Losing words like aneurysm, stroke
Blood clot…falling like paint at my canvas feet…
hemorrhage, cardiac arrest
Leaving bloody stains on the floor
Words like blood soaked waves
The mirrored floor
Reflecting back the saintly souls floating,
Breathing above my head
Kwan Yins and beautiful magic Madonnas
Paint-like drops and hot breath fog
As I sit straight back
In golden rest.
A Tsaddik… A Tsaddik… A Tsaddik… A Tsaddik
Filled with warm rushing red blood and blue veins.
Little Orange ovals dissolve under my tongue
Blue dots above.
The knowledge tree.
Hiding the evil and wicked
In between sheets of paper
Paper filled with scribbles
A Tsaddik… A Tsaddik… A Tsaddik …A Tsaddik
Don’t try to hide, sleeping, a simple bhikku,
In a shady orange grove in Riverside
The police in their patrol cars
In their shiny cruisers
The police will bust you and lock you away
Even if you are a Mohawk
…they have no respect for the American Indian
Or religious expression or joy
In Riverside, California
Or Oceanside or Barstow
Or Bakersfield north.
The words fall out like fireworks and dust and sparkler ash.
Holding my breath
As I watch the inky blood fall from under clouds
Getting covered in the color
A Tsaddik… A Tsaddik… A Tsaddik… A Tsaddik.