Thich Quang Duc, Vietnamese Mahayana Buddhist monk

it was simply time for HIM to begin:
the flames on his skin
were fire
and serenity shooting higher
into the guilty air aimed at Diem
before formal talks begin somewhere
in the late afternoon
hopefully conducted soon, very soon
his calm eyes were wide in dry morning pain
in focus and perfectly, lucidly sane
no cell phone ringing
no chorus line singing
no appointments to be made
no debt willingly unpaid
no thoughts of shopping for an automobile
no deal to seal
nothing apparently left behind
perhaps a glimmer of hope for mankind
i saw the orange robe on a Saigon street
i saw his charred feet
in 1963
when the monk looked directly at me
with burned hands and shaved head
i knew he was dead
but i had wrestling practice in an hour
and a banana to eat and a cut flower
to buy for a blond girl and a kiss
that i surely didn't want to miss
then a late bottle to share with smooth Jake
under the tiled roof of a pavilion by his uncle's lake
i couldn't be expected to miss these chances,
these fleeting moments like high school romances
but i knew he was dead,
as i already said, 

but his memory will never die.