Enough fair maiden talk: the
soul is not always soft.
Pick up your sword and slice
off Shiva's head.
He'll grow a thousand more,
one of them yours.
To hunt God's heart, use
leopard's teeth.
Drink blood, not milk, from
jugulars of fire.
Stop wringing your hands and
start roaring.
Your roar will wake up Jesus
in his tomb.
He'll walk out under his own
power,
motherless, no crutches, no
angels.
Legs spread wide, knuckles
on hips, he'll shout,
"Out of the cave, old
monks! Penance is over!
The dogs have learned not to
pee on the rug!"
No longer will the Prophet
take dictation.
He'll make up his own book,
letters from the ground
shaped like bugs, peach
pits, cougar scat, wild poppies.
Lord Krishna gets bored with
obsequious kisses
and all that moaning about
past lives,
mala beads on threads of
regret.
"What happened doesn't
matter," he sings.
"Bring me a corkscrew,
not a rose.
Warriors, let's open the
wine."
Your belly is a cellar for
aging something bittersweet.
Go down, bring it up, decant
your bouquet.
What's been hidden so long
makes us fierce tonight.
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