Fighting Dick

The King rules by force, taxes you by force and then, like any good mafia man, protects you. When the  King dies his son will do the same, like the Kennedys, Clintons and Bushes. The  wheels of power keep turning like time itself, into slaves.

Each morning I wake up and marvel at how many people are going to control my day, and without love in my life to combat this tyranny I would not get up.

Loving someone is powerful medicine that keeps the negative, somewhat evil, excesses of the King at bay: a positive influence on the lover and the loved.

During the  happiest days of my life I hid from the King and his men in the forest. I whittled a good life out of rock, clay and timber with my hands. Vegetables grew like mad in buckets of chicken shit. A bag of lentils stewed me for a month and  a packet of Drum smoked me the same.

My hands happily sawed, chiseled and hammered a house out of another abandoned one.

On the rare occasion  one of the Kings men rode by, I smiled. A man gone mad on lentils was of no interest to the King.

Living creatures can survive on precious little: little in amounts and little in variety. Tis the King that mesmerizes the want for jewels and the precious things that men crave in a loveless life. Nothing ever changes. Now my forest is my mind, a safe place for me and a few others.

No King can conquer the fool who turns their head away from their unappealing life of daily  injectments of the luxuries and quirks of life. And so can you, turn your head away from the King into light that bathes you every day in what you have always ever needed: love. 

Forget the world of fighting dicks and rich pricks. Take your little Sun and nurture it. Then, the power, of the kind we were born, will grow and  blossom into a you, you never knew, because you were a fighting dick too.

I think many monks feel the same.

Roditch 2021