May 13 2017

Not turning in the out within, without
a flying bird, and then a branch for peace,
there’s doubt of self, and then there’s doubt of doubt,
then Socrates’ fart trumpets under Greece.
I’m not the better man; neither was He.
He would not raise himself above your nose.
He’d feel his size, about the same as thee,
and spindle in his nepotistic hose.
Perhaps he wouldn’t drink, or smoke, or swear,
the oversight from here to Heaven’s gate—
not unaware—so painfully aware
“Big Daddy” would enslave his name to hate.
It is not for one’s name, nor one man’s sake,
a Buddhist burns, and lights us in his wake.


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