You’re asking God to give to you, or
Buddha be his name,
Gaia hers; they’re all the same -
“May I have what I want,” you say,
Instead of the small wondering,
What you might ought to have.
You could definitely win
A material game
Or one of feeling right, O Ethical You.
You might manipulate the tiny surrounding space,
Quietly vibrate the life around you,
Take humility lessons yourself and then,
Learn ’em, durn ’em,
The folks you know.
You could take up your time here
At alchemy, at
Any change, positive growth,
You’re asking permission
To know the morality
Of having your way with
Do yourself a favor, please.
Don’t chant yet. Don’t pray. Don’t draw down stuff,
Helpful objects or even goodwill.
Don’t look for meaning,
Or for ease.
First, find that
Hole of a place
Where a tiny new seed
Of an idea
Raise the thought honestly,
Fully commit to it, live it completely,
As evil as it will seem,
Dig out your gaping, earthy, black, hollow space
And, in an instant,
A trillion ready, promising, eager, hungry choices will congregate,
A darkening mass will flock and fly like bats
To your head
And your writhing stomach.
You’ll be, in your constant, ultimate weakness,
A mute autistic,
Prone upon bare ground, laid-out, rocking,
Clutching your body for dear life,
That empty, invisible, fleshy container
That holds "you."
You either will end up eternally shaking,
A junkie to something, to any small item that might taste slightly sweet,
Decaying and soon dead, or
Something simple to
Whoever looks to you:
You will know
What is fair
My so easily
by Coke Brown Jr. -
as posted on Coke's Croaks -