Meditation

beat buddha down

to a breath of enlightenment

with a case of clapping

sound to silence.

 

Serenity achieved during my back-as-if-in-a-brace meditation is dull and not at all like a lotus exploding with cosmic-color and radiant-rays of karmic webs ebbing through my body effortlessly connecting me to all that I have touched and not touched. I do, however feel the tension of my face dispel, and I wonder what it is about the day that can make a person feel like they are wound up so tight behind the eyes. I feel the coiled snakes of tension and venom relax and unravel, allowing me to view the world without a tint of suspicion.

 

denying the dignified self

so as to collaborate collective

as dharma dictates

we wait–

 

Levels of isolation are like sedimentary rock in which I magnify and observe the ages interrupted by squashed little bug-looking-la-pods, and crab-a-like-oh-dites. The sea-shells and funnel-sponge fossils of Hueco Tanks, Texas were deposited there when our ocean planet was split and tectonic plates served continents to the surface. At least that is was the bald ranger told me, and then pointed out, as an afterthought, the spiritual pictographs Native Americans had also left behind.

 

for all to earn allowances of

navigation to nirvana,

where bodhisattva boundaries

are ensured erasure.

 

There are maps of the world in stages. Maps from years ago when America was a coast and a blob, and Africa was a only a long horn, also when Germany was two places, and Catalonia, Siam and Ceylon were still what they were instead of what they are called now. The shifting means nothing to me, but the mapmakers have spent all of time erasing one line and marking out another. They can't tell me where to go, or how to get there. They tell me that each degree traveled is four minutes, and in five degrees of the sun traveling towards the horizon I sigh at the sight of twenty minutes passing.

 

the key of kind

beings should ring

universally.


Someday I will Salute the Son without Slipping

I was warned not to use warrior pose if I had a heart condition.

As I leaned towards my knee and spread my arms wide my chest thundered pain.

I'd forgotten about my fractured pump, an emotional condition gone unchecked.

 

This sent me to my knees and I bow to the pain.

Aum. Aum. Aum.

But my breath is destruction

I serve myself water and motherwort, Leonurus Cardiaca.

Lion-hearted I am not these days, but if I take enough perhaps my pride will return

And reshape my heart that was broken by

talldarkhandsome.

 

My self-important German-Egyptian lover who shattered a good Hebrew name.

I should have known better.

My name and his superior genes dictate that I end up in bondage. And broken.

He was twice the villain against my nature. But I am no Jew.

I have no deliverance. No serpent-stick hero.

I want his denial to flow like blood.

The first born of Egyptian culprits are already dead.

I have no military men coming for me too late.

I am marked.

 

He was a pleasant companion once, but as a leader of assaulting words he had the strength

To break my open armed pose and leave my faults exposed to the world.

 

Call me Mara, though I never bore any sons, they are dead just the same.

 

Wet Commotion

The afternoon darkens

thunder speaks as I think its name.

Water beats my rooftop

like a massage of sound.

Larrup. Larrup.

The lightning flashes

and I feel I have been forced to blink.

Build up of nature.
Sexual.

 

Like me, it comes, without your help.