Privilege, you?

My, oh my!

How polite you sound when you tell me to tone it down, to not be divisive, or polarize.

Ooh! I love it when you show up all enlightened to explain that the spiritual path is to detach, to go inside, and not dirty your white mind with the mob’s concerns.

You make me tingle. Kundalini awakes! See how free you look, how happy and gentle your unconditional love for all puppies and saints.

I’m amazed at the way you misquote those dead holy men. Inspired! Awake!

Privileged? Who dared called you that? Don’t they know you transcend race, darkness, and class?

But don’t listen to them. Don’t let that word melt your visage. I’m sure they are stuck in old thinking, 3-D concerns. They’re probably sheep who follow the beat of the fake media who never wants peace.

Privilege, you? Forgive them. They do not know. The troubles and pains you’ve had to endure! How much it took to get you there, with all your certificates, travels, and mirth. You also had to struggle, I’m sure it’s the same.

Don’t worry. Detach. Disconnect for a while. Take a break from having to hear about race, oppression, and strife. It’s better for you, better for all. Stay gentle and pure. Smile, breathe, count your blessings and teach.

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Like Silent Worms Feeding Off the Rot

More than 100 people are in prison for third degree rioting in Minneapolis today. Justice moves faster for some.

They should have painted their faces and dressed like native Americans while throwing private property in the water, hiding in the dark. That’s how you rebel against tyranny in this country. They’d be heroes instead.

More than anything, please remember to take it all with the right perspective. What you saw was just a bad apple executing an innocent man in broad daylight. Horrible, of course. But don’t blame the men in blue. Most never killed black men. Some only stood guard, and others held down. Most are not rotten apples, more like silent worms feeding off the rot.

Don’t blame all cops. We don’t know all sides. There was the matter of $20 someone had forged. How do you feel now? We don’t know who did that. Not at all, but we could all see in broad daylight that that man was obviously guilty of being black. There’s no denying that.

Do not blame the blue. Who else will protect the business and rights of the Neo-nazi to march?

Brave is the gang in blue, keeping their cool when white men with too many guns get angry over too many masks. Because that’s not scary, no. Not at all.

Finally, remember to never ever take the knee when the National anthem is playing. That’s unpatriotic. Do it when the people are pleading with you to stand up, when you’re wearing blue, when the scary man of color is under you.

What Happened to Last Night’s Storm?

What happened to last night’s storm?

Where is the lightning and the rain?

Where, the furious stentor,

and the rumbling of heaven?

What happened to the pleasures of youth,

Where did the touch of your fingers go?

Where, the ecstatic sigh,

and the shirtless defiance against the past?

Whatever happened while I drifted away

into the limitless hug of death?

Now, is only a clean world,

bright and fresh,

sprinkled with songs of birds

and the smells of spring,

of soil,

of dew.

Now, only the aftermath,

a world renewed and the ample breath

holds my soul

after our light-storm took me into the night.

Her Loving Kiss

But in the solitude of the night I stay and know that all the words and all the stories are lumps of life and meaning; and in the center I find myself trapped in an island, surrounded by life, all rushing at me at the same time.


In this center of life I can’t distinguish anything at all. There is no name. There is no God. There is no hell. There is no movement of time and space; just the glorious silence; just the breath rushing in and going out; just her touch; the soft fingers of life holding, moving around, dancing around me.

In pain and joy, her hands play with the silent center. It moves. Sometimes I play with her by moving, talking. The light pulls my arm. The wind moves. The face looks and smiles when she looks back, and in the center of this magnificent womb, what can there be if not the warm embrace, the kiss of her ecstasy? How can there be anything but the loving kiss of the angel of death?

By the Road’s End

Emptiness pouring itself into emptiness. Light merging with light. Darkness hiding behind darkness.

Nothing is, nothing will be, and no thing ever was.

All witnessing is just the intersection of these gentle soft strings; it’s just the interplay of word over vibration creating the illusion of continuity, creating the sensation of tapestry and feel.

In the intersection of light and dark, there by the Road’s End, the weaver weaves. The hands create tales and sights untold: untruthful, meaningless, fathomless, groundless.

There by the Road’s End, where the ways intersect, you can almost hear the weird sound of the ticking and tapping of the Kindly Ladies weaving your life, ending your life.

All that begins one day comes to an end, there by the Road’s End.