While the flight attendant,
having loaded the meal cart,
is monotonously, monotonously pitching,

the Christian God
steers
every
streetcar,
prescribes
every
Christian
(that applies to non-Christians alike),

so that one is pressed down with a mound of hardships,
while another is blessed and basks in prescriptions,
аминь /ah-MEEN/.

Meanwhile, children and all clear of dross,
enter heaven bypassing the thorns,
and Peter, the staunchest of Capricorns,
beckons them in.

While I'm being skeptical
of the attendant's offerings,
other passengers engrossed in the drama,

God, as He is,  
palms off beings to the workings of karma,
albeit also—****!—asymmetrical...

There's a gap, oh yeah, there's a gap
between you             and              me.
There's a bridge, oh yeah, there's a bridge
between me and you. Sounds like rap.
So far, in what I've said there's nothing sinuous
'cause I'm using very simple language,
not some future perfect progressive,
nor some future perfect continuous.

This gap, this nasty, nasty gap
between you             and             me,
is just the same that cuts off you
from You and me—from Me. Ah, snap!
But here's the deal: while inhibiting
your reptilian brain, you want to clean
your human brain of all the crap,
and if God wills,
you reach a kind of present infinitive.

It is common knowledge in village Woop-Woop:  
Gnyaneshwar penned "Gnyaneshwari" in one fell swoop,
but later on, after drinking some coconut juice,
he jetted off into mahasamadhi* —whooz!

As a tractor operator from the very place  
equated mahasamadhi to returning—with grace—
one's worn-out ticket to Heavenly Lord,
his face was gilded by last twilight rays.

Mid-supper, the milkmaids from the very hickst  
included "Gnyaneshwari" into Brodsky's List,  
though Brodsky didn't stop his resting in peace,
for he'd grown tired of exhorting lay-deez,

provided that their choice wasn't that bad.
Gnyaneshwar had penned "Gnyaneshwari,"—poor lad!
He had a hard time bringing it home to folks
who had a penchant for not connecting the dots.      

About the said Gnyaneshwar—if only he knew
that in less than a millennium, a random dude
would quote "Gnyaneshwari" in one fell sway—
otherwise, he'd have surely whispered: "I stay."

*mahasamadhi can be viewed as a non-violent suicide

A musician
was playing a piece
and got carried away.

Those listening to his music
were also carried away.

If all got carried away,
who stayed?

If you're a mathematician,
you run the risk
of being carried away

without a solution

This Earth is home
to eight billion visionaries.
Their revelations begin
with a baby's first cry,
and then their missions unfold,
each
their own messiah.

At times, prophecies concur,
forming fleeting alliances:
where no one sows salt,
mushroom colonies strike—
each member with its stem,
a cocked tricorn hat,
and live performances.
"Now my turn—gimme the mike!"

Every oracle's merit
is gauged by impartial Something
beyond face,
beyond sounding.

To my left, old women huddle
by the roadside, thinning lives.
They're upholding one another,
so all will check with lightsome spines

at the cemetery's receiving desk,
then melt away in turquoise bliss.
I wish to think what waits is rest,
not stewing in hot-*** abyss.

To my right, kids comet by,
and through them—life's current raw.
I wish to think the Tree of Life
will tuck each in its midmost core.

How I wish
the innocent
were never wronged...