Soliloquy On Nanking, Sixty-One Years Later

(This was written directly following, and still under the influence, of two most unrelated books I had just finished absorbing, in September 1998, Berlin: one concerning the craft and genius of Edward de Vries, Earl of Oxford, alias “Wm. Shakespeare;“ and the other, Iris Chang's The Rape of Nanking, The Forgotten Holocaust of WWII, as it occurred in 1937. I shared the following result with Ms. Chang in a personal correspondence, which she gratefully acknowledged in a personal postcard. To my profound sadness, googling her name many years after, I discovered she had taken her life, still young, there on the West Coast. The strain of what she had to go through to give us this book, had been too great. Now, as I had dedicated this to the victims, I give it to the public in her beloved honor.)

We distance us from hist'ry at our peril;
as human beings we owe it to our future -
the Holocaust and Nanking share this feature:
to forget, deny, avoid these makes us sterile.

Nanking sits hard upon the heart, burns 'neath the skin;
it ices up the blood, robs one of speech -
these words but shadows of all the heart could teach:
the wails of such long gone, 's were my kith and kin.

The Silence is my rock and my devotion,
to which I turn in hours of smould'ring grievance -
my rage and tender infinite remembrance:
what's left me, but command all my emotion?

Unfinished matters lie upon the conscience,
quite larger than one's private circumstance;
though not the lives, their mem'ry saved in balance
against the tide of Sleep's smiling complacence.

Their relevance long questioned, facts forgotten -
and still no part of public education! . . .
The shrieks from Nanking's mothers, boys, young women
do testify 'gainst th' indifferent and the rotten.

One feels not smarter, rather dirty, for the knowing;
Nanking's ordeal a fraction of the story -
yet alone, outnumb'ring Hiroshima, Nagasaki:
hardly yet's th' aggressor reap'd what he was sowing!

Some pain's required to make this heart awaken;
the shattered heart prepares the way for prayer -
while joy indeed may wax with this wayfarer,
these wounds daily renewed likewise are taken.

 

On Prayer: Sam-I-Am, Revisited

It is exactly when we are at our best, top of the world, everything taco and tutti, that we should remember God and remain steadfast in prayer – that is, whatever the form our sadhana takes, whatever our practice. And it is exactly when we are at our lowest, most uncertain, as-losers-convinced, ready to throw in the towel and let the wolves have at us, ready to cut a vessel or throw ourselves in front of that bus – that we should remember God and remain steadfast in prayer. God is not absent and takes no break, so neither does sadhana.

Who remembers Dr. Seuss' Green Eggs And Ham? Sure you do, admit it. We loved it. Sam-I-Am running around totally getting on this other Seuss-character's nerves, chasing him all over, literally everywhere - and insisting he just try the green eggs and ham. And to make matters worse, everything is in rhyme – just the reason is never clear. Finally the poor guy gives up and accepts the invitation from Sam-I-Am, and lo and behold: he  loves the green eggs and ham. Of course, this lovely children's story wouldn't have reached any Muslim households, nor orthodox Jewish, as the ham would be neither helal nor kosher, notwithstanding that the Muslims are rather partial to green.

So my own take on it, if I may so presume: ends with the hum-drum guy, having been offered Bhajan and Prasad, shouting with awakened joy, "Thank you thank you, Sam-I-Am, I will try green eggs with Ram, I will sing bhajan with you, I will take some prasad too – I will praise God in a plane, I will praise God on a train, with a goat on a moat in a boat – every note, I will praise God in the rain, in the snow till I'm insane, I will praise God here and there, I will praise God everywhere! . . . Thank you, Sat Nam, Sam-I-Am, I do so love green eggs and Ram!"

Zat So?

I'm taking this (all from memory) from Zen Flesh Zen Bones, a copy of which I haven't seen since about – well never mind my age – but it was by Sensaki Roshi and Paul Reps, at least one of whom I had the honor of meeting and knowing as a guest in our house back in – I said never mind my age. A certain monk, let's just call 'im Zenmeh-ka-nik, does it matter - I don't remember his name, it's been at least 35 years.

