this in barren locales
where blind men count the sand
and red drips from foot, from hand
plagued by tree carcasses
holding men carcasses,
the dust cries out, "Abba!"
the wind howls, "Holy Jesus, why?"
and breathtaking sights crash
on the blind men counting sand
whose blood stains the land
the death poles draw smiles
in the dirt as the sun passes by,
and the earth spins impaled
on its own penetrating pole
"Crawl out of me!" one blind man demands
of the regrets his blank stare has gathered
dried, peeling lips...
perhaps the skin became too hot
parched, crackled voice...
perhaps the soul began to rot
fumbling fingers, weakened minds, dried up glands
these men who sit counting the sands
they count the sand at the feet
where blood drips and boils in the heat
the place where man merges with tree,
they sit and count and ponder thee
"How many times can a hopping toad get struck by lightning?"
a question one blurts out in rank phantom fashion
"How many times this I ask?"
fidgeting digits stall awhile
jutted lips lift up in a smile...
in a state from under a Bodhi
casting the absence of shade,
another sirdar of the count yells out, "Only one!"
...satisfaction found under the burning sun
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