Put in a small box
They named it me
wrapped it tight
with soft steel ribbons
I’ve been a home to this image for many years, this conviction (or notion, perhaps) that our planet Earth is nothing but a long-forgotten experiment gone terribly wrong—and with that in mind:
No, I don’t know who “they” are, but “they” did me/us no favors.
I don’t know if everyone travels the same route, whether everyone is shuttled along the same conveyor belt in bardo, but I have the distinct feeling of being red-flagged by the overseers and operators at my last death and bardo visit:
“Special treatment, this one,” stamped on my long karma-tail, “the knots are loosening, he’s about to slip out. Yes, give him the extra special, this one. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere.”
I’m not saying that this was actually said or meant or done, but this is what I am saying: judging by the effect—my insistent and crazy desires and compulsions, all the way from just a little boy through adolescence, through young adulthood, man, older man, retired man, spitting-death-in-the-eye man—they must have given me the special treatment, making very sure I was well and truly messed up (and not escaping) this time around.
No, I’m not saying that this actually happened to me, but what I’m saying is that it would not surprise me one little bit if it did.
A wise man once suggested that unless the overseers did their bardo-job properly: one after another, we would, like the Buddha wake up to what is truly going on here and begin to loosen the fetters that bind us. Judging by what I see both within and without me, I think his suggestion was a good and true one.
I can still hear the splash when as a box I landed on open ocean with not so much as a “good luck” to see me onto nearest shore.