You come in holy rags muttering teachings,
complaining about the miso soup,
telling me about your puja table
telling me how to toe the spiritual line,
with a powerful beard
and one long pointing fingernail.
you are the mission bishop in the Amazon with your priest army,
Colombus whispers in your ear, ”they are savages.”
The beautiful painted faces smile at you,
“we are humans.”
you use Jesus’s sweetness
to get their gold.
I hear you clicking prayer beads,
everyone looks so special in that certain spiritual way,
the followers that pay the bills.
How does this happen?
a childhood spent with Pluto in Leo?
Stop…put down your practice, brother!
Tell your chelas to go home…
leave them alone!
It is not that I don’t care
no one carried you off to bed, gave you sweetness as you formed your childhood.
I know, ”You never did anything right.”
Here is your practice:
Your outer petals have dried up…
your brittle leaves
let them fall
juicy ones are waiting for you to flower
mingle your perfume with the perfume of all beings. –Ghani O’dell