing!"
Happy Jack's mother is a Mexican named Maria.
She silences them with a smile.
"I know, boys," she says, "I know how it is,”
then gathers their lips to her soft brown breasts
and suckles them with unspeakable grace.
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