I have a hang-up
on women's hair
like most men
seem to,
and I have
a new idea
for an old hair style
for me,
which is to get
a haircut
that leaves it long,
instead of
cutting it short
like I used to,
and then I want to
grow it out
even longer
like the old hippie days,
and I got this idea
in my head
for no special idea
except that I thought
I might like it.
Some old Zen guy,
who had a deep Zen understanding,
once said
that the teeth on the board
grow hair,
so I had read this
many years ago
and this morning
decided to figure it out,
so I went to my dead mother's bathroom
where her false teeth were,
and poured out the water,
then I wondered where a board was,
so I turned and saw the wooden cabinet
with a board for a top
and put the teeth on the board,
then I stood there
waiting for the teeth to grow hair,
when I glanced back
and saw that next to them
was a brush
with hair in it.
So I laughed.
All us men
seem to think
that the woman
we are looking for
is another
being in a body,
but I found
that for me,
my girl
is found inside
where I am
and I married her
and the thing about it
is that my woman
is a perfect match
for me
who is such a mess
and she is
my dream of a reality
and she never leaves me,
and that is how
I have become
whole.
When I got to the Zen temple,
I heard that Zen was about
loving-kindness,
and so I was sold on it,
but I didn't seem to receive
much loving-kindness,
but I tried to give it,
even though I wasn't very good
at it,
and so I think that loving-kindness
is what the world needs,
but it's hard to give,
because if I give loving-kindness
to men,
they think I'm gay,
and if I give loving-kindness
to women,
they think I'm hitting on them,
so I try
to be loving-kind,
but it's difficult
in this world
with all the stupidity
that we all seem to have.
So as I was walking out
of the parking garage
in my little suburban town,
I was smoking
and just as I dropped
my cigarette on the pavement
and was getting out
my cigarette butt picker upper bag,
a lady who looked older than me
got out of her car
and gave me
a dirty look
and said,
"That's not nice..."
in a grumpy tone of voice,
and I said,
"What's not nice?"
in my best nice voice,
and she grumbled something
in a grumpy mumble,
as I picked up
my cigarette butt,
so as I was walking away
I thought,
"Which isn't nice?
My smoking?...
or her?"
Somebody
is underlining words
in my poetry
in some sort of secret attempt
to send me
little messages
in a sort of code,
and I don't know
who it is
that is doing it,
so naturally
I get a bit
suspicious
and think
that it's the government
or somebody
like that,
and it just
kind of makes
this poor crazy poet
a little bit crazier,
in this era
of internet lunacy,
so I wish
that it would stop
but I can't do anything
about it,
except write this.
