Two lovers rest together, melding skin
to skin, a sultry afternoon, and as we blink
they blink — we know each other
by our luminous sublimity.
Hovering angels speak through us
and that’s not all, they speak and then
they listen too as we smilingly reply —
we smile, nothing is said, exquisitely.
The lovers nod, they nudge each other,
it’s a God-lit swoon-time, it always is —
somehow we know that in the same way
lovers know, the way attending angels know.
We are that knowledge that cannot be spoken,
cannot be known, so we speak in tongues of lovers,
of angels, of hosts of divine light, in skin languages
with one derivation, one clear unbroken stream
of simple silent syllables, a sacred singing
prayer with no beginning or end.
We are this prayer of ourselves, a rare music
of remembering and forgetting, before lovers,
before angels, before any music came spinning,
spiraling out of that same incomprehensible
emptiness which birthed all life, all angelic
heart beats, all breathing, singing souls.
I have learned to bear the reflection
of myself in your eyes, for in them
I see my own self disappear.
What remains of me is
what’s most true of me – love —
and in this way I am here for you,
for nothing else is ever true but love.
Your divine reflection,
the solar smile of only love,
appears in time to consume itself
in the blaze of its own perfect radiance,
and thus we are the glad kindling
of love’s bonfire — its searing
heat and glory shine.
We do not resist this.
We are this.
Love.
What else can we do?
We are the love
in each other’s eyes,
and so we are what sees.
What looks out looks in,
it’s the way it’s always been.
I see your infinite love,
in the same way you see me.
I say love, and yet
it is not a word or view.
If you say, “a smile”,
this much may be true,
true enough for Kashyapa who,
watching Buddha lift a flower,
couldn’t stop smiling too!
Jar splash cracked along the sash
careened to kitchen caper catastrophe,
all amiss, amidst the mess a muss,
adrift in sauce glass goo,
and you, neither yay nor either woo,
just this will do, pooling red
ruin ’round you, your slidey hands
held heart caught hauling
preprogrammed scolding
to the found sound,
then sorry little ones
go dripping down
the fridgeline molding
waiting a wail, wanting to,
to no avail, watch the glass,
me darling lass, wave the catch,
no be sad, no, forever not,
just sing you please Norina,
Suprema Squeeza –
tat sat t’boot in shifty tremble,
embrace upside your silky face,
Adoramata Ma, to dance forever
broken-knee, so such that we,
salt dolls at sea,
shall liken sound some certain day
on dream-soft seasheen shores,
shellacked upon the lazy doft,
be tossed by waves surroundth you,
refounded you barely, but enough,
hence aloft to graze the liquilight
all anglerfish sup up to with those
honest selfsame lifetained hands,
these mute hand shapes like nefty elf,
the selfsame ones sauce-dreaming
down the dire wire, way wounded
beyond all wishing it be other,
on my knees, your knees, snock head
to your heirloom tomato-soaked slippies,
sweats like wine, wisked to the weary washer –
ah love, Shiva flume, floating handle grace,
the sook of thy face, shooting stars-eyes,
setting aside the tiramisu,
so gently I want you,
I want you . . .
Midnight, my Friend– a lazy mind salad circles the melon moon
with cantaloupes and antelopes, with wry deceptions of currants
passing themselves off as ripe raisins, great green words
with nowhere to grow, no proper sentence in which to root
and slyly project a vine of meaning, gleaming pieces of Mom’s
silverware crossing and uncrossing themselves like obsessive
superstitious Catholics, heaven and California playfully trading
places back and forth, dried broccoli spears crumbled, sifted,
and rolled into thin sleek spliffs, neat squares of tofu caught
in the dualism of kitchen existentialism: to bake, to broil,
or ride hot tin foil into the searing sky ovens like soaring
soy kites over Fort Point Pier, at old Baghdad by the Bay.
Tonight was like a Herb Caen day, utterly peculiar to itself
in the same way onions, caramelized, attain a savory sweetness
fit for classic cook book soup, topped with a hearty cheese
Gruyere, a legendary Cliff House treat, Irish Coffee neat,
a toast around the open hearth, as dreamers, drifting,
dream away, the roasted fragrance of immediate experience,
of impermanence, of everything instantly modifying itself
in no time, waft around us deliciously, past and future vying
for our attention, the same attention virtual sleepwalkers grant
to their next step, another dreamy step into themselves, deeper
and further, toasting their glad insomnia at old Seal Rock,
slick seals bellowing in the dark, trippers tripping through
Golden Gate Park, fog horns sounding out of sight, a music
made for our delight, on one more mystic San Francisco night.
