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Gautama sits in his golden cloister, mouth shut like a tight, complacent oyster, silent, his shiny pearls clamped in himself like a greedy man hoarding his vast wealth. But what does the Buddha know, anyway? He was nigh-thirty on that fateful day when he rode forth into his father’s realm on a grand chariot, a crown his helm. He saw suffering thitherto denied unto him while he long sheltered inside amidst the opulence of his palace, his life a draught from the golden chalice. The bitter dregs were apparent, at last, though he was still blinded by his high caste. He saw an old man, a sick man, the dead, and an ascetic, and though highborn-bred he still worried about himself, of course, (not others), and he wondered if the source for removing such pains was self-denial. So he sat under a tree for a while, forty-nine days, they claim, though I do doubt he sat that long, for he was bound to spout about how great he was, how he alone would discover Moksha, all on his own, and he had to expel his piss and poo so his bowels could be enlightened, too. Be that as it may, his lotus soon gaped and he saw Nirvana when he escaped from the world’s pains, yet returning to preach to any poor peasant within his reach, saying, “You, too, can escape rebirth’s wheel if you would only submit, bow, and kneel and deny yourself less than what you now own, which is already little, and on loan, but as a prince I can tell you the worth of such possessions on this fickle earth. Life is suffering! The world is a trap! Deny yourself—drink the bodhi tree’s sap!” Most people shrugged, or only rolled their eyes, and continued their work, already wise to the ways of the world, to the hard truths the prince could not learn from beneath the roofs of his palace, his birthright, his clam shell, that privileged heaven devoid of hell. And then he began to raise his temples, spreading his message like pox-born pimples, no doubt using his princely position to thwart other ascetics, his mission privileged by connections to the courts throughout the land, favors, toady cohorts, his franchise spreading like a fast-food chain or death-cult concerned with its earthly reign. But he let go of some earthly trifles, like his wife and child, that which oft stifles a cult leader when he wants a fresh start, free from the past—pure in his holy heart. But Gautama could not shake his wife loose, for earthly bonds are stronger than the noose and will follow a man into his grave, yet he was, if anything, a shrewd knave, and said that women could not be allowed, and, thus, his wife was lost among the crowd. But after many complaints from his aunt, Siddhartha did, eventually, recant, saying, “Women can be nuns, I suppose, but you are lesser than monks, because bros come before hoes, and so you must obey the lowliest monk, and do what they say.” Then Gautama’s cousin rose against him, saying Gaut was corrupt, given to whim, and partook of meat, despite Buddhist laws stating beasts could not be slain just because monks and nuns hankered for pork or for fowl, but only incidentally, somehow. (What a roundabout loophole to ensure you could eat sentient life and remain pure!) But this would be your undoing, buddha, not unlike Nagas and the Garuda as the bird stamps claws downward to pin them as fangs bite upward to sting with venom. For you, too, hankered for non-vegan food and though you forbid harm to beasts, your mood was for pork, which was brought to you forthwith— you ate it without so much as a sniff and thereafter fell quite ill, your belly sloshing and tossing, your bowels smelly, taken to the grave by a bit of pig, which is ironic for someone so big in the world’s pantheon of myths and gods, your shadow looming large, against the odds, since you were not meant to be a being at all, nor ego, nor soul, but fleeing matter, space, and time, freed from such rebirth that continues to populate the earth.
But speak, buddha, and let us hear the clink of the pearls, of what you happen to think is best for us peasants beneath your throne— tell us what you think, what you alone discovered after leaving your shelter and saw, at long last, the helter-skelter of Life, of the world at large, and its woes; tell us what it is, naif prince, you suppose is the source of our suffering, tell us what we already know, be not jealous of your unique viewpoint, your perspective on Life, the existential elective. I should like to hear the clink of your pearls when you speak and your lacquered tongue unfurls.
The Empress Josephine had all the pearls that a woman could want around her neck, wealth envied by ladies and dukes and earls, like the treasure from a galleon wreck, yet below-deck, behind her crimson mouth, the sugarcane sweets from her hometown isle on Martinique, down in the Carib South, had rotted her teeth brown behind her smile— brown like molasses, and no pearls could hide the oyster-halitosis in her quips, for though the empire fetched pearls far and wide, she had no pearls within her foul clam lips.
