I had this neurotic itch
I couldn’t scratch,
like a flea
biting my ass.
And normally, an out-of-reach place
can be gotten to
with a wooden hand
on the end of a wand,
but my brain
can’t be scratched,
so I used spiritual tools…
philosophical truths, to roll-out the knots, strangling the muscles, in my mind
or meditation, like a sink, with soapy water, to wash-out, the dirty parts
of my soul.
It drains, and I am left with an empty
My heart is more difficult to pierce,
easier to break, when it’s hard.
My lungs breathe-in the toxins, of a world incensed
at my incense—an aroma that inspires me
but kills most people.
Everybody wants to smell the same.
I had questions…
but the answers were different
depending on who I talked to.
Everybody told me not to talk to everybody, so I disobeyed them all,
which is typical for me.
You can’t know for certain, unless you listen to only one person.
My first guru told me, “You are a weenie—work harder. You are too smart for your own good. Intelligent people are always out to lunch because they finish their work too fast. I prefer somebody who puts his ass in the chair and gets it done, no matter if it takes 100 hours a week.”
I worked harder, but my emptiness grew larger, like a hole I needed to fill.
I went to see a prostitute—just joking.
My next guru believed in individuality. He shaved his head bald and put-on dark robes. He told me, he loved life, unlike most people. “The secret is indulgence, but not compulsion,” he said.
I did as I was told,
but felt like I wasn’t going anywhere.
I was good and bad.
I accepted myself and my shadow—with all my carnal appetites, but pleasure turned to ash in my mouth.
Intellectual pursuits are a maze I can’t find my way out of,
because I can only see what’s in front of me.
I went to see an atheist, but I didn’t believe anything he said.
God was my last option.
I went to see a pastor, but he wasn’t God, and he told me so.
“You have to find Him on your own,” he said.
He was an honest man, God bless him, while most people pretend to be God.
It’s pathetic, really, because they only pretend, because they are unable to convince themselves.
Being fake is worse than blasphemy.
I know I’m not God, so I have to find Him,
and finding Him is the hardest part,
or it might be
as asking the right question,
and getting the answer
I’ve been looking for,
all these years.