Man-Cave of Being

There's a room behind the words
A space of all intents and meanings
And a space behind the meanings
The air is always fresh here
The landscape often pleasant
The sounds, sights, smells and such
All quite an odyssey...
Forgive this idiocy but
Sentient beings are as if crazy
So say the yogi-lamas
Echoing the Buddhas' P.O.V.
I say let's party they say only just so much
Beings shop at the mall, Buddhas go dutch
The world's appalled, stuck at a widow's wake
The Shambhala Sun's in fall, 
There are colors and sheaves to rake
Skipping along we ride on bright
Tidal waves of poesy and brooding clouds
Of uncertain intent,
Down through ages speaking in, and of
Sages, raging, christening, grinding out the schtick
A thousand point-and-clicks of pixel light
Somewhere a kind of golden chain was forming
That liberates on sight
And meanwhile shining on like an astrological smorgasbord
Hem and haw I, I fear ignored
But faith is not boring
It's just a box of pain that's worth
Long-term cold storage
So eat, child! I chide my porridge
The gruel of my soul, bartered for forage
Washed up verb flotsam almost overlooked
A tie-dye shoe in a tree tangled down by Tannery Brook
Mixing it up so as not to get stale
Moving around so as not to despair
Living and breathing in this air of being
With the force of a million mayflies wheezing
Lest that future be displeasing 
Remember the future of food is bugs
We survive best with eight legs not hugs
Not kisses but hisses and disses
Sent slinking home and be et by the missus
Or spin your own web, hang out in dishes
Trolling with lines for digital fishes
Such is the sport in the man-cave of being
Why crane our heads over a keyboard to be free.