Saturday, July 25, 2020

Haverford Dude

I loved you like my own face before my parents were born.
That way they could not disapprove of me, the freshman
Malnourished, tripping, ambling around Bryn Mawr
Wearing a used Mexican navy sailor's shirt bought at R.I.S.D.
Painted with psychelic day-glo eyes
In a bandana and brown felt hat that I'd found on the road,
Sporting ponytail and threadbare bluejeans
Unshaven but not fully bearded either
Living on black coffee and iceberg lettuce
Covered with croutons, garbanzo beans and Baco Bits.
Eighteen years ancient, believing I was an I Ching sage
Long before reincarnating as a white American teenager,
I inhaled Plato's Republic and weed, listening to
Disraeli Gears, high on coke, quaaludes and Michelob,
With an uneasy feeling as I paused to consider this:
My thirty-fifth acid trip was not more nor less
Than a casual cup or three of electric punch,
Poured hastily over all those drugs around nine p.m.,
Knowing my parents would arrive for a visit
Tomorrow morning.
Oh dear god!
The panic,
The panic


Thank God for bodhichitta
Otherwise all this crazy wisdom would be fucking crazy
Crazy wisdom kicks crazy wisdom's ass
And cuts its head right off
Crazy wisdom is fearless.
It likes the bare ground unadorned.
It self-deconstructs, confounds, amazes
Never rationalizes, is never off
Bit still knows how to apologize.
It's a feckless rake among men,
A gentleman stranger among ladies,
An imperious madame among matrons,
An mischievous uncle among children,
An buxom aunt for babies,
A saucy sister for little brothers,
A towering big bro for little sisters,
A sudden lover for the lovelorn,
A judicious sparring partner for fighters,
A wisecracking sideshow freak for the curious:
It's Nirmanakaya as much as could be
So long as you're just a little kind, always, in all ways.

Wednesday, July 22, 2020

Worm Puree

Fat or skinny
Flesh is flesh
Your illusion my bliss
Renunciation is daft
But I still believe it's mine
You are an object
But you are part of me
We wander the same decaying pure land
Where the ground has cracks
That's s how the light gets out
Earth and stone are still solid
Seamless, almost sterile
So bang your head in homage there
Make a callous on your third eye
Let it happen
There's no easy exit
Freedom is just a word
For the eternally damned and their hopes
Hope against home
Curse against cars
Damn it, bless it, take out a second mortgage
YOu and I are just a mass of worms
Waiting for dessert
So let's make a worm puree
Whip it up with lots of stirring
Exult in worm ecstasy
Why not
It's the best human life
has to offer.

Wednesday, May 1, 2019

Mr. Newcastle

Dear Newcastle Maharatna
Lets take a drink of freedom like two
Old-fashioned vagabonds.
You have so many guises
Why not try being a Latino laborer
Or a farm hand in upstate New York
Or let me help us find
A  nice Splitting-Off practice hillside
We can offer Deviprasad then
Fall into shamanism, animalism and infernal screaming
All as a matter of formality, of course
You have the Yeshe Lama
So do I -- but would we ever let ourselves practice?
You with mountains of privilege
I with bundles of distraction and Facebook friends
My stuff will be the kindling
Yours the furnace feedstock
We could make a bonfire Agnihotra
Of worldly and supramundane dharmas
Just for a spell
I'll be your point man
Smuggling your movie-star countenance
In the back rows of Trailways bus
From one sleepy mountain crossroads to the next
Leaving town after town surreptitiously
Each time you're spotted in street clothes
I'll plot us another course of random motion
Across a shimmering summer samsara
Of arid American dreams.