PAPA IN O.T.

There is a there
where you are;
here is a here when
let me go then
I and I...
Unlashed slits unlatched
grow hands, finger-tips
to sense your presence
propinquitious.
Little bowris* on sides both
grow legs stepping down to the doormat
some footsteps shuffle and ripple
watery silence of the corridors.
The back of my palms
perforated with needled eyes
with doctor’s tape apertured
pain looks through and beyond.
A bottle of glucose
oozes in liquid hope
to metamorphose a here’s when
to a there’s then.
Then, green aprons flutter,
come to collect a withered leaf
(...)

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A LETTER FROM BUDDHA TO CONFUCIUS IN AN URGENCY OF COVID -19

Dear Luang Phi,
it is 4:00a.m. And April, 3.
The tenth moon—a shut argument
begins to wind up and shy away
with stars sinking one by one
like hypothesizes.
A dark lull looms over the sleeping city.
And I sitting in this Vihara
think of Lu,
of you, Bhante!
Your wisdom, your words, your
wanderings! lost into a sty.
A saint is a projectile thrown
into ad infinitum
into an endless sky.
How comes it, then, that the parabola
turns into hyperbola.
Kung Fu! were you the one
who cared more for the human
beings than the burnt stables
unthinking of the horses, the centaurs.
Were you the one who
invented nothing, yet a transmitter.
(...)

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