Caution: Can a half-ass Buddhist have nearly as many spiritual ancestors as a very wise roshi? - Barry Denny

[Larry Robinson]

Caution: Can a half-ass Buddhist have nearly as many spiritual ancestors as a very wise roshi? 
 
    I 
 
Unless you’re dead, my friend  
you’re wounded, ten thousand times mangled, 
blood seeping, pus oozing.  
 
Then again, if you’re already dead, you’re a ghost. 
Doesn’t even matter whether ghosts exist,  
now or never.  
 
My Zen teacher’s teacher died a few weeks ago. In the Zendo, on our alter beneath the photograph of Bernie Glassman,  
Roshi’s spiritual ancestor, a thread of yellow tape  
with the word caution printed across. 
 
What’s there to be cautious about?  
Perhaps a spiral descent,  
releasing iron-clad fixed identity, 
face time encounter with your own private stash  
of greed, anger and ignorance, mask upon mask 
peeled off your face, only the moment 
and an organizing principle left  
flapping like flesh  
in the wind.  
 
Do you equate death with absence of consciousness, 
life null and void? 
 
After leaving the Zen Center  
where Roshi Enkyo suggested  
I write a poem about depression; I head towards Think Coffee, 
Ethiopian Blend and a croissant, 
while workmen dig holes ten feet from the cafe door-- 
yellow construction tape warning customers:  
CAUTION. 
 
Why? 
Danger ahead: unless you honor your ancestors, 
they’ll seek revenge and burn your ass crisp as toast. 
Still., they are only part of a flame that never subsides  
until you’re dead 
 
 
II 
 
This poem, like existence,  
Is full of detours 
and unanswered questions, 
a patchwork quilt multi-colored  
stitched with random impressions. 
 
       111  
 
Our spiritual ancestors need not be Gods or holy men.  
Often they’re objects or character traits, 
gifts that seem like curses,  
handed down by neurotic parents. 
(in my case Anne and Nat) 
leaving me blindsided 
by cynicism, materialism, fear. 
 
Mom thought I would die if I severed a thumb, 
explored the world on my own or aroused another’s ire. 
 
While I wished nothing more 
than growing up free of failure. 
 
Dad sensed 
I never would be tough as nails,  
nor a flashy dresser like him,  
always remaining  
a dark weight 
hanging from his heart. 
 
 
I, on the other hand,  
wished nothing more 
than absence of anxiety. 
 
At 77 
embracing experience  
and language, 
images and aphorisms 
freeing me to define my universe 
while accepting the terrors of randomness, 
I know my fears can never be less that of my spiritual ancestors, 
than the greats and the ghosts: Henry Miller, Emily Dickinson, Willie Mays, Eugene V Debs, Basho and Richard Pryor. 
 
In the fifth Grade Alfred Murphy 
asked what part of my face I wanted punched 
hard as hard ever was 
and I began to cry. 
 
Now, 
(like the turn in a poem) 
I box for pleasure 
throwing hooks and uppercuts with abandon. 
 
Maybe this poem  
will continue 
until the day I die 
and only you, 
my friend, will be left to judge 
the fragments. 

	- Barry Denny