It is time, in this Eliot April, to subsume the renaissance, to honor, to empty, to be true. With that, I put this log aside for now to meditate on the marrow of my life, that which has all along been right.


Wile E. Coyote Attains Nirvana

No wonder after each plummet
down the canyon, the dust cloud
of smoke after each impact,
he's back again, reborn,
the same desire weighing
inside his brain like an anvil:
catch that bird. Again
with the blueprints, the calculations,
a package from the Acme Co.
of the latest gadgets. Shoes
with springs, shoes with rockets,
but nothing works. Again
the Road Runner escapes,
feathers smearing blue across the air.
Again the hungry coyote
finds himself in death's embrace,
a cannon swiveling towards his head,
a boulder's shadow dilating
under his feet. Back
from the afterlife, he meditates
under a sandstone arch
and gets it: craving equals suffering.
The bulb of enlightenment
blazes over his head.
He hears the Road Runner across
the plain: beep-beep. Nothing.
No urge to grab the knife
and fork and run, no saliva water
falling from his mouth.
Just another sound in the desert
as if Pavlov's dog forgot
what that bell could do to his body.


David Hernandez

copyright 2002, Crab Orchard Review