The Virgin Mother and Clint Eastwood!

aimed my eyeballs
with daring but
slow precision,
became Zen like
and lost myself
quite beautifully

who am I.

Buddha staring
into my probing
vision,

still no sign of
the Virgin Mother.

High Noon
minus the violence,
yet the intensity
almost
knocked me
over.

Clint Eastwood
smoking
his never ending cigar.

stop!
no more seeking.
no more
worried looks,
burn your books.
which scatter away
the weak visioned
sleepwalking drones
who contemplate
nothing.

time to close my eyes.
remove myself
from the Zen like pose.
Buddha seems unsettled
as I carve open my chest.

I call him over,
he sits on the bed
he is as white as a ghost.

I guide his hand
into the butchered hole
in the middle of my chest.
he caresses
my still beating heart.
I can feel his enlightenment
as he chokes me to death
with his love.