Mad Anarchist Monk

I don’t wear any robes
although you might notice
I wear a lot of green and black.
I don’t take a vow of silence
because I’ve been quiet for too long
but I haven’t forgotten how to listen.
I don’t praise any almighty father
because I’ve had my fill of
gods and masters.

But I still believe in spirituality.

I’m an anarchist monk
and my days as a hermit are over.
The stale air of my trailer park monastery
can’t nourish my lungs anymore.
As I cruise down the sidewalk
on my three-wheel speed demon
I breathe in the sun, the moon, the clouds, the stars, the faces that drift by on the pavement
and the stench of those gas-guzzling steel beasts
that scream across the blacktop.
Steering clear of their hungry fenders
is my daily meditation
and it whispers just as many secrets
as the wind in the trees
although I think you know
which song I listen to.
I’m not given to preaching
but I know what I see
and I’m looking to share.
Some people say I’m mad
when I call myself an anarchist
but if living on my knees
is their idea of sanity
you’d better believe that I’m mad.
Today I saw a crowd of people
shouting and chanting and waving signs
in praise of a single man
who they hoped would break their chains
and lead them to the promised land.
Small children were lifted onto broad shoulders
so that their growing eyes
could catch a single glimpse of some middle-aged man
in a suit and tie.
Why?
It was like a high school pep rally
people shouting their hearts out
because watching the home team score a goal
is the only way they know how to win.
He spoke to them with a forked tongue
promising jobs, schools, cold hard cash
and saying that he had faith in them
to spend money how they see fit.
If he means that
why does he want to run their lives?
As I stood there
surrounded by a thousand voices
all of them jumping over each other like rabid dogs
to catch the ear of a single man.
I didn’t have a thing to say.
I walked away
rode home with my friends
and sat down to write this poem.
This is why I’m an anarchist monk.
Being a monk has taught me
when to be still
and when to move
how to be calm
and how to act.
Being an anarchist has taught me
that a voice among thousands
never reaches the ears of the masters
and that the only way for me
to find the joys that such people
dangle in front of our noses
like carrots in front of a horse
is to find my own work that nourishes body and soul
find my own school that shows me the world
find my own community that touches and holds me
and find my own voice with which to speak.
I’ve found my voice.
Can you hear me?
If so, maybe I’m not so mad after all.

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