Homey Prophet Speaks
Where you want to put it, fool?
On the dark?
All right.
I’ll say it again: All right.
All right. You know it’s gonna be
all right.
Everything is gonna be all right
even when it’s not.
Perfection includes imperfection.
And that includes you, fool.
So where you want to put it, my brother,
My perfectly imperfect worry machine?
You want to concentrate on a panoply of indignities,
like man-made war, and man-made disease?
You want to examine
Poor brown children wrenched by famine?
All right. You say you want answers
You say want leaders
You pray for salvation
At Church, to St. Peter
All right. Ask for forgiveness
Ask and repent
Ask for an ending
To ongoing Lent.
But understand: there’s those of us who care to think
that knowing God demands a link
to better angels, to vibes much higher,
illuminated by eternal fire,
the one that burns within
where there’s no hell and there’s no sin.
Not to go off on a tangent
The problem is – and I’ve confirmed this with my management—
The problem is we got
Too many poems
Too many books
Too many lost souls
Don’t know where to look.
Right? Right?
It’s been proven: if you focus on the light
you’ll develop brilliant sight.
This issue is settled. OK? All right?
No? Yes? No?
All right. Let’s have a little argument
Let’s have a little tiff
Let’s castigate and conjugate
Instead of light a spliff
We can commence to disagreeing
About cannabis and worshipping
And different ways of seeing.
But, my brothers, my sisters,
You can stop your fretting
Because it’s all been decided. It’s all been settled.
Universal understanding. Universal consciousness.
The opposite of obnoxiousness.
Everybody knows –- and this is “terrific” and scientific:
The darker the berry the sweeter the fruit.
The higher the thread count the finer the suit.
Extraneous issues pretend to be moot.
But inside our dreams they squawk and they hoot.
Yes? No? Yes?
Hey. Hey!
Now you want to challenge me?
Pay the fee. This is a catastrophe
of misunderstanding and misoversitting
of imprecise verbiage and petty hair-splitting -–
dispensed with gleefully, wistfully, fitfully, cheerfully.
Call me a prophet, call me a visionary.
God has asked me to tell you that
It’s coming our way like a tropical storm
heaving and howling and breaking the norm
the usual form
once hot now warm.
Everything that looks different is actually the same.
Look, I understand, my brothers, my sisters, your fear and your shame.
But here’s the big news, the climactic reveal:
I am you and you are me.
This issue is settled. The Oneness is “we.”
So where you want to put it, fool?
On the light?
All right.
Yes. All right.
