Meditation on a Lime Margarita
I have told you many, many times
how you need to change your life. Yet
have you listened?
A single glistening drop of lime
margarita sweat pauses, as if contemplating
the downward slope of the shapely glass.
Then, races like a skier down a slope,
unwiped, uncaught. I am not talking
Out the door of the Mexican restaurant
named after a Texas river (or is it a
Mexican river?), a cool Sunday morning
morphs into a hotter afternoon.
The city lulls.
A woman sings passionately on
the restaurant stereo, her voice an
open faucet of sound above the bar,
unintelligible except for this or that word
you recall from Spanish high school class,
which I nearly failed in college.
What will shake this unease, this (yes,
yes, let’s use the word) ratiocination of all
that is wanting? The wanting is always the
matter, those Buddhist wiseguys say.
So. Are the prophets and shamans,
the buddhas and grandmothers, are they
correct in their saying?
‘Everything will be OK. In the end, there is
a master story that takes in ours, in which
all in all is already resolved. And always has been.’
So they say. Don’t worry! Yes, worry, but
don’t over-worry! Over-worry … Will Creamsicle
orange ice cream sprinkled with
crumbled Oreos and jujubes from the
Tropical Moon across the street from the
restaurant named after a Tex-Mex river
palliate the ache? The thought that maybe I
won’t, she won’t, they won’t, we won’t figure
it out? On your hospice bed, intoxicated by a
blessed, accursed super-dose of numbing
medication, will you even
I am actually not that morose, he
thinks, as he reads here & there upon his
telephone the miseries of the world
recorded yesterday by a new generation of
worried choniclers, who stand upon the
shoulders, who stand upon the shoulders, who
stand upon the shoulders, ad infinitum, ad
nauseum of all the chronicle speakers
who ever spoke. Looking out on yet another
Sunday afternoon with a lime margarita,
rim salt almost gone from licking. Trying to
figure out how to stop trying to figure out
how you go on without being perfect, wealthy,
famous, holy or whole. But just, you know, you.
Fractured and shuffling, dragging your bad foot
along, trying to smile because, really, isn’t it nice
when you encounter one of those coming your way?
Ungrooving ever so slightly that line in
your brow, a furrow, really, between the eyes,
your unibrow of self-centric dukkha, which is usually
mistranslated out of the Pali as ‘suffering‘ but
the ungainly ‘unsatisfactoriness‘ would be closer
to the mark. And you know, as your tongue tastes
the sharp last bit of rim salt, and a last gulp of lime
and tequila, your kind of Sunday mass, that the
furrow will really never go away, no matter how much
you drink, or smoke, or sit before a candle
or sing. It’s here to stay, but needn’t be so furrowy.
In those seconds when, blessed and oh-so- quiet, the
busybody mind forgets to worry and all goes
silent. And, you are really, truly,
just there. You are
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downtown huntington w.va. | may 26, 2013