Somewhere Not Very Near Vana

It amazes me how many miracles
I imagine without believing in them,
Without believing myself susceptible
To any kind of miraculous thinking.

I browse a book on Buddhism's history
And feel sad that so many gods and ogres
Got involved in marketing enlightenment,
Engulfing any truth with wish fulfillment,

While I squat here, ogre on a cabin porch,
Embodying all the vices of craving--
Lazy, slovenly, crooked little creature--

And imagine myself an enlightened soul,
A being radiating wisdom and truth,
Admired by all, wealthy by mysterious means,

Me, not anyone worth writing home about,
Nor actually suffering for wickedness,
Certainly not enough. I can hear the wind
And waters rushing down the wooded canyon

To the lake where I worship something like life,
Something like fullness, something like emptiness.
I am not. I am small. I am ravenous.
As such, if I fail, I belong to this world.