An unreflective bodhisattva
nods to the unwashed dishes.
Once again I seek a daily liberation
from a chore long boondoggled.
Next a phlegmy mantra
gummed through spongy lips.
I sleep, I wake. I sleep, I wake.
The mug is perfunctorily rinsed,
I am aware of not being aware.
Sweetness comes in pink packets.
The sacraments are torn open
two at a time with habitual practice.
The ceremony proceeds.
The percolator bubbles a last breath.
Maya burps its body-dreams,
I pour black oozing bliss
into my cup
where it settles like mud
a lotus bloom of aroma.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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