The Meadows of the Dead are carpeted
brandished with flashing neon lights
and cluttered with slot machines -
some of which declare
"Wheel of Fortune"
Oases exist in this desert-of-the-Soul:
Human bodies congregate around
large concrete pools
of imported and toxified water.
In the vacuous flesh is evidenced
the processing of Life's poorly
digested obscenities into obesity
Here the sensitive skin,
our means of touching and being touched
by all else that lives,
is transformed into thick, tanned leather
and a relationship with Spirit
is sought in iced, twelve inch tumblers
On display on tables in pyramids, castles, and towers
are gyrating women who will never be Witnessed
by the empty-eyed men who
brandish stacks of This Time's most worshiped icto
and tuck it feverishly into
things stitched by children in China.
If you are lucky,
the dice will roll snake eyes
in the very moment that you have harshly
judged it all,
and the entire landscape will flip 90 degrees,
like a Cirque du Soleil stage,
becoming a full length mirror.
What incredible nausea the ego exudes
as it resist owning the images of
the wounded ones within.
But the Soul
who befriends their Shadow
has no qualms vomiting
into the shrubbery by the taxi cab stand
becomes it knows
this is an invitation to purge
what no longer Serves.
When you again lift your head hight
with the courage to See more,
a stroke of magic
substitutes The Sacred for The Profane
it becomes evident that these mirrored
people of the desert are
the most dedicated of Life's Deciples.
You must cash this winning in and take it Home.
before you do,
Be curious as to the slight of hand,
and inquire of the angle disguised
as a large-eared bartender.
He'll write on your napkin
"Two parts compassion to
one part gratitude."
(c) 2010-2013/Jamie K. Reaser
Published in "Note to Self: Poems for Changing the World from the Inside Out (www.hiraethpress.com)