You want to run away
to the monasteries of
northern India.
Developed-world human beings
are straight bonkers.
The details of why or
how is the dissertation
you simply don't care
to write, anymore.
It'll remain the treatise
the observant lover
might spy in your movements;
the organization of your bedroom;
your reasonable protests;
your tender hypnosis,
honest and beautiful.
Let'em burn,
you've said to yourself
at your most anarchistic,
most rebellious,
most f*ck you, World.
You don't need to
be in robes in the
mountaintops of Asia
to do what monks do:
to pour water
with every ounce
of attention
pouring into
the pouring
and the water
fell beautifully enough
for the angels
to protect us
forever.
To acknowledge the life
in the plants and
the wild animals;
to bow to Life
or at least revere Life
with every act –
that is ultimately
the disconnect
rendering all of us incomplete.
You can do that here, I think.
Begin revering yourself.
Pour your sacred attention
where there is none.
This is the baptism
of lonely urban monks.
See?
The city and its dress
and gadget ornaments
drying up our moments
of contact
deserted human hearts
drinking greedily
from the mirage.
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