my lovers were all Zen masters
each one was sent
to teach me
to reveal another portion
of the secrets
of the soul
my lovers spoke in riddles
concentration on them only
was the Way
to yield the answer
in my empty begging bowl
my lovers' lovingkindness
almost motherly and tender
manifested in the beatings
that they gave me in my heart
my lovers' many lessons
lie unlearned
misunderstood
but half-remembered
in my dreams
of someone else
and a fresh start
Bad Poetry by Wayne Myers