You Were Nuts, Alan Watts

Every man in his quietest hour asks the same questions:
Who is I, and how can there possibly be something from nothing?
And if the world is meaningless, made of nothingness, the universe chaos,
How come I am I?
I cry,
I scream into my pillow,
A feather-filled silencer,
Pressed tight to my face.

My voice is scratchy today, needless to say.
I am a teacher, and therefore I need my voice, I think to myself…
(Screaming doesn’t help.)
Also such thoughts as…
The bear in the woods,
The Pope shitting there with bear
There too with Jason Clark, rationing TP as if it were gold leaf…
And of course, you too, Alan,
Beckoning the little kiddies with parcels of wisdom,
Dizzying schisms,
And shadow play.

Hell, maybe I even met you in Kresge, Larwin Plaza, Vallejo
When I was buying a Slip-n-Slide with Dad.
Maybe your British accent stood out like cystic acne,
And I -- for that Shamrock-Shake split second –
Imagined myself riding home in our 450 SL
Up Whitecliff Drive to Uncle Pat’s house,
With Ray Crock stuffed in the truck,
Bleeding green from the nostrils,
And smelling of Holy lard.

Alan! Where is your shadow now?
I want to greet your nothingness
With my somethingness;
This trite, moonlight lit page of poetry
Speaking to me,
Channeling you,
Channeling me.
Oh, please!

Around Totsuka, JR Yokosuka Line, Green Car seat damn-near supine… 7/13/11