"Da Mo Meets Ronald McDonald" by Afaa Michael Weaver

In the far off lights that speak to saints,

he heard of the tall man in red yellow rings,

a clown who is not a clown, a man who

is not a man, a beacon calling to saints,

waking the Buddha so that Da Mo took

the roads down from the cave to the streets

full of students and old men, made his way

in his old clothes and sandals, ignoring fingers

held to noses against the smell of gods

who sit in silence without showers or shaving

for centuries, the years gone by, forests

dying and being born, ignoring the way children

point at dark foreigners and saints like slivers

of light that bounce themselves off from heaven.

 

Quarter pounders and Big Macs, fries,

the whole carnival of what lines the tubes

inside the heart were there when they met,

Ronald for the moment come to life, sitting

up out of the porcelain way of being immortal,

seeing Taipei’s afterlife when night is let down

and men go off to see women in silence,

children asleep or reading gongfu novels

with flashlights, forgetting the characters

of language, Ronald this watchman, paragon

of stillness, Da Mo the light from India

walking into the eye of China’s circle way

of winding around itself, the magpie settling

on the backs of fans, women so beautiful

they shame meadows and green mountains.