Everything is Holy

Holy warm air, Holy red rock,
Holy Kerouac countryside beyond car door
Holy 'U-86' signs, and 'I need a ride' and 'Money for the poor'.
These sober streets are satori.
Highways are heaven.
I close my eyes and melt back into both.

I close my eyes and I walk and eye choose to focus on the yellow line instead of the smokestacks on the horizon and the fact that the baking pan of red sand does not extend as far as I'd like.

It's becoming impossible to ignore these things.
Can appreciate the physical States in spite of them, but I cannot ignore.

Walking now, left shoe squeaks and I am reborn
With each step I'm more more aware; a new being
Soul of my boots pressing dharma into my mind,

while each breath--in and out--fills me and leaves me, drawing in love and expelling sin
In humility, out distrust
in charity, out greed
in sanity, no more vanity
infinity, no mortality.

Red monuments surround this serenity
Testifying on behalf of good & simplicity & right
Starry Starry Right.
Trail worn into slickrock. I climb.

Unknown step/rebirths later, eye see
Man standing on rounded peek, staring at the same stars as I.
Maybe he looks at me,
but what exactly does that mean,
'Me?'

We can talk, neither is mute,
but for now we stand and smile.
For the time being, we are silent
We meditate to reach enlightenment, for the Time Being will cut us off shortly and it's the best way to battle him.

Down the hill, city lights reflect the stars.
Behind headlights & working class motors
they work for the Time Being,
hoping to extend life and foolish wealth
before the lights go out,
(time being the only thing between us and our dreams.)
They're all slaves to the Time Being,
building life and death around it
and the altars at which they worship--like sundials and Big Ben.

But what is this Time being?
this slave-driver,
this mercenary,
this promoter of haste & hate?
Why so scared of our own mind-monster?

Time takes relatives,
Time is as useless as many of the lives it's cut short,
Time is relative.
Meaning?
Useless.

Silently we stand, suspended & secondless,
until stroked by young Dawn with fingertips of rose.
This mountaintop Boddhistva and I,
young pawn with fingertips of prose.

Alarms go off to break the silence,
and I begin my series of steps, rebirths, and rebellions back into the city.
Car engines moan w/ pain of middle-class anonymity and non-identity.
I sympathize.

Mountaintop Boddhisattva and I wave,
best friends to be lost in the selfsame sadness of American will, wealth, and war.