In ancient times

In ancient times
We climbed trees
Bare feet
With open minds

Dirty on the outside
Clean on the inside

Now, only a few
Are like that
Without the vanities of
“I am this”
“I am not that”

We sat in circles
And spoke our minds
The fires burned
The sun set

There is an absence
A nothingness
That cannot be ‘done’

If you do
Its vanity
Just noise

You cannot ‘do’ Yoga
You cannot ‘do’ Zen

A river flows
And gives
To all,
Or it Doesn’t

You cannot hold a river
In your hand

Travelling across the deserts
Of Iran
The heat burned

Travelling across the deserts
Of the “I”
The heat burned

How can a cold heart
When it hides
Behind words?

In my little room
There are no lies
That vastness
Destroys “I”

The soul, the I,
The higher self,
They are all
The same

The ‘sacred’
And the ‘profane’
The fragmented game

The human condition
Like a smashed mirror
Reflecting back unto itself
What fragment it wants
To see
And what it wants others
To see

Your anger
As the image
Stands in the open
Wishing to end
In the light of day


Death approaches
There is no pain

Time drifts on
As avoidance

The images shuffle about
As neglect, indifference,
The worldly compromise

Rebel against the lies
The polite chatter
The wasted lives

The lowest common

Like this
How many lives?