If an artist becomes too idealistic, he will commit suicide, because
between his ideal and his actual ability there is a great gap. Because there
is no bridge long enough to go across the gap, he will begin to despair.
That is the usual spiritual way.
—D. T. Suzuki, from Zen Mind, Beginner’s Mind
An autumn shadow draws across my room.
This morning’s remedy hasn’t kicked in.
I’m losing the bookshelf wars.
Not to a doctor, but to a dream horizon
dotted with enormous nylon sacks
of arrogance and longing and gloom-fueled sloth.
I wanted more. There it is.
I wanted so much more to issue forth.
Wrong or right, I wanted to walk under a bridge
wearing a hat made of prose
and sing Buddy Holly songs in Russian.
I wanted to sell fire and sirens door to door.
Forget the stamen and the pistil.
I wanted a soy toy. I wanted more.
I could eat the breeze right off the curtains.
