Hey You

Fireworks every night, firecrackers that sound like bombs.

I hear skateboards on the pavement at 4 AM.

The adult infant sucks Cafe Bustelo from a hot ceramic breast

and confronts the blank tablet.

At night all tablets are blank but the brain fills them with dream pictures and messages.

Should I be composing an agenda? A dissertation? A business plan? Doing my taxes?

What is required of me? 

What do I require of the world and myself?

I have been reading the instructions for the first bardo,

for the state in between life and so-called death.

The main thing is to remember where you are.

Hey, you.

You are in between.

It is dark but the clear light of reality shines upon you.

Reality is staring in your face but you keep averting your eyes.

Hey, noble one, now is the time for your kind to drop and die,

for your ego, the sterling silver mastermind of the mess you call life, to collapse like the hollow statue of a Confederate general.

Your master race is a disgrace to humanity,

your founding fathers are dust and their legacy is shame, you know it’s a mess, and you’ll never get these scrambled eggs back into their shells.

Hey, white boy, hey white boy

Who are you talking to?

Are you talking to me?

Are you talking to me?

Are you talking to me?

Hey, you.