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?