Waltzing With Outlaws

I confess
I Am
obsessed with
The Mystery of
The Moment,

and I must
choose whether
to greet it with
the Love of a
creator
made in the Image of
The Creator,

or with
the constraint
that comes when
obsession surrenders to
Fear.

Fear creeps
into The Mystery
armed with
doctrines and
disciplines,

while Love
gambols and gambles
that Freedom
will lead to
leaping
Imagination

that embraces
The Mystery
like a lover
enamored with
the Unknown,

the romance
of the wry and
ridiculous,

the wisdom of
the absurd,
the melody of
the melancholy,

the lust for
learning the
alphabets of
mercy,
the language of
emphatic empathy,
the rhythm of
kinetic kindness.

Before you try to sneak
your strictures into the
Dance of The Mystery,
you should know
that She’s partial to
waltzing with
Outlaws.

(Photo by Aditya Ali; UnSplash)

 

First Degree Felonious Notion

It’s Sunday Morning and
I’m reminded that
I’ve never fully
recovered from the
First Degree Felonious Notion
that the Holy Water
in the Sacramental Font

is somehow different
from the drops
catching
the sunlight
as they fall from
the gutter
into the puddle
where a sparrow is
bathing,

before the puddle
vanishes
back to the heavens
from whence it
fell into the
Ocean.

The poet, Rumi,
said we are
as those drops
in the Ocean
of the Divine,
each Beloved
Drop containing
the Ocean,

but some
prevaricating
priests want
you to believe
the droplet sliding down
that tankard of stout, or
the ones streaming
from the showerheads
in that Shelter for
the Hapless,

are eternally
separate from
their kin in
the Holy Font.

(Photo by Navi; UnSplash)

 

A Single Joke

You can build your
Fastidious Edifice
of True Belief,
professional precision
in every measured
right angle and
strident straight line,
rejoicing in your
righteous rigor.

Recruit your
awestruck adherents,
proud to profess
their allegiance to
the Code of Conduct
required of recruits.

But I am in
Wonder of
the Wanderers
who stride to
the microphone and,
with a single
Joke,

tumble the Edifice
to smithereens,
leaving the listeners
in Love with
what remains,

their hallowed
precious Selves,
which always survive
the tumbling.

Perhaps the Truest
High Priests are
The Jesters,
who heal the Hallowed
with Laughs.

(Photo by Nathan Anderson; UnSplash)

 

Why On Earth?

I do my best
to abstain from
the ligatures
of Religion

when I choose
whether to listen to
David Byrne or
The Neville Brothers,
whether to watch
my favorite
Brit detective series or
that George Carlin documentary,
whether to make
pizza or burritos tonight,
whether to day trip
to hike Mt. Walker or
night trip to
the Spotted Cat,
on Frenchmen Street,
on a retreat to
New Orleans.

No priests or
holy books
are consulted when
I choose what fiction
I’ll take with me to
Better Living Through Coffee,
the better to read my way
into The Mystery.

Why on earth,
when The Mystery
tells the bouncer
to let me in,
would I imagine
the thing to do is
get Religion?

(Photo by Andrew Seaman; UnSplash)

 

Art Show

The Mystery
invites you to
exhibit your best
work in an
Art Show,

the theme of which
is Love,
but that’s so
amorphous
as to be all but
meaningless,

until we see
what you’ve
done with it.

You,
with all that
inventive prowess
prodding you to
astonish us
with your bold
beneficence.

We relish the
thought of being
ravished
by your
song and dance, your
brush strokes, your
wowest witticisms, your
elaborate machines, your
over-the-top dramatics.

I should make it clear:
there are no judges,
no award ceremonies,
because this thing
goes on forever,
worlds without end,
just like You.

The Mystery
is calling it
The Big Bang.

(Photo by Amelia Bartlett; UnSplash)

 

Here

If you are reading
this,
you are AWARE of
this word.
The one right

HERE.

That Awareness
is where
your Soul abides,
at least for
a moment,
until that moment
is taken hostage
by the recollection
that you’re
seventy-two
and you still haven’t
finished your
novel,
and that young guy
in the paper
just published his
tenth.

