the faith in knowing

that things will work out

gushes up like geysers

and makes love to the

dewdrops of the future

in this temple i find myself.

someone who seems like a me

absorbing ::: like soft seaweed the

immutable atoms of bell-rings

beholding like a sacred cow the

flapping flags of red glory

a jewelline palace bedecked with

dirt: an undoubtable

vortex of unmistaken shelter

from that ordinariness. That

monkey mother, she was so

patient. This conception of selfhood,

he was so durable. That

family was so dunked in

tenderness. The orange Bengali

mother wants her little boy to

look proper for a picture:

please!

with her bare feet.

Are they not in fear of the

ample glass even before me?

The Swiss warrior plays his

flute, inviting the hosts of

eager Himalayan spirits and females

to a picnic of dynamic energy. Causes

and conditions conspire together

in the back room of the Shiva shrine, with their

long backlog of infallible blueprints.

No one really ever wanted

to give ordinary mind

a chance. Voices call,

but they are no-voices.

These no-voices have more power

than the sound-voices.

You switch the position of yr. legs

and all creation-possibilities reconfigure themselves

like an autonomous Rubik’s Cube. Three

wise men have a single sincere

visage, which emerges from that multi-

colored tree over there beside you: they

might know who you are, or maybe not.

When we breath through every single

pore, it’s easy to look like a god.

When you radiate as a deity %

it’s easy to feel like one.

The Monkey Prayer-Flag Temple, Darjeeling, India

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