It's just another number, 21 for argument's sake (for heaven's
sake) & child
of the hatey eighties & Rega-fuckin-omics
is sick of it. Enough of it already -- all this
pseudo-emo dark as night dark knight kill em all burn it down break some stuff
nihil: I’m sick of it. Sing it & riddle me this my brother, can you handle it?
My kind of Buddhism has eight
soulful arms that carry cat-o-nine tails
whipping the sound & the fury out of everything
in sight, kissing
it all goodbye with love. My kind
of Buddhism is filled with
defiant reliant compassionate indignation that comes with
always taking perfect steps, imperfectly. This man himself
for certain stubbed toes, crunched
those suckers hard & had harsh words learned
at private school to say
about that. You see, my kind
of Buddhism forgives & is hellious mad, lets it all go & pushes against
streams of convention, authority, anti-authority, sense of self, misplaced guilt
in between known & un. My kind of Buddhism
is kind, delicate, orchid
of belief, sultry
in this way & that, sassy & that & sings jazz
with light
through frosted windows & this because
my kind of Buddhism is without smoke
or mirrors, sees itself
& you & you & you &
clarifies ghosts who haunt the films of our lives & embraces every
tragic ending.
Hear me now cuz here it comes! My kind of Buddhism
makes beats, ties knots in loops, shoots hoops
with kids down the block, blocks shots that come from the top
hats & smacks
down all the wack players with their favours
& their flavours our cracked up money has to offer. Coffers
in the banks are coffins that sank
the poor while my kind of Buddhism
rages against machines, leans
hard into winds of change in the name of fame, feigns
recognition, explains indecision, & names
this simple Buddhism, numbers a
side, sickness a perfect
click into this perfect
riddle.