 

Zenmeh lived alone in a little hut not far from a village, chopped wood, carried water, that sort of thing. He was like a mechanic of sorts. One day out of the blue a family came to his door, in a fury and a huff. A father and his young daughter, along with everyone else who came to add weight. In his hands was a newborn infant. "You lousy bastard," he greeted Zenmeh, "you pose as a lone monk and go and knock up my daughter, now this! Here, you take the baby, she claims it's your kid, you raise it, you lousy goddam shit, and leave my daughter here and the rest of the family in peace!" Zenmeh, when he finally could get a word in, merely received the baby and replied, "Oh, is that so?"

They left and that was that. Zenmeh figured a way to nurse the baby, cared for it, loved it and gave it love, saw to its every need, began raising it, included its growth and development and sustenance in his normal daily routine – that is, suddenly being a "dad" was just part of chopping wood and carrying water.

One day some weeks or months later, maybe even a year – the same family trooped up to his door and knocked again, this time to a different tune: the father apologized profusely, with lots of bowing, explaining that the matter had gotten cleared up, the daughter admitted the real dad was a local fisher's son in the village, and could they please have the baby back now – that was it, out of the blue. Zenmeh merely replied, "Oh, is that so?" and returned the child into the family's keeping, and they returned to their village without even a thank-you. Zenmeh returned to what he was already doing, chopping wood and carrying water.

 

Now having just told this, I'm reminded of the est-training seminar (2 weekends, who remembers these, anyone out there?), where first you learned to grasp "what's so," and by the end, having grokked that, you learned to relate it to "so what?"

So I'm 58.

Short Memoir of a Singing Masseur and Bhajan-Junkie; Puja

I have never been to India and can hardly be said to have been abroad, but for my seven weeks in Israel and one in Greece at age 21. The world of Dharma came to us, came to me in the House of Sadhana – Khanka, Ashram, by whatever name – under the guidance of my beloved Teacher. I have sung with hardly a let-up for some four decades, variations of Ramnam, of Sufi Zikr, of Bhajans and Mantra innumerable, sung and massaged, sung and massaged. I am still at it.  Much was embodied in the Dances.  We had so many house guests staying or passing through, of unforgettable visage - and I will never forget a single one, not a name nor a face - who'd ever stayed with us in Boulder.

Pir Vilayat, who, having received my foot treatment, told me to now go ahead and work out a full-body massage as I had the feet. I would have anyway, but this sort of feedback from a Sufi Pir, well... And there was Paul Reps, later Murshida Vera Corda, also Reshad Feild - under whom we actually learned and performed Sema, as well as deepening Zikr. I've lost count of how many times Yogi Bhajan spent evenings and taught as guest, or that we visited him. Murshid Hassan from Nablus on the West Bank, came to stay with us three different times, led and gave us the Hadhrat, left us that which I will never lose nor lose touch with. As had they all, as had they all.  Let me not overlook Karmu, little known healer, great in form and spirit and gifts, Murshid Sam had called him the "Black Christ" he'd once composed of in a poem before ever meeting this radiant beautiful guy of humble surroundings and radiant charisma; his stay with us was unforgettable.  And I'm only mentioning half of 'em here.

They all or almost all, had their feet washed and oiled and massaged by me. Tyaga-ji, a lovely yogi traveling through together with a young American named Ram Dass (not that one, just another one), having just returned from being with Mother Krishnabai and leaving with us a gift of dust she'd collected off the feet of the late Papa Ramdas, was one of our guests. He let me also massage his smooth, coffee back as he sat there. He also gave us a precious Hanuman Bhajan which I'll bet my weight in rupees I'm the only one who was there that remembers it now and can still sing it - as I do.

That was the mid- to late '70s, and in '79 we made room for Purshotamdas Jalota-ji, Bhajan-Master, to guest with us, he stayed for a solid month, left to visit others and returned to us because we knew how to host a guest in style. And that meant, he was treated like the most honored of guests, and we sat with him and received his instruction – he was such a natural uncle, we easily called him Papa-ji – whereby we learned so much Bhajan and moreover, his own arrangements, I wish I still had my notes today, as much of the Kabir has escaped me and appears irretrievable. Through this, our established regular usage of Nectar of Chanting (with Guru-Gita and more) was only deepened, the devotion given more scope and dimension.

