I Will Tell You About Her

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



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Tiny God

(Another Nugget Poem)


Early one morning I knocked on her door
now me and that angel are riding side by side
we have a tiny dog, it’s riding here between us
it’s no dog, it’s a tiny god, come to lick our hand
we give thanks and praise, thanks and praise,
god is gracious, we’ll testify, we’ll say it’s so,
that little god will surely come your way,
to lick your hand, she’ll make you smile,
she’ll bite your finger till you testify,
say god is gracious, tell it all throughout
this land, go shout it on the mountain,
sing it down in the valley too —
this great god has come here for us,
she’s here for me and you!



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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,
“What have I done with my life?”

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The Last Song of the Kauai O’o

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.


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Secret Thing

The dog sniffs determinedly at something smaller
than people can see, some tiny secret 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 vanished for good,
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. Before a thought becomes heaven and earth,
all of the clouds hang 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 like they are other things —
maybe more richly romantic, imbued with an imaginary
incandescence, able to provoke both tears and laughter.

In reality, the secret thing may not be any more complicated
than this: like a cloud suspended in an idea or feeling,
everything is shining here, waiting for us to care.

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One Heart (2)

Spirit dons a cloak of illusion for obvious reasons.
Do we really need to go into details? If so, then
here is one story which lovers love to share:

It’s a shutters-shut slice of late afternoon swoon-time.
We are happy, smiling – two bodies shining towards
each other, each of us nearly blinding the other.

We mirror the happiness of mindless embodiment,
consciousness surrendered to its own bliss in a timeless
place where we now exist as the radiance of emptiness.

I kneel before you. You are the one I came to worship.
You are propped against a cushion of sun and shade,
adorned in the form of the particular Beloved.

Ripe as Rasa’s fragrance in the sunrise vineyards,
once again animating these forms of irresistible attraction,
there’s no difference between us save in the angle of fusion.

Choice or choiceless – the sudden surging of God’s
own blood clarifies any confusion. The three times tilt
on the cusp of our rapture as everything becomes us.

What presses so urgently through these shimmering forms,
like waves of pure moonlight flooding through the crumbled
portals of some ancient temple, a temple of our patient longing,

or like summer-sewn winds through red-rust nets on long-ago
forsaken fences, stretching over the rounded ridges of pastures
passed on a journey nobody has ever embarked upon,

a picture-perfect pathway to a mythical Lost Coast, we can
never explain, but only marvel at in the intimacy my awe shares
with your delight, my “Ah” with your “Aye”, one sigh between us,

one sacred syllable ever rising in the sensuous spaciousness
of our synchronous penetration, the matrix of our reunion
in life after life, one heart after breaking heart.

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Murmuring Into Light

You deliberately move towards yourself, yet disappear
in the moving. In this way, only the light itself arrives.
If you imagine nothing happens, you won’t be mistaken.

Only the light waits expectantly, like a lover at the gate,
for light to disembark. What follows is a joyous reunion
of that which has never actually been divided from itself.

We are all bewildered wanderers here, looking everywhere
for our own light. Everyone comes from that singular light
which glows like embers smeared across the god’s forehead.

You called to me from within that light. This hothead answered.
He came to your door, covered in the burning ash of my desire.
You were laughing right out loud as that crispy clown ignited!

One quick kiss – all of our holy ideas were scattered like ash!
When the light awakens to itself, we can surely expect a lot
of laughter. Why would we want it to be any other way?

Whoever imagined our immolation would be such fun —
reclining in bliss on our own funeral pyre, mindlessly
murmuring back and forth all through the night:

“Darling, Darling, Darling!”

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