prose poems. rusted pails. lion claws.

Andy Warhol 

I am pushing through the crowd to see a woman who is dressed in lion claws. It is Tuesday and the world is naked again. Thank God, the world is better that way. Lunch is served; bird heads and gristle on an old wooden tray. I am raising up the first bird head to the roar of approval from the nude population. It is crunchy and tastes like November. The lion claw lady dances seductively to the music of the gristle. "Is this gristle pork or beef?" The waiter ignores me until I ask again in Spanish. "Señor, esta es la cabra," he tells me. Goat gristle. The lady spins and twists as I chew, her lion claws clicking perfectly in beat in time to the drums, under the midday sun. When she asks, I tell her that my name is Pablo, though, of course, it isn't. 

james lee jobe 

If you think your body and mind are two, that is wrong; if you think that they are one, that is also wrong. Our body and mind are both two and one.

Shunryu Suzuki

I filled a rusted pail with water from the river of you. Your name and your face splashed out over the sides as I walked, stumbling, carrying you into my house. I was parched for the lack of you. On top of the old table, I plunged the cup into your cold water and quickly drank you down into my body. This refreshed me. On some days I almost forgave you for leaving me to join the river, and I thought that one day I would, that I would get stronger, and know how to forgive. But it hasn't happened yet.  

james lee jobe 

Remember that life is like a mirror: Everything you perceive reflects your inner world. Cleaning your dirty mirror of distorting smudges means clearing self-deception and coming closer to the truth.

Khangser Rinpoche, “Your Life Is a Mirror”

I have been riding this train since before I died. My first arm is stunted from dying, and my second arm is around her waist. There is a dining car, this is the dreaming car. There is no embalming car. Her eyes are brown and her lips are soft and moist. And I am dead. An upright corpse. When the train passes through a tunnel, I pull her to me and I kiss her for the last time. For a moment I feel alive again, but it is a trick of human sexuality; dead, I still want her. When I was alive and human, we made love in the sleeping berth. Steel wheels on steel rails. Power. Life and death. My soul rises up from my cold body, and I watch the two of us, chatting as the train climbs up into the hills. The seats are comfortable and the table is clean. I can see my dead body breathing, my stunted arm is held close to my body. Is there a next life? Will I still be myself, or will I be a stranger to myself? Floating, my soul turns away from my body. Through the window, blue sky. Enough trees for a forest, but I don't know if it is a forest. 

james lee jobe 

The profound sadness that overwhelms us when we understand the impermanent nature of all phenomena opens us up to the world around us. We open our hearts and begin to notice our fellow beings. 

Chokyi Nyima Rinpoche, “The Secret Strength of Sadness”

Link: I wake at dawn to glimpse my barren chest and speak to the children I won’t birth. Poetry by Spencer Williams

Andy Warhol 

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