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

his promises

to get their gold.

I hear you clicking  prayer beads,

chanting  mantra,

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?

Narcissist parents?

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