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.