I’M DROPPING ASHES ON BUDDHA PINOCCHIO
I’m dropping ashes on Buddha Pinocchio.
Brushing them off his lap, sweeping them off the desk,
trying to keep urns of them away from the keyboard
with a stubby little brush that looks like Hitler’s moustache.
Or Goring’s toothbrush. So much soiled purity.
In the acts of love we attend to. So much swamp
with the waterlilies. So much ore with the gold.
So much rain in a glass of trees. So many ashes to scatter
like a dead storm that’s snuffed itself out on a grey wind
that rises like a smoke bandanna over the sun on the horizon.
Cherry red. Like a tumour. But enough said. It’s not
about that eraser head. Pink nibbling nipple.
It’s about lunettes and nibs like spearheads that penetrate
your heart like Clovis points flint knapped plalanged in Solutria
as they inched around the ice age page
by snow white page by page by glacial ice sheet
to make it all the way to North America
in time to disappoint the natives in the Bering Strait
as founding peoples of two entire continents
with what a dust storm induced by the Younger Dryas ice age
can do to wipe people out with most of the larger animals
buried whether they lay down for or stood up to the dust.
Whole two continents kissing an hourglass isthmus
just like an image in Buddha Pinocchio’s blind mind.
You’ve got to attend to this as if you were responsible
for the death blossoms of his pygmy apple trees
and Japanese plums losing their eyelids to squanderous visions
that rain back down to earth volcanic down
like Pompey and Herculaneum sculpting dogs in agony.