TRIPLESS TRIPPING BOHEMIAN SADHU
It’s what’s the point of pointless searching, it’s what’s the trip, where’s the cutting board, whose going nowhere? TRIPLESS TRIPPING BOHEMIAN SADHU. Nobody needs to get hurt, just forgotten. You, the trip, magic mushroom ride. Magic mushroom eyes. I knew everything and I saw the great one smiling at me. I found out about trips and alien DNA and I found out about why we shouldn’t drink monkey blood or reptile anything. We left New York.
We leave everything, I always have. I must continue dying, I see this deep inside my view master bones. We leave and hide out under trees in jungles and deserts. We live in giant beautiful houses and then we live in a tent. We aren’t afraid to wander, we are gypsies dancing the dance, celebrating the elusive gods, drunk on the psychedelic sky.
We give it all up, to be free from broken things, like fear and attachment and postures such as down dog. It’s these rainbow wing, that keep the skin boat afloat. Sadhu of America Bhagavan Das the original God father of heavenly sin, he’s really a lion with a rainbow beak. He’s really a gandharva. I’m really just a gopi. We have a harem, a castle, a wet cardboard box. Stuck nowhere in the rain, pennies fall and paradise sprouts from the faithful. We ride on a magic carpet, there is nothing here…but this rainbow song. Be free, let go, be nothing for awhile. Be someone nobody sees, be a bright animal under a tree. Let it go, forest dweller, let death go deeply into your veins. There is no home but the holy.
The holy means unkempt and ludicrous. The holy means unadorned and bruised. The holy means feet under river water, on morning grass. The holy means a muddy body and dandelion greens for breakfast. The river is home. Sleep on a bag of bones, forget service. Eat death like rainbows, forget good causes. Spike the water with arsenic, forget holding on to the coming of Krishna. The body bag is here now and we’re in it if we hold still in that neighborhood for one more day…a corpse in a Prius. I would thrash until I was free if I were you because that’s how butterflies get out of the prison they made, it’s time to fly, high high high.
You like Whole Foods that much?
Poison, this serpent’s poison lifts me higher every time. The way out is through. Through what, is what we leave…we leave the “what?” poison that doesn’t turn to gold, this alchemical kingdom of earth…is our trip, find the kaleidoscope, find the “why?” in pursuit of the word, beauty, somehow held in a less form fitting way, but loosely like a fluffy cloud that brings peace. And under the warlock trees and the blue wilderness calling, inside the witch’s moon music and her sandalwood skin, the bright angel star is found.
Shiva, the sadhu. Nameless without any religion or caste. Unborn without any clothes or opinions. Just a snake spiral and a prayer wheel spin, just a deep sigh before dying into the emptiness of just another one of her lucid opal moments…
And so he does this and he makes messes that I clean up, wax and ash mostly. And I do whatever I want, whenever I want, and he just lets it all hang out while I paint castles in the sky all afternoon and name myself nothing again and again…
Sadhu in paradise, nobody said it would be easy to take it easy, although he does make it look effortless…
BOHEMIAN SADHU PARADISE WE MAKE IT LIGHT AS A KITE WHEREVER WE GO, JUST A BALLOON WITH NO STRING…ONLY SPACIOUS OPEN ETERNAL SILVER SKY.
He always says “Don’t worry about a thing…every little things gonna be alright.”
I think his way is the sacred highway,
the sky way, the way I want to die way.