never-ending rain

soaks my beginngless body

and all the stores are closed

because everyone wants freedom here:

in Indestructible Country; no one

wants to be shut in, all those

with minds

 want to be recognized.

 

I may as well dance on the mountains

with my mind’s reflections;

I may as well sink into the earth

and follow the raindrops

to the center of this world-system-in-a-dewdrop

where a copper palace beams

and the core of Being teems

— I may as well dwell at every point

in the middle of all connection, and

even in the nucleus of that middle itself — why

shouldn’t I lay back and gaze out

at the emanations of sun-rays

eating themselves : why not

bask in the cozy hand-made sofa

 

WITHOUT CENTER OR EDGE

 

You cannot refuse me that.

To the extent that flowers are

blooming for their own involvement in

self-reflexive magnificence, up

to the point where concepts like that

can have meaning, until then:

there is nothing here in these

galaxies within the palm of your hand

that can provide a logical

refutation of my lust, this

uncontrollable passion for embrace

 

w/ FIREY EMPTINESS

 

If my passion is dispersed

Ya’ll ain’t got a chance for my

compassionate involvement to

coming rising up like a

tornado of affectionate concern.

 

Today I cry for

my self

because like a moon’s reflection

in water, that good old boy,

the efflulgence of expansiveness, that good old girl,

makes a pointed mockery

of all those trinkets I’ve been clinging

onto

like a child with his fairground

candy, it comes to just a whiff, a sillouhette of a memory.

Palms of hands must be released from themselves.

 

They’ll starve themselves

for the big man to give them a name.

Would you starve yourself

so he’d give you some water?

 

When rays of sunlight devour themselves

They reveal themselves as moon-rays. Pristine.

They nimbly avoid the maw of existence

And like them, I skip along the crests  of

Joy and Sorrow

Though I get wet

In the process.

 

That’s why you’ve got to

be nimble.

The players in your movie life

they play the character of space.

 

I can’t get to where I’m going

because it was never there.

But I keep on vibrating

at the frequency of where I

want to be, ’cause

even tho it’s all a dream

i’ve got to live with me.

 

You, my dear one,

come close.

Sometimes it’s good to think of your

spine as all the coins

ever hoarded by every king

stacked up on top of the other

climaxing at the base of yr. skull,

itself a treasure.

 

You don’t know how much

magic is in my vital organs.

It’s cooking up a barbeque of willful intent

and soups of bedazzlement.

 

You just don’t know.  So I’ll have 

to show you. You can see more as

time goes by. I don’t even know myself.

Let’s find out.

Sometimes

compassion must hang out

on top of yr. head, but perhaps you

knew that. On occassion it is a good thing

to take a kitten and put her on top

of your head also.

That is good.

The magic in my vital organs approves.

 

You thought those were just words.

Now the ships are coming in.

They dock inside our skulls.

They have important documents

For you to sign.

 

Let me hold you

when I tell you this:

My passion make each and every thing

glow like embers on a mission.

Always ever. So,

your spine, it can also be a mountain.

Your eyes, beautiful as they are, take

in even more beauty from the top of your

 

BODY-MOUNTAIN

 

Projecting that mountain outward

like an imperialist aggressor

you might as well keep on dancing

on top of yourself

like an unpredictable goddess of devotion

prancing on her conquered ego.

 

Dzigar Gompa, Darjeeling, Gorkha Land of the Future, West Bengal in the Bardo, India

 

 

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One thought on “counter-strike.

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