Three Poems from the Attic

I.
The laughing Buddha, his face a façade,
As empty as his sack—the actor's trick
To be drunk, in love, passionate, approving
Without being any of those;
What is it in showing the world
Its own error—when the world can't see?
Why be Santa Clause of nothing
Instead of what you are, something much more,
A fragile vibration in the gold of frozen time,
With tears like mirrors, that exists
Without need of existence.

II.
I've grown to let the world master me,
To write for nobody,
To watch the drill screw deep in dirt
Without asking “what for” and “how,”
To say nothing in arguments and not know that I won,
To see nothing less beautiful than anything else,
Nor a distinction between living and dead.
I've gathered up the markers
And left the fruit to rot.

Without the mind in front of all things,
There is no want or hunger.
Without incessant weighing,
Balance becomes natural,
A billboard by the highway
Can't lead me inexorably
To my darkest, most tender places.

III.
The light on the airport atrium floor
Like the precious sun through prison bars.
A yellowed man reads a yellowed book,
And cradles the pages with his hands
To keep them from flying
Like playing cards.