the faith in knowing
that things will work out
gushes up like geysers
and makes love to the
dewdrops of the future
in this temple i find myself.
someone who seems like a me
absorbing ::: like soft seaweed the
immutable atoms of bell-rings
beholding like a sacred cow the
flapping flags of red glory
a jewelline palace bedecked with
dirt: an undoubtable
vortex of unmistaken shelter
from that ordinariness. That
monkey mother, she was so
patient. This conception of selfhood,
he was so durable. That
family was so dunked in
tenderness. The orange Bengali
mother wants her little boy to
look proper for a picture:
with her bare feet.
Are they not in fear of the
ample glass even before me?
The Swiss warrior plays his
flute, inviting the hosts of
eager Himalayan spirits and females
to a picnic of dynamic energy. Causes
and conditions conspire together
in the back room of the Shiva shrine, with their
long backlog of infallible blueprints.
No one really ever wanted
to give ordinary mind
a chance. Voices call,
but they are no-voices.
These no-voices have more power
than the sound-voices.
You switch the position of yr. legs
and all creation-possibilities reconfigure themselves
like an autonomous Rubik’s Cube. Three
wise men have a single sincere
visage, which emerges from that multi-
colored tree over there beside you: they
might know who you are, or maybe not.
When we breath through every single
pore, it’s easy to look like a god.
When you radiate as a deity %
it’s easy to feel like one.
The Monkey Prayer-Flag Temple, Darjeeling, India