letter/poem to doris

dear zenmother,

     ode to the mysticwoman long denied

             and in solemn tribute but not without

   the latent backshine of remorse of not having

              written

               lately

      but     

           my dharma train was slowlygoing in wrong episodes

    and has only lately arrived at a station

           somewhere in this timezone

           hastened maybe by the slow waltzing society machinery

         we all tried so hard to out dance

         o' holy woman of potato driven prophesy

         i bring the gospel you hid in earthen jars

                 in the sanddesert hideaways of my young

                 babble tongued youth

             my love for you only now focused

           not unlike the ten cent mad afternoon

               escape in the cool maw of the voris

     and in my helpless stupor when crossing

                and recrossing the dread hot lands

         i discovered the truth in the zenful

                       mindclingings you carefully

                       wrapped around the face of life

                       with bloodless but pitiful bandages

           simplified by your sanctified and healing

                       guidance

i've seen the belly of the beast o' mother

              the gruesome flattile lining covered with

                   human spit and gore

          and hacking up destiny-retch

                      in the process of denying reality                     

or even the basis of truths bedrock final argument

  but still in acrid stupor i am transfixed upon your silent words

         wafting over the airless smokey interior

              of a l950 silver chapelthing

              with wheels

              and a tongue

         glombing small bowls

                             of chicken butts

                             and noodles

           the mad royal typewriter blasting out latenight

                   in dimlit candle offerings

                   of madness

                             or angry answers driven

                             onto cheap paper

                  hammerlike and undenied

who could or can deny

                       the saintliness of the bu-bu-bap-bu

                 of jukebox liturgy surrounding

               your sisterhood

               your nun-ness invaded by

                    the moors of time

     the message was however spread

         with delirious brown car ramblings to hagermans stark cliffs

             tribute to frank lloyds teater house

                     and the wings of jung

you denied i hated spinoza once

                   in your snuffle laugh and blue smoke

           simply because i never knew who he was

           and because it was true

           i learned to hate the non-jew dutchman

                     honestly

you and monkson patrick

                     christ man saviour of my beat soul

            and mad al

                      mystical purveyer of insane mind meat

            and i

                  all looking for the radio station treasure

             stalking ally oop and plaster dinosaur crap      

      once on a road to bliss

                          but didnt find it

       but found instead other things of greater worth

    while laughing in the summertime lemonjuice sun

but the holiest lessons of my catechism

                           were learned

                           propped on my minds elbow

        listening to the inspired mad truth of your parables                   notwithstanding the drudgery of

            spudsorting induced spinning mind uncontrolled

                        and we all laughed real and tragic

                   tears

                   seeing the truth of the words

                thumping against the walls

          i think they were veneery honeycolor woodgrain

            and the faint smell of burnt coffee

o' mystic lady of the lake

          smiling budda-like in balmy half glow neon prose

                  and prophesy

          forgive me my lapses of ingratitude

          and sublime self-ignorance

i hold my glowing lamp to your zenface

                  and i weep joyous

                  as a middle aged soldier

                 released as a spiritual POW

                  returning home from the war

                                               Ketchum nov93