The Disciple knows not of suffering
Seeing through his Masters’ mouth-piece
And Coke-bottle goggles.
He crawls reptilian-like through
Despotic, dogmatic swamps
Behind his Master’s motorcade . . .
Willing to drown if master says “Dive”
After sunken totalitarian crucifixes.

The Disciple’s initiated into the hazing
Of jumping through hoops like Stations.
He’ll know not of suffering
As long as he remains tranced in
The maze; clutching
Onto aesthetic accolades of
Righteous Invisibility and
Holy Porosity.

The Disciple ponders his Skull and Bones;
Blood and crackers, while
Ignoring his own mind. Staying tied
By the Puppet-strings of Church and State
Until he can one day retrieve the Heaven of
His Masters’ coat tails. (Fore,
Brains cannot enter Heaven, a door locked;
And dumb flesh won’t fit the keyhole).

The two-pound bag of fertilizer
That is his head overspills
With misinterpretation. Biblical comic books
Masquerading as “The Word”; his thoughts
Underwater, in the shallows of
Tribal warfare and Divine child abuse.
He, like his beliefs are not relative
But Absolute. Yet,

Reality screams beyond his TV screen:
“CHANGE OR DIE” fore he is on the
Backside of Darwin . . .
A retarded ape stoned to death by
Original Sin, in love with his status
As a Blind Sheep in the Flock,
Therefore unworthy of
Individuality . . .

An Ecclesiastic Entrepreneur
Pitching a polarized product
Of vending machine theology.
Bringing water and medicine to
The third-world, a secondary excuse
For this Disciple playing the
Manic Missionary;
Multi-tasking Martyr.

Unaware that his awareness
Is someone else’s,
His words speak Slavery more than they sing
Praise or the Pilgrim Path that ascends
The Jacob’s ladder; empty of Angels, full of
Keeping up with the Jones’ -
Mister Sunday morning Disciple,
Armchair-crucified.

And, he will lose his life
Yet gain the world emulating
The Saints of Disassociation.
He swings from a severed umbilical,
Disconnected from The Source like
A disinherited relative
Twice removed, in this word
But not of it . . .

Industry, his milieu - Mirage is his values -
Politics, his crucifix - Prison is his conscience.
And, he will lose his life
Yet gain the world
Emulating the Vatican satyrs who
Ride the Beast and hump young boys.
They speak about “the Light”,
Vicariously; in darkness, cold.

Don’t contemplate the mind of Jesus
Or the afterthoughts of Peter and Paul,
The snoring of John Paul or
The Lunacy of Benedict . . .
Deify no one,
Contemplate your own mind,
Sit in the center
Of the mandala.