Meddle Station

Meddle Station

Hoping for the center within,
frustrated that hope
too is a thought,
one among many
bubbles I push away,

bubbles springing
from the stream
chasing as I search
for elusive empty space,
slowly surrendering to surreal,

saddened by notions
that nothingness exists nowhere,
noticing that notion too
is thought.  Ahhhhh!
The meddling bubbles!

I approach a bubble with a feather.
The damn thing pops anyway.
When I finish screaming
I approach the next bubble
with a sledge hammer.

No matter how hard
I swing, it just slightly
moves, slightly up
or slightly down, just like I
intended for the first bubble.

Exhausted, panting,
arms aching, tears
streaming onto my lips,
I silently set down
the heavy hammer.

When I finish laughing
I approach the next bubble,
and the next after that,
staying in the state
of staying, staying with

eyes on the moment,
noticing colors and shapes,
with a sledge hammer
and a feather, staying
silent at my holy feet.