Passing through a Gate

Hitch-Hiking and Listening to My CB Walkie-Talkie In Questa, Chicanos shot four Anglo bikers. Roared in on Harleys; rolled out under sheets.  In Boulder, an Indian buck-knifed a bartender. Zigged, I guess, when he should've zagged.  At Rock Springs, my CB buzzed with double trouble; On Friday, a cop at Green River wasted a narc.  Next night, at the Teddy Bear Inn, some girl shot a guy through his nose.  Oh, why, am I in Wyoming?  At dawn in Salt Lake City, I heard swallows chittering below a bridge as light washed the Big Dipper.  And then ol' Captain Coors was honking with that Sugarlips about the cabbie blown away by his fare.  Outside of Reno, I was riding in a big Peterbilt when the trucker waved a snubnose at my head.  Just to let me know, you know.  He didn't shoot. But it makes you wonder about the living and the dead.  Late at night, when radio waves skip across States, you can hear ricochets from Maine to L.A.  Spring-Watching Pavillion translated from the NômA gentle spring evening arrives airily, unclouded by worldly dust.  Three times the bell tolls echoes like a wave. We see heaven upside down in sad puddles.  Love's vast sea cannot be emptied. And springs of grace flow easily everywhere.  Where is nirvana? Nirvana is here, nine times out of ten.