My friend Tatsuda told me
I should make a list
of fifty things I want to do.
She mentioned this because we’re
getting older, and, besides,
she has a friend with prostate cancer.
He’s an engineer who only
came up with twelve items.

Build a Habitat house; visit France.
Practice yoga; learn a language.

At first I was reluctant.
Too technique-y. Afraid of failure;
of success. Would I have to do each
thing perfectly, the first time?

Learn to fly an airplane; read history; visit the Galapagos.
Read the Koran; own a Harley; visit Cold Mountain in China.

I started.
Just to humor Tatsuda.
Now I can’t stop. So what
if I never do most of them?
Measure this man by his intentions,
not just his deeds.

Study natural history; make love with an opium suppository; kayak; get a dog.
See a Broadway play; hike the Southwest deserts; own a hybrid car; die consciously.

I was having a hard time getting going on the list of 50 items. And then, a couple of weeks later, I was at a week-long zen retreat. After 3 or 4 days of silence, the initial list of 50 poured out in 10 minutes. Ah, the value of silence!

Who actually knows what evil
Lurks in the shadowy heart of Man?

I try to consult Dr. Huang
about this when he returns.
He chuckles, inscrutable.

Leaving Dr. Huang’s office,
I run to catch the Route 71.
Meridians ablaze, mind filling
with guilty pleasures,
I move to the rear of the bus.

Staring into the window,
I recall a woman,
into white witchcraft
and dark sexuality,
who believed we court the chthonic
each time we wipe our behinds.
Full of sensual knowing,
I slyly glance at the other passengers.

The bus worms through a dark tunnel
and discharges me
far below the city.
I rise to Pioneer Square,
returning to the light,
oddly refreshed.