Walking in December - A poem

Walking in December

fingers sliding down the skin
bare branch, the lungs
expelling oxygen, carbon
dioxide, and a desire
for lush, green leaves
on every, single tree.

footprints fall fresh
in the snow, a scampering
squirrel scared by the sound
of on-coming traffic,
loud talking, and the cracking
of ice beneath the surface.

looking up now, seeing so clearly
how the sun can stand tall
in a deep, blue sky, and yet
has completely abandoned us,
so that no amount of bark
could ever cover us,
keep us from the wind.

what good is the word love
when we fail to care
for even the most simplest
of things in life? like touching
down on earth, the heel
and toes in tandem,
until the last breath is taken.

The Lotus,This World - A Poem

The Lotus, This World

There is no one here tonight,
look, if you must
to the seed-filled heart,
which opens and closes
each day,
takes in the rays
of the midnight sun.

In Hopes of Preserving - A poem

In Hope of Preserving What We Love

So much want for happiness
and yet, also, denial of it.

We approach the lips of the fuchsia
and then bend away, blushing,

because it is too close,
too fragile, we think, to be held.

Instead, we build fences around it,
place tanks and armed guards

all along the perimeter, in hope
of preserving what we love

from others we fear may come
with hazardous hands and crush it.

We do this with care, to keep
the fuchsia purple, not knowing

that what we have done is akin
to placing it in the desert,

which is where we have been
living ourselves

Eighth Birthday - A poem

Eighth Birthday

in the photograph I am leaning over,
thrusting air from my lungs
as hard as an eight year old can

even then, my arms tightly
held against my chest,
ready just in case

eighth birthday; the last
number of candles
without the feeling of absence

or maybe this is how
it has become in memory,
a single point among many

as if I had become a Seurat landscape
and everything that had once been fluid
now stood, frozen

so that the naked eye,
desperate to capture the truth,
might take it all in

even if twenty plus years
have gone by, and everything,
including the skin

that covered my little body,
has either faded
or disappeared all together.

A Love of Dangerous Harvests - A poem

A Love of Dangerous Harvests


maybe Caravaggio found
the application of fleshtone
a perfect distraction
from the real thing,

a source of trouble
that always accompanied him,
as evident by the number
of falling, fallen angels

filling the walls, walkways,
and halls of the life
known as his, whether or not
it was all actually true,

it doesn’t matter
to the puritans of the world,
those luscious grapes;
the half-naked teenage boy

how his Judas betrays
a love for Christ
unbecoming of a man
in their eyes

maybe living requires
that we harvest
what is hated,
even if

when held close
to our naked breast,
it pierces the canvas
ruins forever our cherished heart.

The Annunciation Refigured - A poem

The Annunciation Refigured


“When she saw him, she was troubled at his saying, and cast in her mind what manner of salutation this should be.”
Luke 1:29


For a long time,
there was no trouble done
to the order of operations.
Gabriel would come,
land with a heavy thud,
then lift his index finger
to quiet the woman before him.

This time, however,
the calculations were upset
by addition.

As Gabriel cleared his throat
he looked down,
saw that a golden book
had been placed
under Mary’s hand.

How dare this painter
make her literate! He must
have thought, scanning
the scene for a sign,
his eyes landing
on the message
he was about to send.

Troubled,
he began to wonder
what awful birth
had tipped the balance
of the world,
the olive branch
in his hand suddenly
meaningless,
just another limb
cut off from its source.


*Inspired by the painting “The Annunciation” by Simone Martini and Lippo Memmi, 1333.

Through Hardened Clouds - A poem

Through Hardened Clouds

swallowing a single
leaf of lemon basil,
as the lifted newspaper
settles to the ground,
a moment joy
dashed by headlines.

a rabbit passes
through the radish patch stops,
stands still, surveys
the world ahead,
imagining escape routes.

those on the bus that exploded somewhere
across an ocean
earlier in the day
didn’t have such a luxury.

i bend over,
pick up a rock and throw it,
hear it hit a fence between
the scampering of feet
fading in the turning away.

one hand to the heart,
the other grasping
a pregnant bean stalk, tears
forcing their way with the sun
through hardened clouds.

they will all ripen at the same time,
i say to myself,
as skins slides over skin,
one species across another, a flowing
so simple and easy,
it’s rarely a match
in the minds that love a good storm.

