Poem No. 8: Dusk

It is dusk as I write. 
Deep denim blue jean dusk,
little molecules of white in the darkening sky
showing through the blinds before night. 
In the clutter and clatter of inside,
the bulb of a single lamp sheds itself 
on days years ago written down,
talking about how things come together.

I don't like to throw things away, making garbage,
more trash for the pile. This goes especially for all those 
gifts, like the tiny lime-green plastic Buddha I received,
five birthdays ago from the waiter at a Chinese restaurant
who saw how sick I was, ill inside as I celebrated another year
surrounded by friends and family and coworkers, some who 
I've lost contact with, some who I've cut off, some who are still
very present in my life. So many odds and ends, special rocks, even,
treasures to remember trips and happy accidents, 
small pieces from the ground. 

I don't collect -
but I save every last bit waiting 
to prove worthwhile in the long run.

Today, I put Buddha in front of a candle
for a photo and it looked awful. Buddha's
head was on fire with what looked like a 
flaming feather; the whole thing looked like
a mockery of Indians and Buddhists and Asians 
alike. 

It's the lens that scares me. It's OK to notice it,
its' cutting to the core, its' wideness. That uneasiness 
you feel makes it OK to intervene too, to fix it, make of it
something better, something soft, something 
not needing to pierce with its sterility, but a shaping -
needing not a clearing out and hauling away,
but a reassessment, rearrangement, a remaking of it all: 
a coming together. Only then, after all of that trying
and testing, trial and error, one actually has a chance 
to look and see what it is that simply needs to go 

Poof! Like magic.