Swimming in Walmart with the Bodhisattva


There’s a trying hard to find something, diving into flatness, and realizing the
innercurrent sits without any boats. Kisses the shore with only a tongue. There’s
a single word to talk about that, and move it elsewhere, but instead, drifting,
lapping the shore. We don’t think this practice would produce a Walmart, we
don’t touch the wheels of homeless shopping carts, we don’t have capacity for the
needed amount of information fast enough. The World as A Sanctuary knows
your face without seeing it, there, two storeys above me behind warping plastic
and glass that protects you from the coldness now pressing me into my car,
pushing the day’s journey. While I scrape at the ice, your reflective, hyperpresent
image pauses above this river, its form watching me go like you do every day and
I never knew. My oxygen tank rasps noisily, “Yes, there’s a mouth to this water,
and an ocean, and a gulf.” You strap on some skiis and climb some hills
sideways, better at moving ever slowly upwards, then quickly going down.