Bones - A poem

Bones



1.

Fifty-three years
to get to this point:
you and I,
the drive back
to your parent's home.

2.

I hold pencils and paper;
you carry their names
in your heart.

3.

When I was six,
you were nuclear
in your hole digging:
plunging your shovel
into the ground,
the world’s gone.

4.

Now, you carry
lists of bones
into cemeteries:
another attempt
to unearth the past,
put it back together
somehow.

5.

Did you know that,
like Dante’s exiled bones,
you were fought over
for years?

6.

Just as Francis Bacon
did with bloody meat,
you hung your emotions
and we were left
to trace in their names.

7.

When I was six,
I was afraid of the cemeteries:
both across the street,
and in our own house.

8.

Lifting a fallen tombstone
today, I disturbed the living
to re-place the dead.

9.

Names-
dirt, bones, tombstones:
all the same
in the end.

10.

Even as we near
the front door now,
all around us
the windows are rattling,
bones trying to break free.

Say - A poem

Say

Say you’re sitting on a park bench listening to the wind.
Say it’s Saturday, early morning, when only those in training
for marathons or dog walking competitions are out.
Say the grey squirrels are fighting over the fallen oak nuts,
while the lone, white squirrel is spinning the remains
of an apple almost out of sight beneath a row of shrubs.
It is a nice story, isn’t it? How the sun is slathering
your weary face with a warmth you know will be gone
by morning, how the rim of your mouth still tastes
of the coffee you had before leaving home, how
no matter what you end up doing with the rest
of the day, say tend to the weeds in the garden
or argue again with the one you love over lunch,
dinner, or the last of the newspaper, there is always
this world, working as it is, if only you would see it.

Fall Class Sutra -A poem

Fall Class Sutra - 2009

Thus I have heard
in a warehouse
in a valley
along the edge of the Mississippi
just east of Ramsey Hill, Crocus Hill, Cathedral Hill

a story of elders silently rocking,

cards shuffled, and dealt with a smirk

aprons clung to, and then let go of

light rain, snow, heavy rain, wind

Van Gogh’s sunflowers

squirrels ruining rooftops

buses appearing and disappearing

a Buddhist standing in between Hawaiian church pews

vows made, vows broken, and vows made again

French lavender fields

“We’re not in Kansas anymore”

sliding zabutons, folding chairs

slightly scraping the surface of

our words, hearts beating

to the rhythm of lines

chanted into the center:

a vast field covered in discarded tethers

a million sheep bleating

under a setting sun.

Broken Vow - A poem

Broken Vow

A hand swept across the soil, just fast enough
to snap the tender seedling from its base.

Tears sliding, making their way toward the ground
too late to save the severed, the sound

of a car backfiring off in the distance, a vow
flapping its wings, lifting into the crowded

sky, joining the crows circling, squawking,
never able to quite come to a rest, block

the urge to have it all alone, or even admit
error after. What began as a single errant word

gave birth to others until the field was covered
with sowthistle, virginia waterleaf, and mounds of clover

untended, and gone to seed, so that the murder of one
among the many might seem unimportant,

but it’s that one, the one that now is spinning
in the wind, never to be rooted again

the way it was, it is that one which is calling out,
demanding for a set of eyes open enough

to toss aside old allegiances, make way
for a world too fertile to ever be kept down.

September, Late Afternoon

September, Late Afternoon

Oh, how I hate you
cucumbers
hanging as you do
right in front of me

Now, every step
is another one closer
to murder

If only
you weren’t attached
to those stringy,
green umbilical cords

Maybe then
I’d be able
to head back
into the house,
sit down at the table,
slice straight through
without hesitation,
and eat you
in peace
for once.

Territory of Attachment - A poem

Territory of Attachment


I have a house
on top of a mountain.

