Jazz-tight eyebrows,
Whitman beard, Buddha eyes
Smooth as Burma jade,
You, Naropa, built your own
Temple, from mother's howls,
Harlem roaches, dooryard
Lilacs and didactic lysergic
Dreams.
I worshiped beneath
Your stone stomach dreams.
But once you pissed
Like me, and laughed,
You laughed, Naropa,
In Washington Square,
You revved through Jersey.
Your stomach churned
Swallowed feelings until
You choked vomit
Words.
I worshiped beneath
That splattering profit.
Go forth from here
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