Second Hand Insanity

In modern terms,
the depth
of our experiences
is one
of an outward show
of wealth and comfort.

The most exotic
of our experiences
are the sense
of safety we find
behind the walls
of our protection
from the world
of soldiers and bandits,
the seclusion
in which
in privacy
we may indulge
in our fantasies and perversions
while still maintaining
our public faces.  

We have come to believe
that an orgasm
or a night
of wine
are world winds
of cosmic understanding
and our greatest hopes
are for a megalomaniacal dream
of operatic ostentatiousness
for the displaying
of our bangles and artifacts
as we have collected them
in our various excursions
in our quest to own a world
that we cannot take
with us when we die.

We have no dream life
of entering
into vibratory unity
with the universe,
no sense
of peace
in the unconditional love
of all sentient beings,
little respect if any
for the visions
of others,
but only seek to own and procure
and have comfort
as we wait
for death,
a day
that is coming
and will leave behind us
only our names
on streets,
a few dedications
on buildings,
and a legacy
of debauchery and insignificance
for tabloids
that will be used
to line the bird cages
of the poor
who follow such things
with endurance and capacity
for genuine compassion
for those who have lived
only on the surface
of life's bleeding rim
above the canyon
of death.

What then
of the shaman,
the poets,
the artists,
the lovers,
the children,
the insane
and the bewildered
who stalk the night
with blinking eyes
and swollen faces?  

These and the host
of dynamic angels,
the wild and insistent
who see the stars
as signs
and the waters
as breath?  

They have drown
in the mystic reality
of being,
and tread upon the ice
of unusual satisfactions.  

Here and there,
timelessly insecure,
they walk
and lance the wounds
of unbridled transmission.  

They have seen
and know
and will again retain
the ancient wisdom
of the narrative sun
in its eons
of returnings,
equinox,
shadows,
cloud savaged dreams
and sunken meanderings.  

We are the lent reason
the cosmos has coughed up
its secrets,
to line the pockets
of the naked
with the stark truths of life,
and to make the unchained children
reveal what they know
of the final heaven.

runningturtle87