The seedeaters live by and
in the slender of the pitch
with no broadcast, no sheet,
no Dharma Art—simple silence,
but for all the other seedeaters
pecking at the same crack in
the cement during the dark of the night—
no stars, no moon, no vision.
And so many, and most, choose to live
as forgotten funky angels
stuck in a crack, hunting seeds,
shiny with resin and jasmine.
Remember to rage.
And perhaps that is our way home--
to explore beyond adventure through intuition and scent.