The Color of Their Robes

Burma is not sexy.

Tibet has the Dalai Lama
He’s sexy.
He’s a great story.
The chosen one.
In exile.
Almost epic.
A macho freedom lover in a red muscle T-shirt,
on whispering terms with
Everybody on a throne,
A pain in the side of
A giant corporation
A giant bank,
A giant warehouse
called
China.

I glimpse him with his manly stride,
On National news sometimes,
His stride of camouflaged purpose,
Relaxed
Smiling,
Picturesque

There are monks
Running
In
Burma,
Painting the flagrant streets of
Rangoon,
red.
Whispering into cell phones of unseen
Compatriots
Not on CNN,
On MSNBC
Or on FOX, the sexy channels.
While they
Vanish,
are
obliterated,
beaten,
Their blood just a hair darker than
The color of their maroon robes.

Why do Buddhist monks wear the color of blood?
They make it too easy.