old man prophet

you can hear the old man chantin sutras
and tearin up green dollar bills
you can hear him making a rhythm
with the loose change
you can hear them all ramble
and soothe-sage
comes down from the tops of mountains
tambourine taps as his pockets sway--
people don't give the prophets
the time of day,
preferin precise stock market tickers and
truth that flickers, yeah, and
prophets speak of the white nothing behind
the cosmic bluffing, the black darkness in front
of ego's harness,
old man prophet speaks the redemption clause in
the every day struggle,
the mind's hurdle, the, the, the,
timult to the gestalt, yeah, the
way nobody's at fault and everybody's just
involved.

old man prophet gets shewed, booed, speakin
figures when everybody's lookin for directions,
sqwakin in metaphor that don't reach nobody's core.

old man prophet swears he only begs for money
for he can destroy it, but no one does oblige, not
one person does budge, so he goes back up to

that mountain, cryin sutras, tearing dollars,
darin not to judge.