Pagodas of Boothill by Max Bleiweis

To the American Monks 

There are but two necessities in life

A good hat to hide from god

And good shoes to outrun the devil. 

So when the sun goes down, 

And cigarette smoke hazes–

The old straining stream,

Once a mighty river,

Which flowed from the wrath

Of forgone tears,

That we may, like all men before us and all men after, 

Cry in the land where they let children cry

As the final somber evening star droops and dims 

Before the last coming of the complete Earth 

That puts to rest all the rivers 

Cups the peaks 

And puts the shores to rest

Longing for the nearness of the distant 

Meandering-baths in the asylum consciousness 

All thrownness hallowed 

And all unknown embraced 

All is true 

In the palm of Buddha’s hand 

Padded with the lost manuscripts 

And the final scriptures 

The warmth of dripping blood and voyaging wax 

Calligraphy of the flesh

Screaming with every drop 

The final verses on man

Begging to let that which shows

itself be seen from itself

All one can hope is that you die with your boots on