(A Curious Quintet)
Come closer, my Love,
and let me whisper to you now
about the world beyond Peach Blossom River –
far from the scent of your own awaiting funeral pyre,
past the taboo place in the Forest of Ancient Light,
across the cool Plateau of Mirrors
where the Deva Murti rituals
Do not be distracted nor misled –
this nowhere place remains obscured
to the Sorcerers of Attention, unknown
to the Shamans of the Flower of Alchemy.
If even the secret shout “O’Chi Wa!”
cannot hope to touch it, how much less
those lilting lullabies at the Sandman Soiree?
You have journeyed long and far
from the Dominion of Odd Glances
where the owls aren’t what they appear,
wisely consigning the ghost of the host
with the intriguing duality axioms to a realm
of imaginary playmates whom you no longer fear.
You’ve dived the warm Amniotic Coves
in the Womb of Fetal Attractions, and confronted
the Coincidence of the Elevens in the Valley de Los Ojos,
where the glyphs only hint at aboriginal sensation.
Stalwart in your pilgrim’s progress, you’ve resisted
the allure of mere passing consolations
and fools’ portentous prophecies.
Faithful at the Bardo of the Haunted Heart,
you mastered the Asana of the Coronary Surprise,
tasting the ineluctable chemistry of nocturnal languidity,
the tease of desire on the cusp of a rapture
that never comes and goes.
Meeting at the White Lodge
where the wooing Woodbine twine,
you have glimpsed the benign silhouette
of the rare Siddha Loka chromosome
through the opened third-eye view
of the Autonomic Tourister.
In the Salon of the Ninth Yana,
as multiple rainbows arced in curved air
above the nests of the Gandharvas, you traced
the lines of transmission along the neural nets
to their source at the Cardiac Carnival.
Gazing into Pandora’s mirror of prurient interests
where inebriates with no roses touched noses,
you remained unmoved, bemused, detached.
Listening to incense at the Shrine of the Shine,
you beheld the face in the fire foretold
by the epic return of the Red Hat.
In sublime lunar wave trance, you bathed
in the swoon of the forest angels, effortlessly
invoking the subtle hypnagogic formula
of the Synaptic Posse at Bindu Junction.
You inspected the awakened mind
of your own awareness, and realized
that it has neither form nor color,
neither center nor edge.
For most, that would have been enough,
but you pushed right on from there.
Neither fate, nor plate tectonics,
nor the Sirens of the Theta Islands,
nor the chameleon guise of the Kami
has managed to impede your exploration
of the diaphanous Airborne Luminosities
in the Holy Tabernacle of Lost Vocabularies.
Your memoirs as the Molecular Voyager
have catalogued Dances for Sleepwalkers,
Valerian Rubrics, Sounds that Move Air,
Chakra Balloons, Seraphim Ear Candy,
morning birdsongs of the Mezazoic,
and the Clouds of Forgetfulness,
soft as dream-stuffed pillows,
midnight at the Oasis.
Beneath the Dome of the Nebularium,
clutching a totem of the Casual Charism,
you once leaned closer, mildly beguiled yet
clearly unconvinced, as Monsieur Babylon
expounded from the Chi Wu Chronicles.
You were heard to sigh out loud:
“What use are words when compared
to the voice of the heart?
Having drunk deep from the Well of Bodhi
and dined on impeccable dharmic delight,
you witnessed the miraculous coincidence
of light and matter while enjoying the blissful
pacification of the Nadis, gleaning intimate details
from the oracular vaults of mythical identities and
those ephemeral little secrets from the Ashkaic files.
You recognized the nature of your own mind,
resolved the basic state of reality, and cut through
the classic doubts about topics of knowledge,
but still felt there was more to see and do.
Now you seek only welcome rain in the banana grove.
No more soliciting prana with mudras and mantras,
no more metabolic response modifiers, no more
manifestos of the Anti-Gravity Conspiracy,
no more endorphin nativities or enchanting
anatomies of complementary opposites
for you – you’ve had your fill.
Perhaps a cool seat near the water
at Playa Bonita would suffice.
It finally just might be enough.
The mere phantasms and glandular expressionism
at Dakini Park have relinquished their place
to the exquisite Space Between Thoughts.
If there is a word that means
“to move harmoniously, piercing through
and transcending all obstacles”,
it might be used here.
If there is a concept that expresses the inexpressible,
here would be the moment for its employ.
What changes and what doesn’t –
now merely forgotten furniture in the attic
of a long-deserted house of cards.
The sense once regarded as self, the story of “me and mine”,
has become a vapor echo trailing nowhere in particular,
perhaps over a nameless mirroring pond where,
from the inexhaustible absolute, the relative
is spawned and everything finds itself
tossed out like bread crumbs
to feed the ducks of itself.
Captivated by the sky-like vastness
of your own transparent divine projections –
empty and luminous as an endlessness of blue –
in serene anticipation you now approach
the ultimate gate, only to find . . .
the way is gateless!
There never was a barrier,
no obstacle but this:
the lure of likes and dislikes,
the search for some other bliss than this,
while all the while that star-eyed Being,
the One who is living us even now, is melting
every beating heart at the speed of love with
delicious variations on a never-ending Kiss!
We are minnows in the bloodstream of That
which dreams the multiverse, drawn
by a mysterious impulse towards
obliteration at the Heart.
The measure of our resistance
is the mathematics of our suffering.
But Ah — foolish me!
I have poured the good wine through a jar
whose bottom has dropped out.
It splashes and pools at our feet, and yet,
and yet — such an intoxicating bouquet!