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A Poem for Sunday

by Scott H. Payne

TM Blues

by Scott H. Payne

(Ed. warning, bad language alert)

Floating,
floating,
floating down the city streets.
Floating over the roof tops
and over the hydrants
Dreaming fires
older than your self righteous,
ego-maniacal,
diamond studded thoughts about
Right,
and wrong,
and Left,
and Right,
and,
stop.

How many timers have you stopped?
How many timers go off
every day that you sit
idly by
wondering if today is
the last day
of the first day of the rest of your life?
Pontificating on
the brash cynicism of
our g-g-g-generation,
who seem to think
that it’s all,
right,
there.

Stop.
And don’t forget,
which is to say remember,
that it’s so easy to eat the garbage.
The great ones never ate the garbage.
They might have slept out
in the garbage,
to see what that was,
to see who was there.
To have the courage to look
the condition in the eye.
And they were believers,
they believed their
fucking brains out:
Night,
After,
Night,
After night.
Until the sweat dripped
from every poor body
that they met in those garbage heap dreams.
But they didn’t eat the garbage.
Whittman,
didn’t eat the garbage.
Dickenson,
didn’t eat the garbage.
King,
didn’t eat the garbage.
Weil,
didn’t eat the garbage.
Kerouac and Ginsberg and Burroughs,
didn’t eat the garbage.
It’s too easy,
and you’re better than that.

So what do you do,
when you’re left shaking?
Not your head,
not your body
not even your soul.
Just shaking.
The whole world is
shaking.
We’re in perpetual motion.
Shaking.
Back and forth,
left to right,
back and forth.
So what do you do?
How do you do something that is
True?
When you can’t even talk about
Truth anymore,
without having to
explain yourself.
Because Truth is in
the hand of the
holder,
the eye of the
scolder,
the unarmed
soldier
who fights with a pen
that shakes the very Earth to its
core
and topples empires
with an indignant
sense of
egalitarian corruption
that makes the whole world
flat.
Fuck!
We figured out the world was round
how many years ago?
And we’re back to
FLAT?!
FUCK!

So I waited.
Found a stone upon which to
take up residence,
sat down,
closed my eyes,
and waited.
Centuries.
Millennia.
Eons.
I waited.
As galaxies were born
and died
in the blink of my eye,
I waited.
Perfect Buddha Prince,
Tender Lotus Leaf,
Stranded in the desert.
Passive traveler.
Sojourner Truth.
And I was tempted,
fuck yes!
Knees trembling,
body aching,
tongue swollen.
Oh I was tempted.
Tits
and
ass
and
pussy
and
cum,
sliding past my the inner movements
of my cock-self loathing.
I was tempted,
but still I rested
in the cool emptiness
of my own
equanimity.
Opened to the
unblinking shadow of my
Third Eye,
my Shakti sigh,
my Dharma-ky.
Fried eggs on the sidewalk
and called it gold!
Ripped snores of contemplation
like angels and devils from an
unwritten dichotomy.
And when I
woke up,
nothing made any more sense
than it had before.

Fuck!

But,
what if
that’s just the way it is,
just the way it was
when you looked out
with your
Original Face.
The face you had
before you were born.
The face you’ll have
after you die,
that you recognize
in the mirror
where everything is backwards.
And that’s
just
the way
it
is.
Yes.