Give My Best to Boy George

by Brittany Fonte

Karma: a crawling lizard, if that’s the way you carried yourself, or churned on your belly, contradicted yourself in the bedroom, the boardroom.  Bored, Nirvana may still be near.

Maybe you cornered yourself in a life that lit the sky with warnings of more than explicit lyrics and riverboat videos, more than drugs or militant activism, more than a night that turned into days of handcuffing: judgment.  Now, you are mute, but Jesus still Loves You.

Karma creeps in: tomorrow?  “More than Likely.” Or after you have died, seen your lies, learned a little, yelled a lot, leaned into the pit of despair that remembers fingerless gloves and all-occasion dread inside a gay British native’s head and nodded: Yes.  I did that.  Nodded to the judge.  (Don’t disbelieve simply because you cannot see….)

Logic tells us, If you love, if you risk something significant like love with Moss, or rolling stones, you will win some of the time.  You will win, at least a lesson.  And sometimes, when you lose, you find out what you had hoped against becomes what you needed most.  This is karma, too.

So let your love for your loved ones exceed your need for them. And when someone asks, “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?” answer honestly.  The Dalai Lama: If your intention is kind, no matter the outcome, you are safe.  Secure.  Buddha will catch you before you tumble into that pithy pit of pirated lines.