HIRAIZUMI-
CHŌ, NISHIIWAI,
IWATE, JAPAN—
Struggling to decide
whether one on fall or spring
would rock their shit more,
Zen monk Ken Ito
strained for a haiku to knock
them on their asses.
“I could mess them up
with that Bashō one about
the full moon’s splendor,”
the Buddhist monk said
Wednesday, seeing a tour group
on the temple grounds,
trawling through his mind
for the best contemplations
on life’s fleetingness
in syllabic sets
of five-seven-five that could
blow their fucking minds.
“Then again maybe
I hit them with Ryōkan
on the transient
dew on lotus leaves
in the darkened mountainside.
Bet that fucks them up.”
At press time, after
the monk had found the perfect
haiku, he remarked,
“Ah, summer grasses!
All that is still remaining
Of warriors’ dreams,”
only to see that
the group had gone, leaving him
feeling like an ass.
