The ajahn has no time for it.
Says the Buddha said not,  not no.
But I know what I saw
in the oldest church in Bogota.
The Black Christ black
for real, not from smoke.
Here the dead fish bloat,
silver pillows in the scum,
cottonwood seed garlanding
the night. Not-self, no-self;
potato, potahto. Etymologically
Christ was a Buddha
and the Buddha a Christ.
Both honorifics. Both preached
to make of your poverty
an unwavering light. In Islam
the holy ones depicted
with heads flaming, colors
ombré like gas on a stove. Nights
I carry my rabbit heart to the wall,
begging with only half of it
to be eviscerated, steered toward
my one good thing that lasts.
The wall says I am only here and now.
The wall says deal with it.
The rest is Mara, a demon
crafted from sugar and glass.
The confection works like this:
You believe yourself to be
the snake but in truth
you are only the rope.