Möbiustripshow

pre-Genesis,
she adumbrates in artifice
as you orate, then hesitate
before the portal of unnamed being,
reconnoitering.You gather your forces
to exploit her resources
aroma of Soma:
illimitable subliminal bliss
limned in liquescent lucidity. . . Tantric hat-trick:
pull a white dove out of the universal yoni
when her lingam penetrates your third eye
your chakras align and you hit her cosmic jackpot:
all sevens in unknown Proto-Indo-European tongues.
https://i0.wp.com/upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/b/bd/Slot_machine.jpg/800px-Slot_machine.jpg?zoom=2The apsaras invite all the devis over
for Christmas in Jerusalem
Pangea cracks, spreads apart in differentiation;
incontinent continents drift
then recombine
in individuation . . .Your anima gets an enema
as the Beast melts down
and the heavens descend.

Then clean it all up
and look for a beer in the cosmic fridge.

Annunciation by Mati Klarwein: 1961

 

 


PROMPT #28:

Describe a bedroom from your past in a series of descriptive paragraphs or a poem.
It could be your childhood room, your grandmother’s room, a college dormitory
or another significant space from your life.

(off-prompt today, with apologies to Emily Dickinson)

 

Hindoo Folk Song

 तत् त्वम् असि 

for sitar, mridangam, vina, musical spoons, washboard, Jew’s harp and banjo
 (the names Swami and Guru-ji can be replaced by
any other mystic names the reader wishes to substitute)

Swami and Guru-ji went to the river
to wash their souls in the dirty water
filled brass pots while they were at it, singing:

“These are Gods—
worship them, worship them,

these are Gods—
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji flexed contortions
twisted minds and limbs in knots
sold each other secret mantras
to erase akashic records when the body rots

Swami and Guru-ji taught disciples
how to fast and hum and chant;
bound their loins with priestly garments, saying

“These are Gods—worship them, worship them,
these are Gods—won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji swallowed prana
purged their guts, then farted light
launched their chakras into oneness
in the ida and pingala of their third-eye sight

Swami and Guru-ji built a temple
around a monstrous calf of gold
bowed before the six-armed idols chanting

“These are Gods—
worship them, worship them,

these are Gods—
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji studied parchments
by the dim light of a feeble ray
railed and wailed at the sinful  heathen
in the filthy Kali-yuga of the dying day

Swami and Guru-ji made ablutions
offered incense and holy foods
ate their share and smoked the profit, humming

“These are Gods—worship them, worship them,
these are Gods—won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami’s blissed devotions
entwined their members with the temple belles;
stuck their yonis up their lingams
in the twenty-seventh circle of the seven hells.

Swami and Guru-ji offered puja
wrote it all off as a karmic debt—
forced a shudra to bear the burden, screaming

“These are Gods—
worship them, worship them,

these are Gods—
won’t you worship them please”

Guru and Swami-ji meditated:
pure omniscience in eternal now;
drank fresh urine from a heifer’s  bladder
for they knew that it was soma from a holy cow.

Swami and the Guru merged with Brahman
then went home to the wife and kids.
Told the servants to polish statues, saying

“These are Gods—worship them, worship them,
these are Gods – won’t you worship them please”



THE MORAL:
slower solemn rhythm, no banjo or Jew’s harp

 Aaron’s calf is ground to powder,
cast upon the Ganges’ tide.
Every tribe shall taste its poison.

 “This is God—worship Him, worship Him –
this is God—let us worship Him now…”

Eye of Delusion

santana2

Good sir—you claim there is no “I”.
Your Buddha says it’s just a sham;
that all is one, and that is why
we ought to merge,
repress the urge
and give a damn.

You say desire upholds the ego
(selfish bully, source of sin)
but void of self-hood where can we go?
Scale the mountains,
flow in fountains,
gaze within?

OK; let’s cultivate the glow.
We’ll sit and let Samsara roll.
(Be careful lest your aura show!)
Then still the spin
and glimpse within
the Oversoul . . .

I find a catch in this your theory.
True, it sounds quite mystical . . .
in practice, though, it makes me leery.
Cynical jeers
give way to fears
logistical:

without an “I”, who pays my rent?
Why learn, why sing, why plant or reap?
Why should the criminal repent
if there’s no he
who wronged the me
with no harm meant?

 

image: Tales of the Buddha Before He Got Enlightened
Writer: Alan Grant
Artist: Jon Haward
Colorist and Letterer: Jamie Grant