Self-Immolation

When I find myself resenting
That bipedal scourge: doubt,

I recall the Buddhist monk,
Saigon, 1963,
who in the busy thoroughfare,
With help from his robed brothers,
Solemnly doused himself with gasoline,
Silently, lit the match.

What could he do?
No gun, words, or vote?

He could sacrifice his mantle of tranquility.
"Drape this over the stooped and gently shaking shoulders of my shackled race.
I will not enter Nirvana until all things have been liberated.
I will take this cup."

A bold step into the ranks of the suffering,
Interrupting the cocktail conversations
of the cloistered, serene in our bored frivolity,
Living for our paper hats and cha-cha lines.

And then I see:
I too can set myself on fire,
Ignite myself with untoward knowledge,
Succumb to the solitary flames of impolite fact.

I can sacrifice my mantle of tranquility, crying out
"I have doubts! I don't know!"
In this, I abandon the intention of proselytization,
For in that I seek but my own vindication.
Instead I will make new magic: my intention
Is to love that which has been neglected,
To reconcile that which has been fractured,
Which I can do best with my gun unloaded,
My mouth closed,
My interests shelved,
But hands and feet moving,
Heart and mind in flames.

Today, we too can take this cup.