God is Grass

I dreamt of the rapture last night

not the lovely type of course

not rooftop rapture:

friends on high, reciting foreverness and talking mountains,

but the rapture to which my invitation has been misplaced by equality.

I dreamt of a tidal wave of immense proportions;

one that came and swept away the whores and the cheaters the liars the gays the free lovers the hungry the underprivileged the dark the cool those who know and me.

I sat meditating despite the wrath of Your god

I sat lotus while the rules of society and Your god squashed me into oblivion.

but thats just peachy keen: I've made my peace.

not with the arbitrarities of a gilded book,

but with the Grass:

The all knowing, ever thriving, conscious silent Bodhisattva of earth:

the almighty grass over which we trod trod trod.

We give It not the benefit of (y)our doubt that maybe, just maybe, there's something to be learned there,

not trigonometry of course, not algebra at all,

not quantum,

not mathematics,

not bio,

not medicine,

not cures for the next generation of decrepit old farts

not even how to reinforce stereotypes in comfort, Indian style.

I learned infinity in the grass

nirvana in silence

peace in consciousness

and solace in simplicity

God is

grass

silence

consciousness

simplicity

Your god smites

those who love

those who give

those who think

those who care

those who lotus and learn

my God,

sitting flower

learning grass

dreaming peace

expecting consciousness

my god is not present.

Presence, is my god.

Being is my peace.

Living is my lord and savior.

cosmic accidents be damned,

I live eternal

I breathe peace,

I sit silence,

I meditate consciousness.

I love Grass

Buddha, the wisest inhabitant of 137B knows;

God is fish flakes.