Max Reif (1948 / OVER 400 POEMS SERVED! !)

The real Revolution
would be to institutionalize
the Eternal Present,

ending the hemorrage
of emigration into the unreal
lands of past and future,

but only the brave
risk hurling their bodies
under the blinding sword
of the Glance of every moment
looking out from every pair of eyes
in the Procession of all beings down every street,

only the brave
can be ripe wheat dancing in the breeze
as the scythe of time
harvests them every NOW and NOW and NOW,

only the brave
become a grateful moth,
the crisp sound of its extinction
in each second's brief blaze
punctuated only
by the sound of its laughter,

only the brave metamorphasize
from rat in maze
to lover in Garden,

inferno-to-Paradise
simply an inversion of the eyes,
a reversal of attitude,

and inferno
is Mother
to the Divine