INNER DIVISION
I've seen you practice cell phone Yoga,
and I've heard that you like to take out all your
tantric tantrums on your unsuspecting lover.
Reset your Zen 2K Tibetan bell clock, babe.You can't just go on making ecstasy an everyday affair
or change mentalities as easily as tossing greasy lugs in a hub cap.
You can't convince me, eyes nystagmic
befitting Umbanda gyra garage rituals
that your resounding organs live in common energy
with every bowl banging spirituality
to which a dozen cultures toe dance on the altar
of the golden godhead.You've got all the numinous excitement
of a snappy usherette in a pillbox cap,
saluting clients with a flashlight under your chin.
Oh, come back soon, come back real soon.Sure, you can draw lots, count letters,
dissect chickens, substitute anything you want
for news from above,
but all that coom bai ya, nomadic road song unison
isn't going to buy you anything you need,
or stop anxiety, hyperventilation, palpitation and cramps.To understand the dreams, memos and post-its
from the ziggurats at Babylon you have to sing loud,
not that mystical mosquito hum you call the universal voice.Get past that V-chip in your brain that says that
the answer to social chaos is just beyond
the fiery symbols and gleaming vistas,
just beyond the valley of hell's tubular bells
and the severed head of a rustic that still speaks.You have to make a connection
where all the dots of your life make sense.ŠJimmy Warner Design, 2001