Its rafters are sagging;
its shutters overgrown with vines.

People are always coming,
leaving offerings at the door.

Sometimes, I wonder how
all that food will ever be eaten.

Maybe if we hadn’t run
through the forest together,

And maybe if you hadn’t
gone into the nettle patch,

And maybe if I hadn’t known
to dip your legs into the tea,

Even as the world keeps giving,
all I have is the maybe ifs of my memory.

Every morning, at the window
I stand ready with my bowl.

I close my eyes and listen
for the sound of your footsteps.

Others come and leave prints
in the snow on their way out.

Maybe if I call your name,
but it’s already too late for that.

The Moment After - A poem

The Moment After

I peel an orange, feel the sticky juices
run down my fingers, your legs
making waves with the sheets
slid halfway off the tussled bed.

“What is it that you most love?”
I hear you say, and watch
as my mind constructs a story
about how it has to be you,

Even though the sunlight
rippling across the wrinkled cotton,
the footsteps of the elderly lady
living in the apartment above:

These, too, right now, must be considered
with their familiar, comforting ways,
as your lips now land, trace a line
straight north along my bare leg.

How it has to be you. There all along
once I took a closer look, this rushing
to fill in the gap with words
stillborn, but beautiful all the same.

Against Pens - A poem

Against Pens


because they are small,

and easy to loose

because they common

and easy to replace,

because they don’t improve handwriting

because they never keep up with thoughts

because there are notebooks full of their errant tracks

and landfills full of their wasted bodies,

because they leave traces of our mistakes behind

because they remind us of things

we would rather forget,

because they are too much like the heart,

always breaking down

when you least desire them to.

A Laotian Summer Afternoon - A Poem

A Laotian Summer Afternoon

It happened while he was working, tending to
the crops under a hot, bright midday sun.

for a moment, it was as if he had been transported
back to the days when he, as a little boy, fled fast
through the fields with the others in his family.

looking up, half blinded, he expected to see
the familiar American planes flying overhead,

instead, only the sound of his son
screaming somewhere near the point
where the river spits across the strip of land.

as before, he began to run as hard as he possibly could,
forgetting everything else out of fear

when he got there, to the place where it had happened,
the raggedness of his breath was matched
only by the bodies of his son’s two best friends,

both just barely having turned ten years old,
and yet already well versed in the work

of collecting scrap, supporting the family,
staving off the growling of the stomach
one basket of metal at a time.

he remembered how meticulous he had been,
how he had repeatedly nagged his eldest son

about the details of the harvesting process,
how any old thing sticking out of the ground
might be worth a basket of rice,

a few dozen eggs, or it might just be
the last thing you ever see

but none of that mattered now,
only the slow footsteps back through the field
careful not to disturb too much

what already had broke through the surface,
and stained red the summer sky.

English Language Learner - A poem

English Language Learner


in the snapping twig mind,
getting lost in the forest
of the present tense.

how do you say it? put it? together,
a sentence about
the deer over there in the cemetery.

it is difficult, sometimes, to remember
the correct placement of
nouns, verbs, articles and adjectives.

oh, how i long for a simple life,
where the rhythm of our sounds
isn’t forced by a grammar

so stiff it squeezes the lips
into stutter, stumble, and finally
fall, as if on bent knees,

made to give praise and offerings
to some gods of the past,
and future, heavy bodies both

lording over every last inch of land,
waiting to smite down anyone
who fails to pay to them, homage.

Cartography as Autobiography - An Essay

An Autobiography of Imagined Territories

“What began it all was the bright bone
of a dream I could barely hold onto.”
Michael Ondaatje
Running in the Family

“I’m for truth, no matter who tells it.”
Malcolm X
The Autobiography of Malcolm X


The great lie that maps cure us of is that you can separate imagination from
reality. People claim they have the math of truth, and that in it, there is no room for our dreams and creations. However, maps are like love. They take in everything, rearrange it, and then present to the world an equation that is completely unique.

