The brain’s right hemisphere is in the SaveMart parking lot,
the left one is there too — given the way of this world
of late, it’s harder to tell the difference between the two.
As even the practical chores take on a dream-like quality,
I find myself ignoring the rules of proper punctuation.
Like William Butler Yeats once said: “Things fall apart. . .”
My keyboard here has a dried piece of pickled ginger
glued to the letters A and S, but back in the parking lot
a California State flag is fluttering in the breeze.
Is it the wind that blows, the flag, or the mind?
I forget what the right answer was supposed to be,
maybe there no longer is one.
Perhaps that is why the ornamental fruit tree over there
is blossoming now, though it will never bear fruit —
it is just planted there for show, after all.
Roshi is dead but I still hear his voice:
The big dark storm clouds are moving fast overhead,
they come in off the Pacific Ocean and then travel East.
If you’re there, the ones you see won’t be the same as these,
the whole foundation of Buddhism rests on that fact.