You don’t know what it is like to be Spiritual
until you’ve climbed to the mountain top
and received instructions directly from God.
That’s how it should be for everyone, everywhere.
Some ordeal, like climbing a mountain,
or running through a thousand meters of flaming petrol,
or watching every episode of Gilligan’s Island in a row,
before you can wear the I’m Spiritual brand.
And I’m not talking about things like dying on the cross.
Dying is fucking easy. Living is hard. Do the nine to five
and come home and truly love your kids
through all their whining before their homework gets done
and find out what TV crap their watching, then turn the damn thing off.
Find the ef-fing morale courage to stand up to that bully cop
who thinks his tin shield gives him license
to baton beat the weed smoking, dread-lock neighbor fuck-up you hate so much
for encouraging his dog to shit on your well manicured lawn.
And don’t give me any New Age sweat lodge bull shit, either.
The only sweating that counts Spiritually is at the wrong end
of a nasty, blue-steel gun barrel, when you know you probably
have to take one for the team. And, you know, that in-the-hospital sweat
counts, too. Especially when you sit next to your motorcycle child
who is hooked up to wires and tubes and beepy-things
in that fancy, mechanical, hospital bed.
By the way, I don’t give a God damn rat’s ass
about the every-Sunday-go-to-church folks
who don’t give a flying fuck every other hour of the week.
That includes Oral Roberts and Pat Robertson
and every other well monied, TV evangelist, sin raking S.O.B.
They couldn’t fill a flee’s thimble with true Spirit
and no self respecting, on the job, Saint Peter
is letting them go anywhere but down.
So you don’t know what it’s like to be Spiritual.
You haven’t climbed to the mountain top, yet.
And I don’t mean any prissy Colorado fourteen.
I mean the heaven scratching Himalayas
where there are the ice preserved carcasses
of your failed predecessors, littering the way up
to God’s wondrous vocal cords.