ZEN AMEN

Zen. Zero. Zilch awaits all afterlives.
Yet somehow we can’t imagine nothing.
X marks the spot. X must equal something.
Whether math or death, Nothing must be named.
Vending machine? Why not? Let X be death’s
Ultramundane, unknowable chrome-legged
Toy dispenser. Souls sucked in, toy coffins
Spit out—unless that soul is on a string.
Remember Lazarus, recalled by Christ.
Qabalistic texts agree how he was
Pulled back from death like a coin on a string.
Oh, Jesus knew the secret would be safe—
No one who ever comes back recalls much,
Mostly since there’s nothing to remember.
Laugh if you want, it’s good for the soul—though
Killed, hope resurrects like dandelions.
Jesus knew all this. Still, he was right. We’re
Immortal, since mind can’t survive its end.
How do I know all this? Easy. I died.
God wasn’t there and neither was I that
First time in Madison, Wisconsin.
Evening. I was leaning against a
Dull red brick wall, chanting. And then I was
Chanting, leaning against a red brick wall.
But there was a gap, and in my hand was
A toy coffin. Can I get an Amen?

Published in Free Verse and North American Review, finalist in 2007 Hearst Competition