Opinions, on the flavor of China or
the arms trade in today’s lentil soup, I say,
“Hmmph!” … and, and then really add an and, in this
bozo-bitch-barked boo hiss hark of
samskara-stark, shark-snapped snippage …

eloquent egophant assiduously ego-snackage slipping in:
kick me some cosmic caviar of karmic sturgeon
emergin’ in assumed vasanic versions, perhaps
an eggoplant or elagantine galois of giving guts
to the chutz of another’s parinda-paw of perfect placement.


I saw a full and hearty, head-said selfish soliloquy rise and Rreeerr,
utilize Yike like a bike to blaze into another's meow in a full-throated,
mentally gloated, “f**k you!” and your phony poem-pinching
hip cat of causelessness to boot.

The high plains drifter, dufusly drunk
with ditch-chits, past hits of hearing music,
herring muzak of Rod’s Serling Stirling song parade,
“Run, run, run away…”
hudoo’d the Who Dude,
Who’d always lurked, always smirked
in hidden head-trip hide-aways,
and straight-away today tonight forever flighting,
attempted to slip her, tried to trip her, teehee tip her
up, on assumptions unbelievably, inconceivably still based
on the idea of there being an actual doer…

even a dog-doo of dumb stepper-inner doer doing
decidedly dumb pet tricks of particularity for the gift of it...
I don’t git it? There, that's the gift
of the dog doo goo shit
on the no-doer shoe,
somehow soled with self-identification to past experiences
and their redundancy...of Reebokness and Kedity.
Ahhh, the Shoe-Stint heredity has hummed as far as this field
of vision I still live butterfly-like in, bhavic or not.

How’d He Do ‘Er?

Howdy Doody, He do 'er with his happy hand up her wooden blocks
of belief still burgeoning with griefs and groans of being no one's
Baby for the prom. C'mon!
Can't get past '73 without still retreating
ad nauseum, into the heating of hair ready to ignite,
the bleating blah blah blah all through the night,
the endless Calendula orange angst augering
the ochre-clad Okie obtusely repeating all the fantasy-like
faux pas' of finding God?

By dabbing the d-t’s (O)n to doer, making a dandy-handy
done to ‘er. A Boo-Hooer in Bheda-Bhava bawling for Bhava
to spill from Bob-a-the-link she thinks is inked
to the edge of the Dharma-Drink
we drop into OneHeartedly when we hear
with ears that that sprout further out
than God can grow from human fruit.


Those Gay Golden-Green Coot Feet meet my image of God as much
as the Goldenest Buddha's Feet in the world or any other ever have.

By persona-pander pumping His calling card,
his running hard in the Big Easy of I Am, and clapping tight
his fakery-quackery Doctor’s card of Divine Rhyme …
into her onion soup-stirring hands,
into her Chinois-Anglais trading-stars
that are endless
and bright
with the Light of this Love We Are,

Could she possibly have been up in arms about being short
shrifted in wanting I-shrine holy moment liftings
in the gifted gab she tries to grab
in hearing about how totally fab she,
and her soup are, and they are,
or it is, the soup is,
it really chilly-chink blinked is a whiz of a wonderful sup.
So what?

Reboot.
Back-up.
Belief in a doer is the doorway to D’Ohdom.
D’Oh! That damnable Tao of Homer
will not allow for
any form of misnomer, misnamer
or blamer to the blistering spot-fire frying
my hair that was flying riotously back
in the wind of “Ahem,”
and the common din of such as this:
“Are you on snack, girl!?”

“I heard the caged bird’s song,” and it was all wrong
in rightness, right in wrongness
for me to believe that what I perceived was actually what,
was what was being conveyed about a vat of anonymous soup
and spirit-trade in China’s winds being affected
by the Tiger-Swallowtail butterfly’s blessed flutterance.

Not another utterance, but this, my Friends:
Love is all there is. Love is the only reality. There is only Love.
“And Love,” as our Beloved Bhagavan has sweetly
silent-marked for us, remarked to us,
“is the actual form of God.”

LoveAlways,Mazie Get a FREE online virus check for your PC here, from McAfee.