Can’t you walk through the fire? I can’t always hold your hand. I write without guile to you and I look into your childish eyes when you say, ” I love you” I give you everything and I ask for nothing really…I wish you would listen- or hear me- but I know you’re so far away from me now and any imagination can become her body and any fantasy can become her golden voice…but for you- to love the bone that breaks, I become a mortal, a weak human -with a story to tell -so that we can be together, and move into the pieces that didn’t ever fit before. And you “love me,” you say over and over- but your love isn’t real- because you turn overnight like a bruised piece of fruit or a cold distant gaze after sunrise. I’m not stupid, I know what a groupie is. I sacrifice myself upon the altar of possibilities-not for myself-because my life is over – I’ve seen too much of the other side to ever wear a wedding ring- so you misunderstand my hugs and my soothing- and you don’t hear my voice in your ear breaking the lie that hates you- and you don’t taste my tongue swallowing your dark face. I love your misuse of the word “love” because it reminds me of a child learning to read…but honestly I’m not above the law- and it still hurts to be hit by swollen fists or frozen shoulders. Bhagavan Das said, “Once you have sex with a groupie it’s over immediately -and all they ever want is to get into your pants and it’s done and it’s really hard to deal with”…and I’m not calling you a groupie -but metaphorically I feel like a whore. It’s such an angry thrust that burdens your best intentions- which I feel would be more honest if you’d actually just do it- but instead you tip toe around puppy dog style -that raging intent -until you can’t take another bite with those fangs- or another drop of her blood from your smile-and then you shoot your white venom right into my face. I know I’m sexy- and so maybe everyone thinks it’s a free for all- or that I’m for sale – I throw myself at you, on top of you- on purpose- it’s my plan to break this open- one way or another- and it’s not my age or my appearance that makes me who I am- it’s a motor that never stops revving, it’s the secret of the sexiest virgin. It’s about the generation of veneration and appreciation for the gift of the real rub- silver skin on silver skin -my light on the windowsill that dances…a song still singing itself in your head when you wake up in the morning…I’m not going to hurt you, I’m only going to pull the plug and let you drain into the ground of perfection- and how is it done when you hate your mother so much? When you must control the output so rigidly -so psychologically blunted by the death of the mind -who can’t see or understand why she should have her way with you- so much so- that a violent, sweaty hand job and a reeling mind fuck does the job every time – makes you as blissful as hell right? -and yet the boy demon is still starving for the virgin bride. You just can’t get enough of nothing sacred can you? I’m not stupid. I know you hate her because you wanted her and you hate him because it was all wrong and yet that naughtiness forbidden was filled with the only reason to get in that hot bath tub at all…right? Didn’t I already say that you don’t listen- so do it your way. Blame me, belittle me, tear me apart, treat me like I’m just a page that you’ve already read or a song that gets old -and so you just think that you can turn down the volume after an hour or so- well I won’t always be here- it’s not an open invitation. I have given you what you need freely. I don’t get properly paid or adequately laid or spiritually saved or even truly loved. I get left for a dead bitch because that’s what groupie do- I asked Bhagavan Das, “Who isn’t a groupie that you’ve ever known?” and he said, “Just you” And I said , “Why? What’s the difference between me and what I do and what groupies do?” He said, ” I tried to push you away and you would never leave and you stayed through the hardest times and you would never go no matter what I said or did to you- and after we had sex you still loved me and groupies never do. You can’t be a human around a groupie- they want to fuck whoever is on stage so they can be god- and it never works..” I was like, “That’s so sad. I didn’t know…”and he said,” I know. It’s really sad….”
Well I know that sounds horrible and I did stay with him -and he was so mean to me -and I did it because of my ideals and my devotion to the Guru. I have no life without my service to the truth. I cannot live without an object for my devotion- And it’s not BD who made me who I am -because I fought fire with fire- and I came from out of the dead back into life not because I’m so great -but because I threw myself into the fire for Bhagavan Das – I took his karma as my own- I laid down my life- so that the Guru would never die. My body means nothing without the love for God that moves me- because in reality – I’m a real downer, a masochistic, suicidal, extremist maniac- but because of my past lives- the love of God moves me to forget my pitiful loser self -and give and give and love and love-even though I know you’ll leave -because you’ll never see me until you love me as I have loved him- and as I love you- which is without bone or bondage- it’s a space of total surrender and it’s a painful burn- burning alive in the tragedy of separation – so that we might merge when she touches us – so that when she breathes down our throat we will not resist the heat – it’s love when it’s beyond our ability to stop the fire from consuming us entirely- and orgasms – and suffocation -and lustful fulfillment -and skillful french kissing- do not compare to the total consumption at the entry into the realm of her blessed pure heart- entry from the front or the back is not the issue – I’m sorry you take me all wrong, it’s out of my hands that you’re still looking at the back of my head- I fell at your feet and you kicked me. I’m sorry you’re jealous and angry, I know it’s bitter the way she keeps leaving… I’m sorry you take everything personally because it’s not about us or our bodies my sweetheart- it’s about your sexy perfect soul that came to me and got naked so that I could be the first to see you and appreciate your Godhood with every scared beat and with every strained breath. With every hard stroke and every soft hug. I only see our binding love eating heaven’s fire. And how and when or why never mattered. All that matters is in your eyes. All that you say isn’t in your words but in the sound of your voice. So get as vile and encroaching -and as quiet and rejecting -and as polite and obliging as you want. I’m not stupid remember? And I’m not a doormat and I don’t wait on anyone hand and foot- I serve your starving soul the food of mother light because I’ve always loved you and I always will. I reveal the ways the enemy wins -because this is after all, a game- and I am on your side. This is after all a shove into manhood- and a lift into the light of she who carries the weight of the world in those places you would never think to look. That’s right, she knows everything that you don’t say and still she loves you anyway. So bend over backward -or just bend forward and take it like a trooper – it’s all just a laugh and a stroke of good luck looking for virtue…
I’m not stupid remember?
I told you, I’ve got your number…
and I’m laughing all the way to the bank…with the money you don’t have.