God,
we migrants, traveling with galaxy, sun, slogging sphere, geological
budge of continent, movement of races, American transportation, feet,
we
on our journey-forever in time-space
are sure as hell, unmistakably, definitely--as the saying goes--
en route.
Hence,
I deem the status quo of ego
unimaginative.
Is this a sin?
A sin to hunger for more Light?
Or is it
goodness
to reject the surrounding brilliance--call it The Dark--in order to
make personal hay with the pewee flashlight of Episcopalianism.
Judge not that ye be not judged, Wylie, He said.
Then shall I sit
like a Buchmanite on the john
waiting for guidance?
And there shall be laughter in heaven
They omit that chapter.
Anger is their meat:
Gabriel's pinfeathers, torn out by handfuls.
Pluck yourself a quill, pal.
Make yourself a pen from a seraphim.
Remind them they should enjoy it.
Nature, that's all, simply telling us to fall
In love.
And that's why Chinks do it--
Japs do it--