|January 2001 / Volume Two / Issue One|
|A Translation of Zen
You get one free shot, motherfucker
C’mon, punch me in the arm,
break open my bicep, but after that
it's on. I'm thrusting my knee
through your balls, knuckles through
your eyes, trippin' you down
to the ground, slammin' your head
against pavement over and over,
again and again, ‘til I laugh
at your bashed in brain,
blood oozing outta your ears,
bruises for cheekbones and me
hammering your head away
without one scratch on my body.
It'd take a bullet to keep me from killing you.
* * *
Your toenails are seashells’ pink bellies,
feet after-storm sand, leg hair cornsilk guarding
kernels, belly a twenty ounce draft's foamy head.
Your arms are fabric-softened sheets dried in the sun,
hands river bank slate stones, eyes the waxed antique oak bureau.
Your lips are the ringed rain in puddles.
Nothing, at all, ever, could keep me from loving you.
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