Cruising, really cruising,
in the most material thing I’ve known.
’66 mustang -289, navy blue,
white convertible top and leather,
wooden steering wheel.
Brand new from Dad for your 16th,
I’m hoping that makes you 18 now.
Poets are better at lying
than telling the truth,
and you are the Master.
Your most damning tone,
you are for sure pissed.
Sitting there in your bucket seat –
Audrey Hepburn – lotus style,
neck straight, blue eyes closed,
hands in your lap.
The fingers of the right hand
resting lightly on the fingers of your left,
thumbs just barely touching.
A perfect ‘mudra’
and I wonder where you picked that up.
We had just come from ‘2001’,
heading to the neighborhood bar,
a shot of bourbon and a cold beer.
What do you think the monolith represents?
I ask – interested – but feeling
like I’m breaking ice since we left the bijou.
All right, we did your movie
and now you’re taking me to a bar?
I thought we were going to the mountains
and watch the sun rise. You know,
she says – like she does –
compartmentalization is responsible
for the spiritual vacuity of people today.
Rationalization and your need for a drink
seem to take precedence over everything.
still in her ‘zazen pose’
and presumably the result of
I mull this over,
but not too much,
Let’s get back to the poet thing,
I slam on the brakes –
master of something –
and you open your eyes.
You should learn not to mix metaphors
and your Zen is bullshit.
The bald, gay Buddha bobble head –
you know the one with teeth
like Martha Raye –
bouncing like crazy on the dash
seemed to adamantly agree with me.