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The House of Tofu


Buddha's on the bookshelf
Baba's in the hall
Krishna's in the kitchen
Ram Dass on the wall
Shakti's in the basement
Shiva's on the floor
Govinda's in the bathroom
Erhard's at the door

The awareness terrorists
are screaming about communication
at the House of Tofu,
their very chakras
pulsing the salty nectar of miso,
their blood, pure as comfrey tea,
flowing through exclusive
blessed veins.

The awareness terrorists
are calling a tribunal
to discuss cosmic names
for themselves
and you are not on the agenda.

And you're not clear
you hear what they're saying.

And you have some
feelings about that
you'd like to share,
but you just can't transcend.

Somehow the entire scene
is costing you your aliveness.
Somehow you just want to ask:
Hey, Hamburger Breath,
you got a smoke?
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  • Home
  • Genevieve Freeman
  • Les Reed
  • Carolyn Reed
  • Darcy Reed
  • David Allen Reed
  • Blog
  • Ouji
  • that's just what you think
  • the girl who couldn
  • theodore
  • Flash Fiction
  • Facing Music
  • The Coat
  • Sorry Sweetheart
  • The Listener
  • Resistance
  • Poetry by Carolyn Reed
  • Emblematic
  • Poetalk
  • Ensenada
  • Maternity
  • Mother's Day
  • Union Station
  • Having Never Flown
  • William from the res
  • To the Forest
  • Cuneiform
  • The House of Tofu
  • The Bubble Angel