She is Seville Orange and Wild Maine Blueberry
She is strange, serene, surreal — an exotic marmalade
She is identical to the bodies of all women
She has many cloud formations, multi-hued
She is the metaphysical apparition, so brilliant
She is the supernal visualization of Vajrayogini
She goes by the names she chooses, laughing
She keeps pace with all things by not moving
She is the Triple Jewel — Buddha, Dharma, Sangha
She is the cosmic mother bestowing bliss and tranquility
She is the perfection of Heart Wisdom
She has all of those chirping birds in her hair
Her hair is all tangled twigs and wild vines, swirling
Her hair is an accumulation of bright shooting comets
Her hair wraps around you, you only want more
Her head is Bodhisattva-like, it is Arhat too
Her head holds all of the secret knowledge
Her head is empty space, filled with potentiality
Her head turns this way and that, silently
Her forehead is the gleaming monument
Her forehead cannot be imagined or forgotten
She has a forehead made for star gazing
She has the eyes of yesterday, today, tomorrow
She has eyes that see through your disguise
Her eyes cannot be fathomed or outshone
She has golden cobalt crimson eyes
She has the eye of destiny, twinkling
Her eyes are opening and closing
Her eyes are more than man can endure
Her tears are for the best of this world
Her limpid tears are like a desert mirage
Her tears drown the guilty, the wicked
Her falling tears become religion up above
Her ears can taste and touch all phenomena
She has the lovely elfin ears of yore
She has ears for the music of the spheres
Her ears are delicate, alluring, impossible
Her ears hear the cries of the invisible
Her ears hear the low rumble down below
Her ears are shaped like galactic forms
Her ears can reach beyond the known
Her nose can inhale all of the prophets
She has a nose to sniff out joy and sorrow
She has a nose for the hidden lies
She has a nose for happy trouble
Her mouth is not a secret
Her mouth can swallow the universe
She has a mouth made for one love
Her mouth is calling all angels home
Her mouth tells the truth by not speaking
Her mouth is the passport to eternity
Her mouth will make you forget her ears
Her mouth is the form God will be for me
She has the neck of a warrior goddess
Her neck is held high, above the fertile valley
Her royal neck carries kings and queens
Her neck is smooth glossy alabaster
Her neck draws you in closer, your mouth
Her shoulders bear our burden, our hope
Her shoulders are yoked to infinity
Her shoulders carry the bruised and weary home
She has the graceful arms of our delight
She has the arms that swing merrily
Her arms will sweep away our guilt and shame
Her arms are pillars that hold up the temple
Her arms wrap around us while we sleep
Her arms are raising up the extinct species
Her arms are holding up the exquisite illusion
Her arms are doing that job we feared to do
Her arms are embracing empty space
Her hands fashion the grand celestial display
Her hands are made just for this kind of work
Her hands reach out and touch the sacred spot
Her hands make the various creatures come alive
Her hands will crush the grapes into sweet wine
Her hands can make magic seem so simple
Her hands transmit the rare euphoria, that glory
Her hands hold the shy ones, gently comfort them
She has fingers that draw circles that become stars
Her fingers turn the pages of all holy scriptures
Her fingers can tap out the urgent message
Her fingers can match the means to the ends
Her fingers can twist the leaves from the trees
Her fingers can stir them to make amazing tea
Her breasts can feed the past and future saviors
Her breasts are the connection to the other world
Her breasts are filled with the nurturing light
Her breasts will draw you to the Great One
Her breasts are the earth, I am the hazy sky
Her breasts are the sky, I am the vanishing cloud
Her belly is the pillow for wounded animals
Her belly is the furnace where souls are made
Her belly is the ocean, I am the rolling wave
Her sex is the prism for the luminous Divine
Her sex the gateway entrance of the Dharma
Her sex is the promised heavenly abode
Her sex is the graciousness of homecoming
Her sex is a Buddha paradise, adorned with a red Buddha
Her sex is liberation of all conceptual designations
Her thighs are warm with genuine compassion
Her thighs are firm and steady like the sages’ resolve
Her thighs are the glad destination of all pilgrims
Her legs stride victoriously through dream worlds
Her legs run the good race, they are noble
Her legs are graceful as a gazelle or antelope
Her legs carry all sentient beings into quiescence
Her feet are the place of fervent devotion
Her feet walk amidst the pangolins and penguins
Her feet are roots reaching down into the soul
Her feet dance wildly atop the crown of creation
Her feet are walking towards you now
I will tell you about her
