Eat, Pray, Love

First
All this talk of nectar and bliss is starting to annoy me.
I don't know about you, my friend,
but my path to God isn't sweet waft of incense.
It's a cat in a pigeon cage, and I'm the cat -
but also them who yell like hell when they get pinned.
My path to God is a worker's uprising,
won't be peace till they unionize.
Their protest is so fearsome
the National Guard won't go near them.
My path was beaten unconscious before me,
by a small brown man I had never seen,
who chased God through India, shin-deep in mud,
barefoot and famined, malarial blood,
sleeping in doorways, under bridges - a hobo.
(Which is short for "homeward bound," you know)
And he now chases me, saying: "Got it yet, Liz?
What HOMEWARD means? What BOUND really is?"

Second

leap over the edge

life's every incident of anger rose. Every injustice, every betrayal, every loss, every rage. I saw them all, one by one, and I accepted their existence.

SHE'S THROWING DUST INTO MY EYES.

Cannot be rushed, this

squeezing me like a passionate hug,

waving at me from four feet

fancy tucking and pinning of material around my ribs, "You have prospect to marrying Felipe?"

wrapped tightly around my torso

revealed through the event of lovemaking.