Today I sketched the Buddha.
My children ask me my work,
now that my work is my home,
and I can’t explain it beyond providing comfort.
They ask why my job is important,
and I don’t know, but I am comfortable.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
the icons differ by tradition.
Mahayana. Vajrayana. Tantric. Esoteric.
I pronounce these words American
and want to cut my tongue out,
but the Buddha looks contented.
[Do I dare remind myself that he looks contented
because I made him look contented?]
Today I sketched the Buddha.
His earlobes are fucking huge.
How did anyone see past those?
The flowers that I put in his hair
are growing more elaborate each day,
and his nose looks real now.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
Nothing can be created nor destroyed,
according to the Men of Science,
so my sketches already existed before I sketched,
even as it is unclear if Buddha was real.
But he exists now, billions of times over,
and nothing can be created nor destroyed.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
Today I sketched the Buddha.
When I die and my sketches are ash,
0ur essence will remain according to God.
You see Him now, don’t you? Around you everywhere.
The stories of His kindness are merely secondhand.