Because you are here at this very time, because dogs are pleased to run free, because anything exists at all, because the birds are moved to sing, because it could not be any other way, because old cats will curl up in the sun, because there is a space between thoughts, because all of the rhinos are nearly gone, because the three times happen simultaneously, because horses run wild in the high plateau, because our words can only go so far, because the lion sleeps tonight, because the bigger the front, the bigger the back, because fish need not seek for water, because cold coffee is better than no coffee, because the deer and the antelope play, because some are here for the pure joy of it, because we are those ones, regardless, because we forget, only to remember again, because the buffalo roam the vanishing prairie, because everything eventually becomes its opposite, because half of the species have already disappeared, because we vote against our own interests, because the elephants’ message goes unheard, because we spend more to kill than to love, because the cows stand frozen in their fields, because we prolong a perpetual war with ourselves, because the last Kauai O’o is now no more, because the rain forests are being paved over, because the tigers’ eyes are burning bright, because radioactive waste pours into the sea, because the eagles are dying of lead poisoning, because the fires won’t stop burning, because the rats are in the corn, because the reason for anything is everything, because the pangolins crouch low in hiding, because the leaders are all corrupt, because gorillas meander in the mists, because nothing stays the same, because the ants go marching two by two, because the wheel spins round and round, because the bees can’t take much more, because this is a tourist destination, because we still hunt whales, because only love really matters, because of the crows in wheatfields, because the traffic grinds to a halt, because the chickens are home to roost, because we wish upon the stars, because not all caterpillars become butterflies, because the music never stops, because the foxes have their dens, because there is no escape, because the breath goes in and out, because the stomach goes up and down, slowly, rhythmically, and because you are kind, and warm, and steady in your devotion, she will carefully climb up into your lap.
She will put her small head on your chest.
She will close her eyes and sigh softly, even as she slips into an easy sleep.
Because God itself has come to be with you, it will not occur to you to ask yourself,
I went into your dream last night.
I went in quietly, so as not to disturb
the elegant symmetry you were projecting
so vividly onto the magic neural screen.
In the dream, everything seemed real.
Isn’t that how it usually seems, even when
we believe that we are wide awake?
In the dream, there were seven pale angels.
They were traveling back and forth into the cruel
dimensions, rescuing many bewildered denizens.
In the same way you would lift a small fallen bird
that had collided with a window, believing it to be
open space, so too did they lift up the broken
souls, and how so very tenderly!
As I observed the scene, you reached towards me.
You lifted me up, lovingly, in the same way you
would a dazed Hermit Thrush. Then you gently
placed me on a waiting branch.
There I listened, and as I did I heard the plaintive song.
It came from the heart, from a lone bird’s beating heart.
It was the last of its species — all of the rest were
now extinct — and still it was crying for a mate,
a mate that would never come.
Some may wonder how this could happen. I don’t know.
In the dream, everything is born, thrives for awhile,
and then disappears — birds, humans, suns and moons,
whole universes of glowing galaxies come and go.
Then the angels arrive. They are pale. They are seven.
Each has a special name which we cannot say.
If anyone could possibly hear the name, it would sound
like the poignant cry of a forgotten bird, the last
of its kind, echoing softly into the void.
In one eternal moment, it would fill the space of vast
emptiness with a beauty for which even angels
could not themselves account.
The dog sniffs determinedly at something smaller than people can see, some tiny secret thing hidden in the rocky ground that couldn’t care less.
The sky doesn’t care, the ground doesn’t either. In that way, heaven and earth mirror each other in their eternally impersonal detachment.
Observing the scene, you may begin to suspect that your favorite god has business elsewhere, that you have been left to fend for yourself.
You may suddenly have the urge to take some drug which nobody has yet conceived of, so that you’d be like heaven and earth, and no longer have to care.
Once the ordinary dirt complicated itself and fashioned a body with which to love the sky. Now I’m standing here in its place, god-like, and I am looking up.
I am looking, and I see something smaller than people can see, something secret in the sky that couldn’t care less. There it is now — a cloud waiting to take form and shape.
Just because it doesn’t yet exist, people will go about their business, not caring. But I am like the dog — I am intrigued. I will not cease, how could I?
It is my original face, before I was born, before I began to care, that before a thought becomes heaven and earth, all of the clouds swim in a realm of pure potentiality.
Pristine, spacious, cognizant, empty — all these good words mean nothing to the dog sniffing around for that secret thing. That’s the power of dust: because it doesn’t know, it cares.
In our love of the unknown, we are not that different. We are our own favorite god, whom we have created just as it is creating us. It knows our secret word.
Words can make things seem other than they truly are — maybe more richly romantic, imbued with an imaginary incandescence, able to provoke both tears and laughter.
In reality, the secret thing may be no more complicated than this: a play of conscious light, the ineluctable feeling of being, everything beckoning, waiting for us to care.
Feeling To Infinity 