Two months in a cave, prostrating

to the deathless face we know so

well, but forget at almost every moment,

 

he was touched by the lanky hand of

the cotton clad super star, and was 

somehow sanctified. We all need to

go to the caves of our own connection.

We all need to be touched by the glowing

fingertips of inseparability, if only for a

few moments 

(if only for a few chunks of the three times)

 

He was somehow vitalized

in a way that’s

like a hermit crab’s joy on finding

a new landlord of hollowness. I

could intuit a healing like a miracle staged on a platform of direct experience:

a felt-sense rubbed off from cave to

cave throughout endless time

from one cotton clad super star

from one yogic antihero to another

through the space inside the outside of space

and lodged itself firmly in my

organic spheres of perception.

 

It happened like that.

I can apprehend that

this is a power of turning inwards

and a power of imprints energetic

from all those who turned inwards

so long ago and now.

 

The aprons of old Tibetan women

turn round the Stupa…

the most beautiful thing you can *** 

Boudhanath, Kathmandu, Nepal

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