31 July 2014

Two Hundred and Sixty-One


Let us speculate for a few moments that God really is a he,
And that he looks something like the Michelangelo Santa Claus rendition.
And that Jesus really is the fundamentalist, M-16 toting, bad hair, very vengeful good son.
And like Santa, God is keeping a naughty list, and you are near the top of it,
No more than one or two demerits away from eternal damnation.
Who really cares? No, seriously, who cares, really?
Why would anyone even for a moment
Think of worshipping such a preposterous creator,
Or of idolizing a son whose testament to the world was so absurd.

* * * *
Who decides what is normal, anyway?
And is what is normal here, normal over there?
And is what is normal now, what was normal back then,
Or what will be normal in some future when?
More than a little arbitrary, indeed.

* * * *
Any leader who does not give an attentive ear
To whoever’s in the trenches or out scouting about,
Should always be required to lead the charge.

* * * *
To all critics:  Go make your own movie,
Write your own book, paint your own painting,
Build your own house, live your own life.

* * * *
Pure awareness is tabula rasa,
The uncarved block, the empty slate,
Free of the stains of any concept or passion.

* * * *
You long for it to be more than a dream,
But more it can never be,
And thus you must learn to face and embrace
The eternal aloneness in which your ultimate nature in serenity resides.

* * * *
It is a regrettably curious thing the destructive grip that ignorance has upon the world.
Modern sciences obviously tender more accurate, verifiable observations and measurements
Than the ancients across the planet ever could in their geocentric, ethnocentric domains.
And yet they from their graves rule current times as absurdly as they did their own.