Atman, Atman
I have no clue what Krshna taught Arjuna
but I like the name Atman a lot.
Atman. Atman. Where a man is at.
At all times. No matter what.
Gita, get in the action, gorgeous girl,
god is the answer, keep the meter.
Wisdom, none.
What Krshna tells Arjuna makes no sense.
I prefer mathematics.
Knowledge of how things are made and done
more than meditation on the Self
as a manifestation of the One.
And the poem? The poem has gone to glitten.
Only engineers it is written
can solve problems and build bridges.
I can’t fix a 2-stroke engine.
I carried four dead etheridges by hand truck
to the other end of the religion.
I’ll never have to leave this comfortable planet.
We have this asset but can we sell it?
In Paradise Lost, Satan executes his plan
but God already knows all about it.
Still, whether it succeeds or fails is up to Man.
Same here, when it comes to nuclear armaments,
a distraction from the work of making life permanent.
It is all premised on the mystery
of invisible but sentient particles—
little Krshnas and Kachinas
nesting inside one another.
Meanwhile life goes on outside all around you—
WWII, the Napoleonic wars,
the Civil War which we’re still fighting.
Krshna says behead your brothers without prejudice or justice.
So it transpires in the nuclear fire.
Whatever forever.
Is school a prison or a blessing?
Regimentation, mission. I’d like to be part of that tradition
if only as a tutor. Teacher, teacher—tiger!
Copyright © Robert Ronnow | Year Posted 2019
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