In caverns below the city lives a beast, reviled. It's fierce and ancient and patient -n- won't come up unless riled. When you read of disappearance: kidnapped or ran away? It might be neither one, rather, it's breached the light of day. So, if this beast is not one you wish to look in the face, When you take to song and dance: don't stomp or over-Bass!
I see so many statues of dragon-slayers mid-kill. The winged serpents pierced by a lance conjures up such a thrill. But there're no dragons, never were. So, what were they slaying. Dinos went extinct before our time is all that I'm saying. So, were they killing geckos, or maybe a rock lizard? Maybe chickens, given the wings? Struck right through the gizzard! Could it be St. George liked to drink or was tripping ergot? To earn so many statues, he'd a publicist, I bet. "The dragons were metaphorical!" OK, that's really swell, but shouldn't George's heroism be figurative as well?
One day I passed a gray monkey, and something made me turn. I caught the primate in the act of issuing a burn. Its eyes were closed; its tongue stuck out. Its head twisted to tease. And when it saw me seeing it, for a sec, it did freeze. As if not a thing had happened, and it was not to blame. Before I could make my rebuke it multiplied my shame. by blowing me a raspberry followed by a big smirk. Then it scrambled away before I went truly berserk.
A sign that hangs on down the street proclaims to one and all that coming soon there will be a Lonely-Hearts Club Ball. A dance of manic turbulence where singles 're all & none. You can come all by yourself, but you'll never leave as one. You'll be swept into unity with undulating hoards. Bound by bindings you'll feel, not see; you'll never cut these cords. So, welcome to the end of you, as only you can know. And welcome to the beginning of the everlasting flow. For an end is a beginning of something bold and new. And a beginning is an end: 'cause we're just passing through.
The Monkey King with magic staff outmatched monsters and gods, defying the Jade Emperor's edicts against all odds. He erased himself from out of The Book of Life and Death, and lived through the Crucible -- nearly holding his breath. Finally, the gods called Buddha, though some had their qualms, but the one thing Monkey couldn't do was leap from Buddha's palm.
The squirrel's life 's an acorn hunt: forage and hide the nut. But a feeble mind requires that it hide them by the glut. Squirrel happiness is fragile no cache is big enough to be certain it'll make it through should the winter get rough. Oh, give me the tardigrade life, not a doubt it'll survive. No food, no water, vacuum of space and the thing 's still [bleeping] alive. Rather than gathering plenty, I'd rather need much less, or, at least, not be so mindless to hoard in great excess.
The spastic flame that dances fast: too weird to match to drum. The teary eye strays into trance as if deadened by rum. Where will the flame transport us now that smoke has made us cry? Where will the cracking sounds take us as we turn to the sky? The moon is out and casts a glow, a glow of milky white. And each dim point of starlight burns trillions of times as bright as that feeble, little campfire that rules what I now feel: the heat, the smoke, the popping sounds that now make my head reel.
The Sadhu sits upon the ghat, so free from suffering. Like butterflies in still moments with wings not fluttering. There's no living and no dying, just a rare kind of dead, in which bodies move, but minds don't, and worlds are gently tread.
A timeless time will come to be, when all is uniform. And nothing 's hot & nothing 's cold, but all is just lukewarm. So thank your lucky stars you've lived in this age of bedlam: when stars can shine and buildings rise and we've cerebellums.
I stand before the water's edge. Thwarted, I throw a stone. For I am here and you are there, and I feel all alone. I have no friendly Hanuman to form a viaduct. I gather scraps together to see what I can construct. Maybe I'll make a raft, or some rickety, old footbridge - Anything to reduce the gulf so much as a hopeful smidge.
the !n(tro)verted yogi 