So you are a god; now what?

Are you impotent or just plain lazy? Is there nothing to do?

Is it Maya or Yama? The Devil or Pan?

Is there anything that advaitism cannot do? There is no question and only one vase to be nudged
over with your enlightened foot. Avadhuta or silly, silly boy; both and neither.

My throbbing heart calls attention to the divine, and my search for wisdom makes a prostitute of
me, hawking words like flesh in a market. Such trickery and deceit gets the old blood pumping. Thou
shalt all ways be wrong.

Semantic shock or big red cock? Abraxas. It breaks us and so it should.

The street-stained ragamuffin swears like a cunt as I feel God and Deaths fingers in my chest. Maya,
Yama, or even Lila. The Lila of Pan. The Maya of the Devil.

Oh, thou, Satan, frighten the little children with terrible bed-time stories. Invert. Reverse. Flip it.
Your mirror is dirty and tainted. The shocking clarity of that which cannot be spoken for there are no
words. Like a reality TV star dupe. There are no words.

So; do thou track, scanning with an electronic eye? Do thou scream for vengeance, like a gay leather-
man in a rock and roll band? Or will thou slip, unhindered, into a lovers warm bed on a chill winters
morn? Aye, that is to be seen.

And anyway; I am confused. A plethora of images that squeal This is it! until the self-deception is
unmasked again and again and again. Thus onward the weary pilgrim travelled.

A shouting, screaming, roaring mass of made up drivel and old mans spittle. The Old Ones, the New
Ones, the Ones Not Yet Invented