not much chance of nirvana
on a greyhound bus from
stump-town to nowhere
a lady sits in front of you
birds nest in her hair
you’ll never see her face
people don’t talk to each-other
only the crazies do that
and you’ll never get zen
by looking out the window
at dead grass and strip-malls
that’s not how it happens
you’d have to kill a man
with your bare hands to get
your blood pressure to rise
a nipple above nothing
and if the bus stops in the
middle of anywhere
it will be the same
and you’ll have to find your
nirvana in the back of someone
else’s head
while staring at a tangled mess
or the lines
in the road

Ananda Selah Osel