Awaken to a rainbow garden
Bedecked with sneaky slits of sunlight
Where butter rains and fills your pores
And the gods put up a good fight.
Awaken to a pond of flowers
Self-arising in its motion
Slowly waving, then just parting
While the frogs rub on some lotion.
Shiva falls into
the deepest Chasm
while National Pride
has a weakening spasm.
No one can get that drugged out
boy to leave our breakfast table.
No one can climb a staircase
in quality quicksand.
There’s no bug or beast that
can raise a limb
and offer a suggestion.
This city is an ongoing web
in the shape of an ever-expanding
oval sphere, inhabited by every
possible sensory pleasure, by every
conceivable suffering; though diffuse,
it can be tasted everywhere.
Brother Self-Arising Star said: it
makes perfect sense that
in holy places there’s
more grime, more seediness, more
evil, because there’s where the
demons come to test out their skills.
I don’t think I’m a demon
but get the feeling with every instant
in this place
that it might be good to
try out my skills too.
But the range of needs might be too
vast; I might not have that kind
of utility belt — these kinds of thoughts
cannot hold sway for more than a flash in being-time
or they shall perish my legions of warriors
which emanate from within.
With throbbing pulses of words transforming
resounding silence from inside
transforming words that find their homes
in my heart,
then out towards the sky
That’s how I’ll walk the streets,
talk and bargain with shopkeepers.
It’s a Given;
it streams down even to my feet
and I need it.
Oh i need it.