a Buddha on the nightstand

I've become skeptical,
yet I put my hands out,
into the dark night,
to be slapped,
and bit,
and burned,
and stung,
for the worst storms,
are in the mind,
wait them out,
play some cards,
tap a tune on the knees,
or shadow box the breeze,

open the shutters,
step out alone,
meet the Devil at the gate,
pay no heed,
go right through,
the wicked world is waiting for you,
the Devil throws a jab,
a southpaw angel,
with a right foot glide,
I stick and move,
then step to the side,
play through the pain,
blood in the eyes,
cramps in the thighs,
feel the spirit rise,

no other journey but to find the Self,
no matter a distance so far,
or an ocean so deep,
or a desert so wide.

getting back

put the paint on the paper,
watch the colours run down,
I feel like I'm waiting,
for my luck to turn around,

thoughts start exploding,
like salmon from a stream,
like an ancient Zen symbol,
I know just what it means,

a force pushing from the outside,
against an opposite force within,
I try to transcend the fools,
preaching salvation and sin,

look what it gives you,
one contingency to the next,
too busy texting and tweeting,
no time left to reflect,

a quest for the plastic and hollow,
when there's more to behold,
rivers of colour,
flow through the folds,
into the cold, dirty street,
where the flesh of reality,
and the bones of our principles meet.