The lonely silence of five in the morning.
The cat sprawls upon the bookcase
dreaming whatever cats dream.
Only the waking birds sing out.
Another morning in the same room.
In Zen they say: sit where you are.
External circumstances don't matter.
But I am sorely vexed by this room,
this quiet, these walls, reality.
I do not wish to wake to this again.
In Vietnam, my first conscious thought
upon waking was, "****, I'm still here."
Once more it has come to that.
A prison is anyplace you don't want to be
and can't leave. I am locked in prison.
Age and circumstance have sentenced me.
Nowhere to run; nowhere to hide.
Only the difficult admonition: sit where you are.
And settling upon the cushions, I try and try.
If you know of anyone who needs the services
of a broken, old, poor, poet monk, call me.
~mce
Seriously.
