Beat Buddha

The word opens its star breath
sitting in zazen holding blessed beat Buddha
in mind, thoughts drift by like drift wood
back in the city the days slipped by like clouds
emptiness plays across vast images like tears
going deeper into the meaning of non-meaning
jazz beats splash geometric forms breaking
into bits of colored glass raining through
objects of sound...fleeting impressions
ecstatic concupiscence exude neon road marks
zipping down the highway to nirvana moons

as the emptiness fills up with true memories
the holes in them widen out until all thoughts
are swaths of reflection grasping like waves
against rocks, or shipwrecks that appear like
emotions to instill depth perception along the
shore line as a flock of seagulls roll
slowly around the hull and the cracked masts

this image fades in and out as the canvas sail
covers your whole being and you are now gliding
over the ocean that is an expanse so void as blue

as Beat Buddha fills your entire space you are jazz
you are Kerouac, Ginsberg, Burroughs,Neal
you kneel there breathing in whole cosmoses of Beat
cool is not just a word but a whole new way of
seeing into the nature of the word COOL,not just
Jazz but a whole new way of seeing the word jazz
playing its cosmos song through the roots of jazz
everything IS cool,everything IS beat KISS to her
totally unheard of sources of sound begin to unravel
into various flickering voids and neon lights,and
bottles of Buddha wine, that you pour
oceans of diamond verses written by boats from
other galaxies from other ideas of what cool is
far in the old beat night of red wine and free
wheeling energies let loose from a brand new bag
the crazy cats come out into the universe room
ready to cut spontaneous beatitudes of the idea
of cool,this is absolutely free of charge, pass
around the hat and toss in a few coins for the
Buddha beat wine to flow like a Greek oracle

bongos are boppin,fingers are snappin,berets
are twirling on heads,the whole room is spinning
like a loaded top, the bebop jive jitter critters
are all hot to trot,all dressed in black all
stripes and dots oozing along the wall all electric
mirrors crackin along in the shade faced nights,like
rows of City Lights books open to let the words
out on the town, to trip the lights fantastic to
recite in front of bars to look up and see the top
of the Transamerica building with a huge green eye on
the top, to be completely engulfed in the waves of
erotic exotic intellectual liberated existence...
to feel the whipper snapper psychic influence of
spoken word scat, scat goes the cat, gimme gimme
jack a black a cat jazz jag a rag a rip a zag
a rebop biddly bop the stars as huge as whiskey
bottles tonight shoot for the marshmallow moon

some where out on that railroad track Neal is real
and Jack is back makin love to a Chevy back seat
Bobby Kaufman is spinning jazz circles like a Hopi indian
and Jack Micheline is still collecting coin for river red

©Craig Moore © all rights reserved
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