The Coffee Making Ceremony
An unreflective Bodhisattva
nods to the unwashed dishes.
Once again I seek my morning
liberation by ways of a dark libation
Next a phlegmy mantra
gummed through spongy lips.
“I sleep, I wake. I sleep, I wake”
The mug is perfunctorily rinsed,
the stains of past desires
ring the rim like hungry ghosts.
I am aware of not being aware.
Ipso facto: I am aware,
but only in the cracks
between random thoughts.
Sweetness comes in pink packets.
The sacraments are torn open
two at a time with habitual practice.
A Zen-like work,
by rote and thought-free.
The percolator bubbles a last breath.
Like the Tathagata, I am truly gone.
An arm pours black oozing bliss
Into my mug.
A beatific smile
escapes from grungy features.
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