A fly rests on the head of US Vice President Mike Pence as he takes notes during the vice presidential debate against US Democratic vice presidential nominee and Senator from California Kamala Harris in Kingsbury Hall at the University of Utah on October 7, 2020, in Salt Lake City, Utah. (Photo by Eric BARADAT / AFP) (Photo by ERIC BARADAT/AFP via Getty Images)
Behold! The most high priest speaking false-tongued fictions in a sprawl of corpses, a feast to earn benedictions from great Beelzebub, the Hell Prince, Lord of Flies who blesses maggot, worm, and grub, and all death-fed likewise.
Beware, my friend, beware!
If you care, if you dare,
to go make some night soil
when in nights black as oil
near lakes both dark and still
and you feel a slight chill,
if you squat, drop, or stoop,
Kappa will have his soup!
He likes it fresh, of course,
likes it fresh from the source,
so you mind from behind
or he will not be kind,
taking the best of you
for his witching hour stew—
reaching for an hors d’oeurve,
up your butt, like a perv.
Downwind
Thinking himself quite tall
and claiming the high ground,
he loomed over them all
from atop a dung mound.
“You’re beneath me,” he said,
“and you always will be.”
Bible in hand, he read
from Deuteronomy.
“So circumcise your heart,”
he said, “and be not...stiff...”
then choked on the next part,
getting too big a whiff
of the shit neath his shoes,
as did his would-be flock
who left, as so behooves
those sickened by shit talk.
“Wait!” he cried, but then coughed
at the odor blowing
with the wind, now aloft,
and the heat now glowing
amidst the Summer sky
beaming with its full fire,
bringing tears to each eye
and worse than any mire.
“By God!,” the man exclaimed,
“and by Moses and Christ,
and all who yet be named,
this is a true shite-geist!”
He wavered a moment,
feeling faint at the smell,
but rallied as he went
though the smell did but swell.
“Yet, I shall reprimand
this age of foulest souls
and purge this goodly land
until the church bell tolls
to declare all so pure
as a Godly town might...”
He gagged as the manure
stank in the hot sunlight.
Rallying once again
from atop his dais,
he preached against all sin,
saying, “Lord God, stay us
from temptation, from lust,
from envy and from wrath,
show us works we will trust
and show us the right path.”
Then pointing at a boy
passing by with a book,
he vowed then to destroy
all sinners with a look
should they read any tome
that was not the Bible,
but the boy went on home
and cared not of “high bull”.
A girl then passed in grace
with ribbons fine and fair
and the preacher’s green face
burned bright red with a glare.
“Vanity is thy name!
Forsake earthly treasures
or it will be thy shame
in Heaven, these pleasures!”
The girl pinched her nose
and gave him a wide berth,
fearing to ruin clothes
more than her soul on earth.
The preacher loathed the cloth
of her pink dress as well,
saying “Beware the moth
that nibbles souls in Hell!”
The girl did not glance back,
but hastened to the downs,
keen to practice her knack
for sewing pretty gowns.
And many a more soul
did the preacher condemn,
the world together, whole—
leaf and bloom, root and stem.
“Foul! Foul! So foul indeed!
This world stretched beneath me!
An iniquitous seed
felled from the Fruitful Tree!”
He stomped deep in the mound
as if ‘twas what he scorned,
kicking filth all around
like a bullshitter, horned.
“As a Joshua tree
will my belief so grow
from this filth beneath me
and the faith that I show!”
All day he preached thereon
till sun slept and moon fell,
and though he bathed till dawn
he could not shake the smell.
“The iniquities last,
ever without reprieve
as shadows from the past
cast by Adam and Eve.”
He thought it a trial
from which others might learn,
yet his wife thought it vile—
a circumstance to spurn.
“If you are so holy,”
she said, “be a saint
no more roly-poly.
Wash away your foul taint!”
“Tis the taint of the world!”
he said, “and follows thus!”
She screamed at him, then hurled
a pan, raising a fuss.
“Out! Out!” she cried, “Out, swine!
I cannot endure you!
Were I not wedded thine
I would marry anew!”
The preacher fled thither,
backside aching from blows,
and felt his heart wither,
as did his crinkling nose.
“The stench persists,” he said,
walking the country lane,
knowing not where to head
while stench brimmed in his brain.
“Now I am an exile
from out my own good home,
prey to some devil’s wile
and forever to roam!”
Angrier than before,
the preacher returned now
to the high mound once more
with a complacent brow.
“Still do your sins smell!”
he proclaimed, hands aloft.
“And will thus unto Hell
when sulphur and fire waft!
Raise your heads up to me,
and know the higher ground,
for I stand above thee,
a sermon on the mound!”
For the rest of his days
the mad preacher lectured,
decrying the world’s ways
while retching on each word.