“Now I see,” said the blind man
I would not have followed Srila Prabhupada at all.
I was never a disciple.
Disciple means discipline
After two weeks, I wanted to quit,
Ran back to Mott Street
Big bear back to his den
Proclaiming the rules “impossible,”
Preferring Shankara and Huang PO
To Service and Srimad-Bhagavatam.
I knew it all, proud professor,
Sitting in his ogre-sling
Listening to Bach and Brahms
Afraid to come out his cave
To see Krishna’s emissary,
But Kirtanananda burst down the door
All shaved up, …evangelical
“Swamiji” had been teaching only two weeks
Still, Kirtanananda heard the word
And sacrificed his hair, the first –
No one yet initiated, all hippies –
“If a shaved head means enlightenment,” Wally / Umapati said,
“Then the breasts of women would be liberated.”
… Same Buddhist nonsense –
But shaved up “Kitchen-ananda” upbraids us:
“Why are you sitting there?
If you don’t agree, go tell him!
Don’t sit there and complain.
He’s here for us, to answer questions.
He’s asking where you are!”
O Kirtanananda! True son of Prabhupada.
You knew so early.
And I so slow, puffed up like frog
Bellowing from my cesspool
You pulled my lazy corpse out ogre-sling
I, griping, waddled to Second Avenue
Where Swamiji put tilak on my face,
Kartals in my hands
And made me chant to him.
(You knew, Prabhupada, you knew!
Hard ground, this heart, for bhakti-seed,
But you planted out of love.
Though latent, buried years unseen.
It could not be destroyed.)

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