Back in the Low Lands

Back at the cardboard apartment
In the low lands,
With the incubating misty surf
And the Oxnard strawberries,
I can only wonder about the collision,
The moment when again light is magic,
And power is love and mysterious empires.

He is ridiculous, this Zen master,
Walking H-bomb from Connecticut,
Thought he'd drop by for Brahma's day,
Ran around in sporty cars and pyramids,
Until the Kali Yuga nuked it's way to
Uncle Sam and the Karl Marxed-out snow honkies.
Now it will be a little software
and on to the next dream.

I could speak for hours about the falsehoods of science,
How those elementary school movies of butchy boy's
And their goofy old test-tubes -- can't chain the mystic.
Right now I could lift the reader out of his chair,
This poem could turn into vegetarian steak.
Someday we will all know this type of freedom,
And forget the illusion of space, time, and matter,
Self, being, and awareness...
Without this I can only offer you tea,
Or tell you that your already there.

God, the forests we have destroyed for the Republican track homes!
This Zen Master I know can't take that.
It just isn't chic to slay wisdom for boredom,
like human beings do,
As they shop for glittery trash and build weapons
To stamp out the mammalian perception vessels they got in the Astral.
I've got to bring a few other of these liquid-carbon bound souls
To meditate in the grace of this Master's golden fans.

But until then, believe in the Sci-Fi.
Never say no to the Miracles.
You think I'm wrong and the universe is as it is,
OK, I'll wait.
Time will prove me right --
Gone without a trace.