This is a beautiful, difficult truth, one the painter Vermeer knew well. He repeatedly included a map of the United Netherlands in his paintings, even though the republic ceased to exist long before his last brushstroke. The map itself takes many forms. In A Girl Asleep, there is only the bottom pole and a small strip of the map’s parchment. Woman in Blue Reading a Letter shows about half of it, but the boundaries are blurred into a sea of gray and brown. About a third of a blurred map is shown in Young Woman with a Jug. In The Art of Painting, the map is whole. However, it is not only blurred, but also wrinkled and cracked. It is in Officer and Laughing Girl that we finally see it all: a whole map with the provinces of the Netherlands painted in clearly. Each of these maps is a copy from an original. They may all be different maps, but what makes their separateness disappear is that they all are tinged with Vermeer’s imagination. Vermeer was only 16 years old in 1648, the year the Netherlands was formally divided into northern and southern provinces. His art, then, may have been an attempt to reunite a divided culture. Vermeer saw a rapidly changing world outside, so he painted a more stable one inside. This may have had everything to do with his love of maps, or maybe nothing at all. It does not matter. Vermeer’s maps are like his windows. Each is a way into his home, and a way out into the world. The direction each path takes depends entirely on how you view it.

Autobiography is an unusually difficult practice to define. Webster’s New World Dictionary defines it as “the story of one’s own life,” or “the art or practice of writing one’s own biography.” Of the second definition, one wonders which is it: art or practice? People love to say that art is practice, but how is that so? Practice implies frequency: a repetition of something in order to learn or make a habit of it. This seems grounded in reality. However, art implies imagination: a creation of something with a form and beauty that is distinguished from the world around it. So, if autobiography is both an art and a practice then it is not the telling of one’s life. It is a telling, a putting down of truth in the service of one’s imagination. The Hereford Map, made by one Richard of Holdingham in the late 13th century, is, among other things, a great autobiography.

Very little is known about the life of Richard of Holdingham. There was a Richard of Battle, who was a rector in Kent in 1260, and went on to be a prebend, or a cleric who received a salary from church revenues, until at least 1277. Later, from 1305 to his death in 1326, Richard of Battle was a canon of Hereford and prebendary of Norton (Harvey 9). Historian P.D.A. Harvey writes, “if Battle was his family name Holdingham might well have been where he was born or lived, and such an alternative surname would be normal at this time”(7). Indeed, there was a place named Holdingham, a village located near Lincolnshire, in England. Beyond dates and places of possible residence, there are only two other known things about Richard of Battle: he received a gift of venison in 1289 or 1290, and he paid some money to an unnamed servant (Harvey 9). This is not much of a biography, and it may be that the little that is here, is that of the wrong man. There is no way of knowing. Historians have given us the merger of Richard of Battle with Richard of Holdingham as truth. However, the only definite life of Richard of Holdingham is in the map he left behind.

The life of Richard of Holdingham must have been one of many loves. Animals, both real and imaginary, are as common as crab grass in an open field. Buildings, crudely drawn and mostly two-dimensional, are even more common. Rivers, like single strands in several great root systems, split the land into little, uneven slivers. People, many in imaginary forms, are found standing, sitting, speaking, and striking other people. These are the things of the world, and by placing them on the map, Richard of Holdingham shows his devotion. He also loves the stories, those myths that wrap around the living and give birth to all the dead before them. Historian P.D.A. Harvey writes, “The bulk of the general information on the Hereford Map comes from nine classical and later Latin authors”(42). This is a sign of Richard of Holdingham’s love of the past, its perceived greatness and continued influence over the present. Above all, though, the Hereford Map is a devotional to God. Christ, the son of God, presides at the top of the map over a court of angels. Biblical stories are scattered throughout and the map is orientated so that Jerusalem, the birthplace of Christianity, is in the center. This is not an accurate depiction of the world; it is a meditation on God, and the world God has created.

