Your holy denial—
a behemoth so much larger than Exxon—
coats the truth of your being
like black oil on a water bird.
Yes master, hit me again!
Your chicken shit refusal
to gulp shamanic doses
of this pungent Amazon moment
causes more suffering to the world
than all the back alley needles combined.
Yes master, hit me again!
A maniacal cult leader—
a charlatan with a wicked eye
for charlatans—
has taken residence behind your eyes.
Deprogramming may or may not be effective.
Yes master, hit me again!
A genetically modified silence—
a creepy seed you call
“me—”
is drifting into your neighbor’s field.
It could take generations
to restore
100% organic status.
Yes master, hit me again!
Starving for a gaze unmolested by thought,
your soul gets nothing ?but save-the-planet porn
and creepy dharma talks
about how dreary oneness is
compared to the zing
of shared aversion.
Yes master, hit me again!
Worst of all—
knowing full well
of love’s congenital deafness
to opposite-affirming prayers—
you rub it in
by shouting for better partners,
incomes, and parking spots.
Yes master, hit me again!
