at this meditation lesson
you pay what you want
at the front desk

and let the guru
make you sit for hour
upon unbroken hour

with the one object:
watch your breath

my buttocks hurt
my legs go to sleep
frustration’s winning out

“sir, where’s the peace?”

* *

the ducted heating
coughs out
stale dusty air

redolent of fried fish
and urine

sitting in this closed room
is like being trapped
in soiled underwear

* *

i never knew meditation
was only about opening
your ribs

and closing
your legs

i had thought
meditation was
as sticky as sex

* *

the evening shadow
tells a worse story
than just the willowy figure
of a bad student

there’s that slumped
leaden silhouette
of the failed writer

do i blame time
or laziness

i wish i could blame you

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