This poem was published in Front Range Review.
Blow-dryer Om
It won't become silky smooth at a later date.
A symphony does not arrive on my head full-brushed.
Om comes when it comes. Blow-dryer Om
is when I make it happen. 7 counts on one side and 9 in back.
I say Om 10 times per section, so when I'm done
my hair is dry and my spirit fine.
My Daily Practice is brushing my teeth.
How many Oms per tooth until my smile is genuine?
The woodpecker outside the bathroom window Oms erratically,
digging her way, his way. Nothing matters
when the birds Morse-code each other,
discussing us. Om to the beat of the mixer
for my super-foods smoothie.
How many Oms until a banana is liquid?
Count as I pour. Mason jars are for brutally perfect women
mimicking a magazine, which says this only works
crisscross applesauce. We must Om for 100 years,
but Coffee-pot Om never works for me.
I stretch to Om when I bother to exercise,
which is never, but if I were to do it right,
I would Om for each hamstring.
I Om my anger away at the man
in the cubicle next to me. How many Oms until he shuts up?
How many Oms until my car's tank is full?
I only choose premium gas during a recession.
Blow-dryer Om every morning is the way to get the meditation chore done,
the way to make me better, bump me to the boss level.
Published in Front Range Review, Spring 2023