Northwest's full moon,
perfect light to the soul.
Only force unifies
And it makes me think not of Greeks in togas,
nor of desert tribes shaking
their ration of wrath onto their nappy heads.
I listen to the chorus who sing, "Life is easy"
Party now, get "saved" later- "enjoy it all,"
yet, I know the hard deities, of ice and fire endure.
Ashes have no voice
They speak to us in many voices,
each with the hard won wisdom or a tribe.
But the spiritual packagers see all these voices as One,
as if one moon would be enough for all who see it,
or all wishes were on just one star.
And what it real can not be sold.
And I know that they sell, the Chopras
the New Age speakers, no less than TV preachers,
sell an easy way.
They fear the myriad voices behind the world we know,
like a bee's many eyes, that see not the ego-bound taker.
I know little, but I know what they do not.
There is an illusion of One, for those afraid to see the
compound eyes that look without love or parenthood
There is a thirst for One, for those
Who won't lift the burden of their own identity,
and need to merge it in a greater imagined whole,
than all that Is- solace enough for me, but no!
Their All must give them infant-'love'.
They met in secret and bludgeoned down the many to make One.
Those who are leaned of the fat of those fantasies,
who have tendered the hard stick of thinking for themselves,
without thought of company or confirmation,
who burned shoe leather learning facts behind the veil of appearances,
and maybe are watching this silent procession this night,
that behind the illusion of One are the voices of many,
and Many eyes look back at you from places
you cannot comprehend.