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.