If you think I am the rat in a cage
And not those who sit inside all day
In courthouses and temples
You are the lost one and I
Am saved

I stand, even if it is alone
And will refuse to break
Even in death

In death, you will see
What life did not deem
You fortunate enough, living

It is not the church
In your local town
That I speak of
In tones reminiscent of hate
It is not those in the pews
My friends, my family.
It's the mega churches
The great mosques and temples
The captured Vatican
The misguided Judea
The estranged Muslims
Who breed religions of hate
Of divisiveness for its own sake
Room it leaves
To take power, and secure control
By the most vile actors
Those who wear a kind face like a mask
The fake walk admist us
Have faith, abandon religion
But never God
**** your bias, with what will is bestowed
Tender your strength for
Hard times are to come
The faults of weak men
Who could not stomach one another

The dream revolt of desk jockeys
Of disc spinning, pipe hitting Americans;
A rich man's insurrection.
Not something I'll be part of;
Something I'll watch
As they step on our flag,
Something to stir real action.
Try it, I,  like the rest of us,
Will watch the skin drip from you
As tar does too, and feathers adorn.
You can call that macaroni
When you try to be oppressive
With the law or religion
Or worse yet, the dissolution
Of the two being different.
When they steal from you now,
It will be in the name of God.

They stamped out your fire
Only to burn you to ash
Too unclean to rest
Beneath their dirt
The salt of the earth
Nothing more than a pillar of salt
To them

I have no time to pray
For instead I must work, cry, eat,
all these prayers, I cannot say anyway.
I have to work for the things
that I want and need
instead of praying and waiting for them,
I have to cry so I can work again for the things I really need
and silence my cries and dry my tears with the things I want then,
I have to eat so I can do it all over again
instead of praying to get warm food on my plate
or fresh sheets on my bed.
So tell me
Where do I find the time?
Where do I look for more?
Do I pray for more time too?
And if so, when do I find the time to pray
for more time?
If God doesn't sleep, then I am a God too.
And even if I'm restless,
I still have no time to pray.
And even if I have rest,
when does that happen anyway?
I have no time to pray, rest
or God forbid, play
For instead I must work, cry or eat.
When I'm on my deathbed,
probably then I'll have time to pray.

I know that our efforts all come to nothing. Analyze life, tear its trappings off, lay it bare with thought, with logic, with philosophy, and its emptiness is revealed as a bottomless pit; its nothingness frankly confesses to nothingness, and Despair comes to perch in the soulI know the end of us all is nothing, I know that at the end of Time, the reward of our toil will be nothing — and again nothing. I know that all our handiwork and all our ideas will be destroyed. I know that not even ash will be left from the fires that consume us. I know that our ideals, even those we achieve, will vanish in the eternal darkness of oblivion and final non-being. There is no hope, none, in my heart. I know, No promise, none, can I make to myself and to others. No recompense can I expect for my labors. No fruit will be born of my thoughts. I know the time — eternal seducer of all men, eternal cause of all effects — offers me nothing but the blank prospect of annihilation. So, my dignity is broken and weak, in recognition of my impending defeat.

The man who is alone, who stands on his own feet, who is stripped bare, who asks for nothing and wants nothing, who has reached the apex of disinterested­ness not through blind renunciation but through ex­cess of clear vision, turns to the world which stretches out before him as a burned prairie, as a devastated city — a world in which no churches, asylums, refuges, ideals, are left — and says: «Though you promise me nothing I am still with you, I am still an atom of your energies, my work is part of your work; I am your companion and your mirror as you march on your merciless way. But I owe nothing to any one. I would be responsible to freedom alone.

I've no need to seek divine deity.
Seeing a glorious sunrise spread its light,
I bow in awe at this amazing feat -----
A solitary star vanquished the night.
O, the majesty of Nature's might!

And as the moon dims his silvery torch,
Feathered minstrels open sleepy eyes;
What choristers could sing a sweeter song?
(To mention angel choirs would be unwise ---
Never have their voices filled the skies)

Rainbow-hued flowers, their heads bending low
To the gentle stroking of a breeze,
Fill the air with a hypnotic scent
And the humming of delighted bees . . .
It is to such things I bend my knees

Then upward my eyes are suddenly drawn
To vaporous clouds drifting lazily,
And I ponder that enigmatic realm,
Hesitant to unfold its mystery.
(Could this be God's true identity?)

Crickets chirping, wolves baying at the moon,
From the pond, a frog croaks his opinion;
The ocean's roar, the Autumn woods ablaze ---
And over it all we have dominion.
And yet . . . I feel I'm Nature's minion

But if an elusive God is your choice,
I look upon you with  pitying eyes;
Marvels surround you, and yet you still seek
That obscure and silent, unresponsive prize . . .
An unseen God that common sense denies!

~
She is not our shrine,
she prays differently
with eyes wide open,
fingers on votive offerings,
preferring her solitude
in the Tea Garden, drinking light

Tomorrow on the tarmac
one flowered suitcase,
stamped for the city of neon people,
will travel to her song,
the pilgrimage of anemic lovers

Her hoisting from water,
(ampullae in hand),
and the unique boutique
growing out of
an alabaster chamber
bring monks out of hiding

The center line of her,
where the flower blooms forth
and learns by observation,
is still an unvisited temple

Until in season of calligraphy,
when she releases the Kogai
from her hair and sits with friendly toes
outstretched in the warm intimacy of
shared water
~