Buddha Bookshelf

It stretches out like a psychedelic skirt pulled taut -
they're shoulder to shoulder, smiling softly
before infinite setting suns shining
like rings in each planetary ear.

In each eye he sees things that have no explanation.
Today it's flowers for the famous faces.
The Pope is a marigold printed on a summer dress.
Tony Blair is a carnation held under a crying child's nose.
Dubya, such a silly lily, someone gave him as a gravestone gift.

He used to hoard his mother's cookies
in a heavy glass jar shaped like a bell -
once he dreamed that she kept a young boy's head
in a blue metal bucket by the fire.
He woke up so afraid of being a beggar,
lost in the dark, rainy streets, skidding, crashing,
his fingers tracing some remembered music.

He knows history. He read about the ovens,
the war machines and the Nazi lampshades,
but he keeps seeing them in blue,
made from Krishna's skin, stretched taut,
immortal fireflies for stars within.

No one would ever know he isn't crazy.
No one sees the Buddhas on his bookshelf,
endlessly mirrored, one for each decision and each life,
the cut of every knife, the kindness of every kiss,
the blindness of his soul and his unanswerable bliss.