from The Museum of the Lord of Shame
for John Tarrant
5:30 a.m.
downtown ghetto Richmond
winter–still dark–morning
I get out of the car, but gas
station attendant disappears
behind the bullet-proof
plexiglass window
as two black guys approach
high on blow…
The tall one wants a dollar
for gas, the fat one
a cigarette—both happily given
no sense of fear
The tall one goes to his truck
to write down his number
should I hear of a hauling job
(the long-shot, his desperation
to find work “anywhere, even Sacramento”
–he claims eleven children
& it’s the week before Christmas
Now the fat one is mumbling
& making strange hand gestures
but when I look into his gleaming eyes
there’s a presence between us & fumbling with his hands again
he says, “I can’t express myself…”
downtown ghetto Richmond
winter–still dark–morning
I get out of the car, but gas
station attendant disappears
behind the bullet-proof
plexiglass window
as two black guys approach
high on blow…
The tall one wants a dollar
for gas, the fat one
a cigarette—both happily given
no sense of fear
The tall one goes to his truck
to write down his number
should I hear of a hauling job
(the long-shot, his desperation
to find work “anywhere, even Sacramento”
–he claims eleven children
& it’s the week before Christmas
Now the fat one is mumbling
& making strange hand gestures
but when I look into his gleaming eyes
there’s a presence between us & fumbling with his hands again
he says, “I can’t express myself…”
I say, “you’re doing fine”
he then holds both his arms out, wide
saying, “it’s so big”
“yes,” I say, “it’s big and beyond words”
“you understand,” he says, “most people don’t understand”
Then he gives me a hug
until the tall one comes back
but his pen is hollow
where once was its cartridge
so he returns to the truck.
The fat one says,
“I’m a fisherman too, I come from the sea”
“brother, we all come from the sea”
which brings him to hug me again
which brings him to hug me again
until the fat one returns
with wet, blue numbers
smeared
on a tatter of paper, barely legible
Now the fat one wants to write
his name & number, which he scrawls
studiously
as I think, “getting later & later for dokusan”
then realize
it’s happening
now
Note: dokusan– “the whispered teachings” between teacher and student in the formal zen interview. This poem first appeared in the Parallax Press anthology What Book!? Buddha Poems From Beat To Hiphop; Gary Gach, editor; foreword by Peter Coyote. Winner of an American book award (1999).