Three centuries later, the famous cartographer Gerardus Mercator would use a Renaissance version of this very idea, defining “atlas” as “cosmographical meditations upon the creation of the universe, and the universe as created”(Wilford 85). This definition embodies the spirit of autobiography. First, there is meditation: a human activity done in order to see beyond the visible, material world. Second, there is “the universe as created,” which signals Mercator’s desire to be accurate to reality in his maps. Since autobiography is about life it must contain both of these activities. In the case of the Hereford Map, Richard of Holdingham dispenses with visual accuracy to show a greater one: the world as it is ordered by the love of God. Here, the art of God is imagined by Richard of Holdingham and then given form. Thus, the Hereford Map does what every great autobiography attempts to do: it lifts a single view of the world out of the commonplace, and into greatness.

The medieval world was full of extraordinary life stories. Autobiography, then, might be defined as a simple breath spun into a series of fantastic sounds. In those days, it did not matter if the person doing the telling had actually lived the life: biography and autobiography were one. One day, a mouth would open in a crowd. The next day a dozen mouths would open in a dozen crowds. Eventually, a mouth could open anywhere, utter only a name, and hear a chorus of stories in response. This was the stuff of legends.

Medieval cartography was, above all else, a pilgrimage into the heart. Mapmakers took the bits of the world they knew and fashioned them into a whole they could love. They rendered everything, even the ugliest of creatures, beautiful. This was done not only out of love, but also out of a need for meaning.

As everyone knows, a pilgrimage is a long journey. When one undertakes such a journey, there is usually an end goal in mind. Often, the goal is a physical place of social and/or spiritual significance. This place embodies the meaning the pilgrim is supposed to gain during the journey. The map, then, may be seen as an end goal of the medieval cartographer’s journey. Along the way, many legends were collected, and became part of the overall meaning.

Saint Brendan was merely a man when he lived in the 6th century under the blue skies of County Galway, Ireland. As a young monk, he traipsed over green fields and rocky hills, dreaming of paradise. Later, he became an abbot, and apparently founded a monastery. Unsatisfied with his accomplishments, Brendan found a crew of sixty men, and sailed westward from Ireland in search of paradise. Five years later, he returned, and told the people of a beautiful island where the souls of blessed mortals went to rest after death. He wrote an account of the voyage, as sort of travel autobiography, in which he talked of the many other places discovered along the way. Among them was a palace where the devil appeared and an island of birds that Brendan said were fallen angels. The story as a whole shows two things: Brendan was thoroughly Christian and he knew how to tell a good story. Needless to say, it was not long before Brendan, and his voyage, became legendary.

No one knows the truth about Saint Brendan. He may or may not have made the five-year voyage. He may or may not have discovered lands that are now on the maps. Nothing he claimed to have found has ever been identified as real. However, belief in his story was widespread during the medieval period. Beginning in his native Ireland, similar stories eventually moved into the Latin, English, French, Saxon, Flemish, Welsh, Breton, and Scottish Gaelic cultures (Nelson 45). Furthermore, Saint Brendan’s Island appeared under various names, in various places, on world maps until the mid-18th century. So, although Brendan’s story was probably fictional, it would be false to say that its contents never existed. Twelve hundred years of faith in his story suggest that he, and his voyage, were real. None of it may have happened, but for centuries, all of it was true.

In a poem by Elizabeth Bishop entitled “Questions of Travel,” she asks, “Oh, must we dream our dreams / and have them, too?” Over and over again, maps have answered, “Yes!” This is a truth that even the most “scientific” of maps has accepted. We dream and then we draw. There is no way to separate the two. Just look at the legend of Prester John, another reality found on several centuries of maps.

Unlike Saint Brendan, whose legend took some time to develop, Prester John was a legend almost from the moment he appeared on the world stage. In 1122, a priest named Giovanni is said to have given Pope Calixtus II the first known account of Prester John (Nelson 45). Twenty-three years later, while making an appeal for military aid to the Pope, Bishop Hugh of Jabala reportedly called Prester John “a direct descendant of the Magi.” Furthermore, he said that Prester John’s troops had recently emerged victorious from “a most bloodthirsty battle” with the Persians, and needed help to continue the good fight (Wilford 41). Not long after this, a letter, reportedly written by Prester John, began circulating across Europe. In it, Prester John claims to “exceed in riches, virtue, and power all creatures who dwell under heaven.” He tells of seventy-two kings who “pay tribute” to him, and of his “great army,” which is ready to “wage war against and chastise the enemies of the cross” (Wilford 41). All of this captures the hearts of Europeans who, over the next three centuries, make dozens of voyages in the name of finding Prester John and his wonderful kingdom.

