Posted 12:14 PM by melanie

Hitting on Buddha

I used to have a bong shaped like a buddha,
with a bowl in his belly,
& a hole in the back of his head,
that you could draw from
as long as you put your finger
over the carburater in his big toe.

In Buddha
I smoked red bud,
with tiny red hairs.
sensimillia,
with only two seeds per quarter pound.
skunky stuff,
thick and tightly packed,
just a pinch
in Buddha was all it took.

The thing, I liked the most,
about my Buddha bong,

other than hitting on his head,
was
you could fill him up with wine,
Strawberry Boones Farm
was preferred.
Then
when you ran out of weed,
you could drink of Buddha, too.
Like a spring
coming from a rock.

For twelve years,
I took Buddha,
where ever I went,

to the high desert in San Bernardino, California,
to the swamplands in Florida,
to urban centers like New York City,
Boston, Chicago, L.A.,
from one side of this country,
to the other.
I even took Buddha,
with me to Boulder, Colorado.

One day, Buddha
and I,
grew weary.
I got sick,
and developed a hacking cough.

I could no longer draw from god.

I lost the spirit,
I lost the faith,
I lost the numbers to my dealers,
when I lost my wallet,
back in Boulder, Colorado.

So I gave Buddha
away,
to my best friend Gary,
in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
He still has Buddha.
He keeps him in the bottom drawer,
of his black, lacquered, night stand,
wrapped in tissue,
next to the a box of sex toys.
He and his wife,
still hit on Buddha,
in between visits,
to the methadone clinic,
in downtown New Orleans.

Mel

Written in 1996 at UALR in Dr Js' workshop in response to "I didn't inhale" (I sure as Hell did, every time I got a chance)
And I Never, Ever, Edited BAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHBAHAHA (I've got swampland in Florida or would you prefer the Brooklyn Bridge?)