Depictions of Buddhas knee-deep in angst

by Samuel Derrick Rosen

The counter-clockwise are holy
Every statue is sculpted with a virtue that's vain
Some should be lazing in the Gardens of Babylon
Fed dates and grapes by long slender hands.

A dyslexic anthropologist equipped with a trumpet
Trapped between columns of Latin and Greek
Continually reaches for a thought unrefined

Frequents the caf├ęs as if they were temples
Loiters by portraits of morose tinsel queens
Views his espresso a magic elixir
His window seat a pulpit
From which no Lazarus may preach

He tips his Fedora to invisible palindromes
Inscribed on walls by omnipresent hands
At the next table Don Quixote
Holds a white lily
His third eye producing one immaculate tear

Prophesies a renaissance that is already here
Appears a phantom no phantom at all
Emily Dickinson in a resplendent red dress
Her countenance says
Don't dare touch my grammar
I'll reduce all your nights to diamonds and clubs

She's been living too long inside of her attic
An obedient servant to the psychosomatic
Tormented by abstraction, trees, guilty lovers.

Eves dream of Adams mourning their Eves
Grand sweeping moonlit overtures
Symphonic holocausts  All poets are deceived

Into penning countless sun-drenched paradelles
By depictions of Buddhas knee-deep in angst.