The Fear of Isaac
And Jacob sware by the fear of his father Isaac.
Genesis 31:53
Sharp trauma must have lingered on for good
in Isaac’s silent dazed humanity
halted by heaven; trembling laid on wood
too young to question father’s sanity.
Was it a light thing? To be thus withstood
by Jehovah’s awful benignity…
Faltering further up life’s mountain, would
he carry the damage with dignity?
This just might explain the forty-year wait—
meditating on the ram, on his fate.
The paralyzing laughter of his name
even after life unveiled in his tents.
A certain hesitation does make sense
in the son laid out on unkindled flame.
Licked, Stamped, Undelivered
Sustenance for friends and clients;
state your case – come one, come all.
The matron arms of Social Service
will not let you fall.
Food stamps make our nation stronger,
licked, then stuck on the public roll.
Social programs last much longer
adding recipients on the dole…
Like the Ephesian Diana
many are my benefits!
Mine the matriarchal manna;
latch and suckle at my tits.
Yours the client’s right to nurture.
Mother will supply your need;
Child—you must not fear the future.
Feed, my baby, feed.
Call me nanny, call me Lord
just make sure you’re calling on me.
Mine are the gifts you can afford
taxpayer-funded, worry-free!
Once you are latched I’ll keep it flowing
like an intravenous habit.
Keep that nipple situated
close at hand. Now grab it.
Let it never cross your mind
that there’s an end to all lactation.
Cloward-Piven have refined
this titillation.
Love me. Need me. I’m the State.
Your well-being is my affair.
With your consent I’ll dominate,
because I care.
IMAGE CREDIT: stefanomarcelli.com
The Jewel in the Center of the Lotus (Eaters)
There is not a single aspect of the eighty-four thousand sections of the Buddha’s teachings
which is not contained in Avalokiteshvara’s six syllable mantra “Om Mani Padme Hum”…
Dilgo Khyentse Rinpoche
No more western Buddhists, please—
I’ve had it up to here.
your grimly earnest souls aren’t saved;
your doctrines: very queer.
That lotus incense makes me sick.
It mingles with the fumes
of Subarus and passing schemes
in tofu-scented rooms.
Come off it, all you dilettantes;
your chanting is off-key.
The Zen is sham; and God will damn
your choice to simply BE.
The books you offer me are full
of theravada shambala.
The Dalai WHAT? You babble on . . .
Ascetic sands you’re building on.
A bourgeois dalliance at best
this turning toward the Mystic East.
Those jasmine smells, and gongs, and bells,
proclaim a saffron beast.
By Trungpa Rin-Po’s holy yak—
you’ve swallowed sinker, line and hook.
(Along with way too much green tea
and words from some Buddhist book.)
Celebrities that flap about
this form of Dhammapada – Lite
are mere proverbial flitting moths
and dwell in irrelevant night.
Your shaven sensei’s DVDs,
the Pali scarf, the trademark beads
should be compared to junk-food sweets:
what bald hypocrisy it feeds.
Contemplatives in SUVs
(like boiled carp in lacquered bowls)
are pseudo-karma-yankee-sake
poured into empty souls.
So trade your cushions for some Truth.
Unlock your legs. Uncross your mind.
Return to words that can make you see
—or meditate yourselves blind.
Before this cultural rot began,
before your symptoms were full-blown,
our ancestors did cultivate
the gospel’s seed, once sown . . .
