with Golan Haji

Meditation? I can’t tell my Buddhist prayers
from my scammed being. If only
reality didn’t lay siege to my head
I’d celebrate existence. Across the street
cruel people gain entry through the corner
of my eye. They curse beggars
who don’t speak their language and the beggars go on
singing for them. Chatter is a profession
and seclusion is the lady of the house.
I think of Chekhov’s sneeze. A spark
that illumines my brain’s occluded ducts.
Can a waterfall wear a rein? I am the rusting nail
that dreams of a scored white pill. Anxiety
is a short corridor to the end of things
but the end of things is endless. Survival
opens onto illness. And the unjust
are pious when they sleep.