“Except for deserted wilderness
what is there to protect?”
The war is over –
No time to mourn the dead,
sunrise over the settling dust
was too captivating for any lament.
Crimson trails of mind’s lingering exhaust
scar-streak dawn’s early sky in smoky ribbons,
as if the dream of night exploded in a pyrotechnic blast,
as if from now on there will be only flooding daylight,
although even that wild wonder will soon fade away
until what remains is not of time, not of mind,
yet even in its poignant quiet vanishing,
true balm for every wounded heart.
Now we wake and rise
and fall breathless into this luminosity,
this sky meadow vibrant with vernal signs,
brilliant hues, and vivid budding wonders –
the ordinary evidence of everything changing,
even as we ourselves are changed
beyond all our expectation.
Something unspeakable, unimaginable,
slips deeper into the serene still presence of itself,
no longer fixed in desperate conflict with itself,
just drifting aimlessly over a killing floor
where nobody survives, nobody rises up
to tell tall tales or fabricate more glory
stories of some imaginary victory.
Yes, fight on Arjuna!
Do your best!
We’ll be down in Krishna’s Kitchen,
cooking everybody lunch.
Today’s ala carte menu will be hand-lettered
in a spicy calligraphy of love’s rocket-red glare,
with combustible garnish: heads flaming in air.
Each crispy ash-head will eventually
reincarnate as a kind of moon, orbiting
its own promised world, drifting in a space
we all once hoped would be the case
when peace ruled every planet,
and love outshone the stars.