I was born in Karma, Michigan
A village founded by Buddhist monks
Who had succumbed to the trap
Of sexual desire
The shaven heads, orange robes
And finger cymbals of the fallen monks
Attracted much excitement
From the farmers’ daughters
Of the neighboring hamlets
Who were bored with the 4H Club
And square dancing
But the farmers were displeased
By their daughters’ amorous inclinations
And attempted bodily harm upon the monks
Who, being masters of meditation
And martial arts
Defended themselves
Both metaphysically and in pitched combat
Against the angry farmers
The monks
Emerging triumphant
Acquired women
To satisfy their need
For female companionship
Soon a community of Buddhist monks
Farming women
Eventually children
Developed and thrived
However, with the passage of time
The monks grew infected
With normalcy
And slowly accepted
The status quo lifestyle
Of rural Michigan
The monks abandoned
The shaven heads, orange robes
Finger cymbals, meditation
Even the martial arts
And became pretty much like everybody else
Rendering hog fat by day
Falling asleep in front of the TV
As the moon made its round of the sky
Each night
Before too long
They mostly even forgot
They once were monks
I tell you this
By way of introduction
Because I have chosen
To follow in the path
Of my grandfather
And practice the Buddhist lifestyle
As he did
I embrace all aspects
Of his form of Buddhism
Including a healthy regard
For women
Three days ago
I set off along the ancient path
To this Mecca of culture
Seeking enlightenment
With no possessions
Save my grandfather’s orange robe
And begging bowl
I hope to find inner peace
Spiritual contentment
And many willing women
In Detroit
I am overjoyed to be standing
On the corner of Woodward
And Jefferson Avenue
On this fine summer evening
Tell me, my Detroit brothers
Can you spare a simple meal
Of bread and water
For a lonely wayfarer
On the road to enlightenment?
Born in Detroit, Steven Gulvezan has worked as a journalist and a library director. He is a disciple, in words, of the great sculptor, Alberto Giacometti. At their best he hopes that his stories and poems are able to cut close enough to the bone of truth to make them worthwhile to read. A collection of his poetry is The Dogs of Paris (March Street Press).
–Art by Natalia Drepina