shoestring blues for buddha

 
the ache is perfect

bodhisattvas aren't made instantaneously
and the walking mans illumination
steps tangible scuffed nirvana segments
into the debris
collected by the soles of my shoes

should I stop I would not sense it
slow down or speed up, it ceases

"be between", the ache pleads, yet
denies the backside of expectation;
the sorrow that fills the stomachs of minutes

I would kill it if it weren't for the hours
burning away in the inclusive always
that is not eternity, is not the sterile face
of observed divinity

no!

make my feet swell
make my meditation movement
make my ascension temporary

and land me always
in these well worn shoes
that have traversed the paths
of the last laugh Bodhi tree groves,
but went passed them
in defense of a wanting
that can never be met