It is entirely possible that Prester John is solely a product of the Christian crusades. His story, for example, began appearing in the middle of the crusades, just when the fires of zealousness were beginning to fade. In addition, he was said to be the ruler of a powerful Christian kingdom in the heart of the non-Christian world. In other words, Prester John was the missing ally the crusaders needed to envelop the world in Christianity. Historians have never been able to confirm the existence of Prester John. On the maps, his kingdom spent several centuries in Asia or Africa, sometimes engulfing both, before finally disappearing altogether in the 17th century. He was thus, for several centuries, both everywhere and nowhere, a king without a kingdom. Even if he existed in some form, Prester John was, more than anything else, the autobiography of the European imagination.

Pelican Love - A short prose poem

Pelican Love

You plunged until breaking through the territory of fish. When you rose, your beak was full, the ocean empty. “Eat,” you said, and we did, taking the world into us. “Share,” you said, but we didn’t, so you made off with the fading moon. In the days since, we have flooded your body with buildings and the names of the dead we thought stood in your way. It has become a ritual for us to pull out our maps, to try and locate your center. Rome, London. Wall Street. Beijing. Pacific Ocean floor. Patch of Grass in the Backyard. Ventricle of the Heart. Those are just a few of our many errant efforts to find you, bring you back into view like it was before.

Haiku 2003

At the horizon,
little green buds breaking through
the gray skin below.



Drawing waterfalls,
the child’s hand stops, then turns,
before touching ground.



The quiet blue sky:
no room for the feisty crows
now screaming earthward.




Shadow of the tree:
its gnarled fingers ensnare
all that passes by.




The little sparrow
facing the cold brick building:
its eyes open, shut.



Freshly fallen snow:
too light to cover the field
of yellow blossoms.



A crack in the stone:
even the midday sun fails
to remove the rain.



The wavering limb:
all that is left of the bird’s
momentary home.

Valley Girl Dharma: A Play in Three Acts

Valley Girl Dharma

Act One: Buddha
Setting: High school hallway, next to a pair of open lockers.
Cast: VG1 = Valley Girl One
VG2= Valley Girl Two

VG1: Like what … is that?

VG2: A book. Like duh! What do you think it is?

VG1: You don’t have to be a bitch about it. I mean, what is it about?

VG2: Some old dude named Buddha.

VG1: Like, oh my God, you’re such a perv.

VG2: Am not!

VG1: Am too.

VG2: What-ever! As if you would even know…

VG1: Girl, are you for real?

VG2: You have, like, no idea.

VG1: What’s that suppose to mean?

VG2: This Buddha dude was totally bitchin.’

VG1: As if!

VG2: Like think about it. You’re always trying to get Johnny to like you, right?

VG1: Mmmm, Johnny. He’s like so hot!

VG2: Yeah, but like, he’s almost too hot. I mean, really, like any girl that tries just gets burned.

VG1: What, you don’t think I’m pretty enough? As if…

VG2: You’re totally hot. Duh! But it doesn’t matter.

VG1: What’s that suppose to mean?

VG2: Johnny is like uncatchable. He’s like real, but not real at the same time.

VG1: Totally.

VG2: And yet you still chase after him.

VG1: Like oh my God!

VG2: See, this Buddha dude says that’s kind of stupid.

VG1: Shut up!

VG2: Like really, girl, you’re like hopeless.

VG1: Am not!

VG2: Like seriously, girl, when you catch Johnny, you come over and show me.

VG1: As if … perv!

VG2: You’ll never catch Johnny because there is no Johnny to catch.

VG1: Honestly, girl, you talk crazy sometimes.

Act Two: Dharma
Setting: College Dorm Room.
Cast: VG1, VG2, Johnny
Stage Direction: VG1 is just returning home. VG2 is doing meditation next to her bed.

