She pops a cassette into the tape deck. Robert Bly’s Kabir tape doesn’t get old. Tabla and sitar enhance the gist of it. Rose petals blown from the bed Of God’s Secret Lover, Until it is no longer a secret. O Mistress mine - Sweet Lover Divine. When will our sad parting come to an end? The Druids in the forest foretold this. How I long to grow old in your embrace. The close proximity of your heartbeat Renews the blossom of my fast blown youth. Nothing wasted in the economy of Love. Lady Starlight in dew drenched forest. A canopy of Sacred Oak branches Entwined above us, a towering cathedral Not fabricated by any mortal hand. Marching feet cannot wind their way Into Fairylands forlorn. No RPG, Kalashnikov or AK Can dissolve the Brotherhood of Kabir. Like Amergin, father of the Bardic tribe, We pluck the Harp and recreate the World. We lift not the Sword against our brethren, Nor do we impede the Path of the Salmon, In the Waterways of our Sacred Homeland. We Revere The Goddess in our deeds. And Celebrate Her Mystery in our Song. The Wise among us know the Times and Seasons To Sow and Reap, Harvest, Rut and Rest. They chart the progress of the Stars, the Planets The Tides, and the Faces of the Moon. Barbarian Warlords take their counsel From Carrion Birds who drum up War. Where is the Wisdom in childish vituperations? -2- They proclaim they want to even the score. They will be Judged by a Higher Law. Let Wisdom be your Guide, and take flight From the dark doings of this World. Remember the struggles of your Ancestors, And what it took to get you Where You Are. Be Wise - Be Gentle - Be True, and Love Itself Will fall in Love with You

Memory a roll of film Yet to be processed In the darkroom of the Imagination. Discarded child rides Carved marble lion to the Moon. Surreptitious love making In central Geneva hotel room. Decades later, you heard Rhonda B. was strung out in L.A., Murdered one night by her sugar daddy. You courted her sister K., Rugged and inaccessible As a snow-blown mountain trail. Returned from the Levant Bearing a precious gift, A sterling silver Jerusalem cross, On a twisted silver chain. Fanny R. sits next to you In a sidewalk café strumming Busted flamenco guitar. Pigeons scatter in all directions. “The Great Spirit is rewarding you For braving the Elements With a Vision of a Red Tailed Hawk.” Angelic Hippy boy in embroidered Sheepskin Sufi jacket, approaches With wineskin, squirting blood Red wine into your mouth, fondly Recalling the foothills of Andalusia. There is a sweetness in the summer air, And we who taste it, in this magical city, Are no longer strangers. “Kind spoken Poet, Sir Singer of the Hidden Orient, Partake with us of this most sprightly wine, For we are drunken in her sparkling depths, And lovers spread their blankets On the rooftops tonight!”

Where do people get the Idea That Life is easy when you win The Super-Duper-All-Time-Genetic Lottery? Do you think its easy when Your mentors made sure That you were educated Beyond your intelligence, And that you can barely match Your sox in the morning Without publishing a disquisition On The Paradox of Random Determinacy In The Space-Time Continuum? Its not easy wandering down The Suburban Supermarket Isle of Invertedness Without being mistaken For a Gothic Bitch Goddess, All because you took the Wrong Kart With someone’s screaming Baby in it. And you wonder When you’ll be klobbered By the Next Ontological Nonsequitur bubbling Out of The Mad Sepherotic Vessel of Histrionic Absurdity? Like Yahweh’s Cosmic Dreidel Spun off The Hieratic Gambling Table Knocking over Your House of Cards. Like making Love in a hammock That breaks off the hinges Just as you climax, Landing Flat on Your Face, Onto the Purple Shagadelic Carpet For the third time today, But what do you expect When Your Lover sports The Holy Tetragrammaton For a fashion accessory? Or is it like a Lovelorn Flamenco Dancer Lost in the Lateral Matrix Of Causal Necessity With an obsidian dagger In her teeth, pretending To be Pretty, when in Reality The Gypsy Caravan Departed long before She had a chance To cast a fleeting glance Into the Stolen Shadow Of My Orbital Polychromatagraph?