Outlaw Buddhist
Cool Sunday emptiness
in the late fall
in the late night
after the preachers have gone home
after the Saturday night revelry has turned to workday sweet goodnights.
The search for a tribe that follows some other drumbeat
some other god
some other passion that arises no other time screams so logingly for the sound of relvelry
no other time grinds down so quietly
The years go by,but the search never ends its only the seasons
I tell myself,
the revolution of the seasons is life
and this the season of ever incresing darkness,
ever decreasing light.
The time when the animal soul
smells the closenesss of winter
and the certainty of death
that thing which we spend our lives avoiding.