by Ben Koch
Meditating on this mind is like serving a monkey spaghetti
or like the endlessness of washing this shirt.
I light some incense and candles,
I scrub every trace of sauce and grease,
those lingering spots of guilt,
until my fingers feel coated with memory.
I purify the breath a nostril at a time,
twist the knob to heavy load and yank,
until a slush of suds engulf the dark stains
of anger, attachment, aversion…,
I lather thoughts in awareness, their rising and falling,
dizzying them in a non-referential spin.
I drag the logged, limp corpse into the dryer,
and toast it for good measure.
I settle mind near the inner heat-light, where impurities
evaporate like mist from the roof of a hot winter hut.
I try it on, still so steaming it brings sweat to my naked perception,
I leave the cushion, mind so wide
I’m walking through it.
But after while it shrinks back to me,
a perfect fit!
Before you know it I’ve got a heaping plate
of worries for dinner,
a forkful of saucy thoughts
swinging toward my shirt.