Go back

HERE.

Just for a moment,
until you’re kidnapped
by guilt
that your tax return
is past due.

Go back

HERE.

It’s your
Interface with
The Mystery,

where your
citizenship lies,
where nobody is
the least bit interested in
your age,

where the words for
a thousand novels
are smiling
seductively
at You.

Go back

HERE.

(Photo by Flavia Gava; UnSplash)

 

Metaverse

The Titans of Tech
talk as if
we aren’t already
living in The Metaverse,

as if
we aren’t already
wandering around
inhabiting our
avatars.

Perhaps we’ve forgotten.

Especially that
the Operating System is
LOVE.

Not just the
Mother Teresa
vibe,
but Love of
The Best of
Motown and
Open Mic Night and
your fuschias and
One Another and
Your Self.

Think of your
Interface with
All That Is
as Awareness.

Pure and Simple.

Think of your
Awareness
being hosted by
The Mystery.

The Metaverse
awaits
The Story of
What It Is
you’re
Aware of.

(Photo by Mika Matin; UnSplash)

 

The Chalice of My Awareness

I was searching
for an Entrance to
The Mystery

when I
stumbled into
one from the
business end of
my Sacred Couch.

It came to me,
between naps,
to attempt to
meditate,
though I suspected
that would lead,
inexorably,
to another nap.

It further came to me
that I should hold
a Mantra
in the Chalice of
My Awareness
that went something
like this:

I Am
Who
I Am
Who
I Am.

I knew
I should cover
the Chalice,
that thoughts
that I should be

other or
better or
different than

I Am
Who
I Am

could simply
evaporate,
without corrupting
the Elixir in
the Chalice.

Sure enough,
in a handful of
moments

I awoke,
deep in
The Mystery.

I recognized
the laughter

at the notion
that I should be
other or
better or
different than

I Am
Who
I Am.

(Photo by Rey Proenza; UnSplash)

 

Improvising With a Light Saber

Before you left
Home –
by Home I mean
your Place on
Boulevard de Cosmos –
you auditioned to
play a Part
in this Theater of
Bittersweet Conundrums,
wherein you have
a single
Stage Direction:

Improvise scenes, from
barren and blasphemous to
bodacious and beautiful,
in which Love –
by Love I mean
that Potion
boiling in a
Cauldron in
The Mystery,
a drop of which
will sprout roses
from a rock, or
turn a festering
wound into a
Tattoo of Incendiary
Gorgeousness –

scenes in which
you wield a
Light Saber,
dipped in Love,
in the face of
Death,
whatever costume
it’s wearing.

Question:

Have you grown
weary,
convinced you’re
not up to
this Role of a
Lifetime?
Painfully aware of
all your missed
cues and
butchered lines?

I’ve heard
the Director
thinks otherwise,
and your audience is
rapt.

There’s no script here,
Brando,
we’re improvising.

And we’ve got
light years to
get it right.

(Photo by Tobias Cornille; UnSplash)

 

Don’t Deny a Thing

You may awaken
one morning
to find your
front lawn
occupied by
demonstrators,
marching around
on long
green unmowed
grass, carrying
signs:

“Even Narcissists
Need To Do
Yardwork,” and
“Sloth Is a
Cardinal Sin,” and
“Your Wife
Deserves Better.”

You may cower
beneath your
pillow,
hoping a few
more minutes of
somnolence
will take the
sharp edge
off the
shame,

or maybe you
cobble together
a sign of
your own,
with duct tape and
cardboard:

“I promise
to be better
tomorrow.”

Or maybe you
panic plot an
exit strategy,
to a place
where no one
knows you.

Maybe, just maybe,
consider this:

Put on a robe,
walk outside,
smile at your accusers.

Invite them
in for a cup of
tea and some of
those chocolate chip
cookies.

Sit with them
awhile,
chat them up.

Don’t deny
a thing.

You may find
them to be
quite harmless
after awhile.

After all,
you’re made of
starlight and
eternity,
you’ve got a
fan club of
angels.

Why are you
worried about
a few protesters?