My Kind of Buddhism

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.