All I know is what I read in the bogus news:
this world and the next belong to Zionist Jews.
The jihadist will survive with bomb sewn in belly,
in new-found paradise graced with petroleum jelly.
Righteous Hindu will live forever mumbling Rig Veda,
proclaiming the eternal religion of Hindutva.
Faux Christian will rise on the one true Plastic Cross,
choiring for all time that white corporatist is boss.
Religious zeal will tuck us all into bed at night,
so we can dream of a world perfected by fright.
We will all wake up in pure radioactive heaven-
but some wearin’ hazmat suits- the rest a gaspin’.
Darvish believes in a god who gets him so drunk,
he becomes as faithless and stateless as a skunk.
The black snake winds around the Missouri
and chokes the Sioux Nation with misery.
Black venom slithers across sacred land,
but water Protectors make a last stand.
Bullets and burning gas- grenades explode;
Big Fist shoots water canon in bitter cold.
Protectors hold fast, covered with red ice:
Love is strong medicine against avarice.
The treaties lie broken like twisted bodies
whose spirits rise in strong and pure cries.
The Big White Chief living in Washington-
has his heart gone black with forked tongue?
Darvish sings to the wind: carry my song
to those to whom truth and courage belong.
Drunk or smashed is all the same to our clear and sober mind;
the Friend’s name opens the heart’s eye and makes it to all else blind!
We swear we have no gods but fall prostrate at your pure feet:
please don’t look away when we knock at your door on love street!
The ocean wave rolls us battered into your delicate arms;
beloved, our gritty speech praises your resounding charm!
My longing wakes the dull pain of sleeping stone to cry,
“I once felt the sweet Master’s feet as he was passing by.”
The stars swing low and caress the lonely singer’s pain;
somewhere, the beloved’s sigh blesses the lover’s sad refrain.
Where in this bloody world can I find refuge from time’s curse;
how can I drown this moment to forever forget my thirst?
Darvish can never drink enough where beauty is concerned;
he sobs that his empty glass is proof that he will never learn.
” I am not the body.
I am not the mind.
I am not this.
I am not that.
I am nothing but a living lie
of that truth that is me
and unless the lie is dead
the truth cannot be. “
Avatar Meher Baba
Beloved Archives, incorporated by Nosherwan Nalavala in NJ about seven years ago as a non profit- 501(c)(3), is evidently a tragic con.
The archival project purports to collect, archive and present media and material associated with Avatar Meher Baba’s life to the public. Toward this end, money, archival material, and other kinds of support have been vigorously solicited for a project that has always stated to be a project centered in the United States. Now, it has come to light, Nosherwan has promised to give this archival collection to AMBPPCT (Avatar Meher Baba Perpetual Public Charitable Trust) in India. The reason for this up to now undisclosed arrangement is unknown. It is not clear how long this arrangement has been in place.
What is abundantly clear is that the many donors and benefactors of this archival project have been duped as to the intentions of Beloved Archives. Many sacred items have been donated to the project in the belief that they would be part of a collection permanently housed here in America. To betray the trust of these donors is breathtaking. What is truly unfathomable, is that such a decision would be made without first consulting the many people who have made this project possible. This is utterly contemptuous.
We can only hope that AMBPPCT has the good sense and honesty to decline such a Trojan Horse.