VG1: Party! Party! … Like, I so love college. Don’t you Johnny?

Johnny: Way.

VG1: Like, what is she doing?

Johnny: Gnarly.

VG2: Will you two like quiet down already.

VG1: What-everrr!

VG2: I’m like totally gonna get pissed.

VG1: Like, what-ever girl. You’re such a tool!

VG2: As if …

Johnny: Cat fight. Bitchin.’

VG1: Why don't you ever defend me?

Johnny: _______ (Blank stare. Sound of crickets.)

VG2: I was so totally doing zazen until you two messed it up.

VG1: Huh?!

VG2: Zazen. Like really, girl … maybe if you weren’t so busy bitchen with Johnny…

VG1: Like wow, you’re such a bitch!

VG2: What-everrr! While you’re out with Mr. Too Perfect there, I’m studying myself so I can forget myself.

VG1: You so have to share the shit you’re smoking.

VG2: That’s incense, girl. Like get with the program already.

VG1: Comeon Johnny! Let’s leave Miss Smarty Pants to herself.

VG2: Like, finally.

Act Three: Sangha
Setting: Big Mind Zen Center, Salt Lake City, Utah
Cast: VG1, VG2, Johnny, Greeter, TV Screen Genpo Roshi

VG1: Like where are we?

VG2: Like totally awesome! Big Mind Zen Center!

VG1: Like, this is supposed to be like a road trip. Like fun, you know. I’m not doing some Karate Kid shit.

VG2: You have … like no idea.

VG1: As if…

Greeter: Hi! Welcome to Big Mind Zen Center. Is this your first time visiting?

VG1: Like, oh my God!

VG2: Yes, we’re like from California.

Greeter: That’s great. Do you have any experience with meditation?

VG1: Like, I’m so out…

VG2: Yes, I’ve been totally sitting zazen in my dorm room.

Greeter. That’s great. Do you know our teacher, Genpo Roshi?

VG1: Genpo what?

VG2: No, but I’m sure he’s way cool, right?

Greeter: Yes … I think. Anyway, you’re in luck. We are having a Big Mind workshop this weekend with a live feed from Genpo Roshi. Here is a brochure with our donation guidelines, and instructions on how to do Big Mind.

VG1: Is this like where they film Sesame Street or something?

VG2: As if … like, shut up already. Let’s go in.

Johnny: Word!

VG1: Like look at this place. It’s like all big and shit!

VG2: This is so totally way cool!

Greeter: Please be seated. The talk is about to begin.

VG1: Wow! That’s like the biggest TV I have ever seen.

VG2: I know right?

VG1: It’s like way bigger than the one in the Student Center.

TV Screen Genpo Roshi: Welcome to Big Mind Zen Center.

VG1: He’s like a total geezer…

VG2: Like, you know, you’re so impossible sometimes.

TV Screen Genpo Roshi: The Big Mind Teachings you are about to learn are designed for people like you, living in the modern world.

VG1: Like what is he talking about?

TV Screen Genpo Roshi: These teachings are aimed at helping you illuminate your True Nature …

VG2: Like way, way cool!

TV Screen Genpo Roshi: My only desire is to help everyone to realize an awakened life of wisdom and compassion.

VG1: We drove like all the way across the desert for this?

TV Screen Genpo Roshi: At this time, I would like you to turn to your donation brochure and please consider how much you can give to continue the life-changing work of Big Mind.

VG2: Donation brochure?

VG1: Yeah, like they want money.

VG2: As if…

VG1: Totally!

VG2: Like, we haven’t even gone shopping yet…

VG1: I was like so totally right. But no, you had to go all Mr. Miyagi on us.

VG2: Yeah, this is like kinda lame.

VG1: Comeon. Let’s go. I want to find the mall before it like gets too dark out.

Johnny: Bitchin.’

VG1: Johnny, will you like buy me a new dress?

Johnny: _______

VG1: Please!!!

Johnny: ______ (Blinks.)

VG1: Like oh my God! Do you even love me?

(Curtain falls)