If I see one more fucking Zen poem

 

If I see one more fucking Zen poem

I will scream.
Enough with the footprints in moss,
the happy crickets.

I’m repairing a burst water pipe
next to a Buddha statue
on a McMansion lawn
in a soppy hole I’ve dug  
as twilight darkens
while the client frets at my hourly expense,
tells me my fee is “unconscionable,”
he a psychoanalyst whose fee, no doubt,
has conscience.

The rising moon is my lover’s breast
with shadowy crater her nipple,
those night clouds her fragrance,
the winking jet my desire,
the meteor my sperm.
As I solder copper pipe, boots in mud,
in this labor in my anger
I am strangely happy.

…..

First published in Anti-Heroin Chic—thank you James Diaz, editor