My Buddha Guru told me to close my eyes, to seal my brain.

I did as I was told.

His 300 pounds brushed against me, like a slug, with little hands.

I don’t think he’s married. I don’t think he’s gay—

he just likes to play with golf balls.

We walked onto the course. It was a cool morning, with warm wind.

Retired people were milling-about like flies.

There was nothing happening.

Houses looked like triangles and squares.

Husbands were sweeping decks, while handymen were nailing wives.

It was paradise—

a good place to die.

“Do you hear it?” My Buddha Guru asked.

“No.”

“That’s because you’re not listening. Clear your mind of desire, to know the mystery.”

I tried, but when I emptied my mind, all I saw were naked women.

“With practice, you will retreat into darkness—the key to understanding.”

“Where’s the cart girl?” I asked. “I want a hotdog.”

My golf swing needed work. It got twisted, and then I hit my ball into the neighbor’s house.

My Buddha Guru looked at me, and smiled.

He swung as light as a feather, and nailed his ball higher than a bird can fly.

I noticed a crow lying on the ground with its mouth open.

I poked it with a golf club, and it bit me. It was only sleeping.

“How do I improve?” I asked.

“Don’t try. Those with power, don’t grab for power.”

I tried. I hit another house.

“There’s a whole fairway out there,” a suburbanite said.

Suburbanite and Sodomite sound the same, I thought.

I smiled at the man. “I’m not very good at golf,” I said.

“You’ll get better, and I’ll get a net to protect my house.”

“What’s the matter?”

It’s those other yahoos. My house gets hit 20 times a day. Last night, I had a flashback that I was playing golf with Asian prostitutes in Vietnam.”

“Mental health professionals are trained to treat PTSD.”

“PTSD? I loved it. I was standing at attention for five hours, afterward, like being 18, all over again.”

“You were gentle with that hard man,” my Buddha Guru said. “That’s why non-violence always overcomes.”

“Maybe, I understand you,” I said. “What did you get on that last hole?”

“Birdie.”

“But you hardly put any effort into your swing.”

“Act without doing,” my Buddha Guru said.

“Why didn’t you decide to go pro?”

“True power is low, like the ocean—everything flows into it.”  

I started to watch him. There was something lost in his words, and my will became like the wind— effortless.