Among so much else, he taught us the Ram-Bhajan which had been specially composed for Gandhi by his teacher, and which formed the basis and the engine for Gandhi's life and Movement. It was this Ram-Bhajan which got the British Empire outof India, all else was just putting oneself on the line and commitment.  Singing this makes your body feel like a sitting temple into which Ram the Presence of God is actually descending.

Whether I sing in English, Arabic, Hebrew, Sanskrit, Punjabi, Gurmukhi, French, Latin, or Aramaic:    I have never stopped singing since, and still can't quit. So I'm hooked.

Puja

Everything is Puja here, everything is Puja. Every picture in this place is there for a reason, lots and lots of the cats or of the kids all over – even the cats themselves are Puja, Puja-Mausi was my temple-kitty from the start and even Jimmy the tomcat has since been elevated to Puja-Jim. 

The ashes of my parents and their pictures are Puja, the marble headstone for a lost child there on the shelf with flowers and candle and incense and any snapshot of him and the 14^th century Madonna and Child wood-icon on the wall - is Puja. All the Swamis and Sheikhs and Murshids, Dervishes, and Mother T and Mother Krishnabai, and "Madeleine" and Cardinal Galen and two of the gentlemen who all opposed Hitler, and Pope J-P the First who'd been murdered in his bed, and Nityananda and Maharajji, Gandhi and King. And brothers and friends and books in overflowing shelves – everything, everyting is Puja and gets dusted Fridays for Shabbos-Kiddush (also Puja, of course). Puja is Seva and Seva is Puja - so cleaning or cooking is Puja, making someone a sandwich is Puja, feeding the cats. Going to work, paying the bills – Puja. Even Puja is Puja, and that healing & blessing concentration every morning with more names than I can count memorized in my noggin, is Puja as well as Seva. And after all the prayers and concentrations, comes the sacred nectar of Japa in the form of Dhikr-Allah and Ramnam, and Mantras to grease the axles of my beloved Sikh, Christian and Jewish traditions.

Having said this, for no better reason than it occurs to me to share here – the following occurs to me in this light. One evening in the Fall of '81, as I sat on the floor next to Sheikh Muzaffer of the Helveti-Jarrahi Order from Istanbul, visiting his Tekke in NYC, he observed out loud, through his translator, that anyone walking down a country road and spying a lump of dog shit will say, very logically, "Oh, a dog was here." Why then, he continued, doesn't everyone just as obviously look at the wonder of nature all around and observe, "Ahh, God was here!" This earthy, authentic manner of expressing the matter – is Puja.

Yoga For Jews, or: Karuna Is Also Kosher

Ha-Shem breathing concentration:

For all those linear, mono-dimensional Jews who think Jewish has nothing esoteric in it; and for all those Kabbalah-freaks or wannabes who either let themselves be convinced that complexity is a path to God-experience or else run around selling some watered-down Kabbalah so they can sound smart – this could be for you. You may have never touched a Talmud, a Torah, a Mishna or Gemorra, never heard of Zohar, never eaten kosher or kissed a mezzuzeh, never worn talit or t'fillin - you can do this, no problem.  Or if you have done all these things, you can still do this, it won't hurt you.  But if you don't like direct alternatives, fine, enjoy being complicated or materialist, or both. You don't want to take a boat? So swim. You don't want to take a car? So walk. But if you want something real that you can carry into the world with you and make paradise there where you stand, where others can get a hit, a taste, of God's most loving Presence here-now and in reality – then this just might be for you.

Considering the Absolute, taking as a metaphor all the immeasurable vastness of Space, transcending all time and distance, knowing that while you may not comprehend God, God certainly comprehends you - and letting yourself feel it - now address this, your Noble Lord and Cherisher, the Light of your own Origin, so:

With Ha-Shem Echad draw all of this in, from the center of your crown, on the in-breath, drawing, drawing: your breathing long and fine like a thread, through your nostrils down into your heart and your belly and genitals, sending it out through your limbs but holding it central in your heart region and belly. You are drawing on The Unity of Being, on The Source, on The Light within that very breath, letting it circulate. And with it: ha-Shem echad.

Holding that breath, or rather: letting it be held, there in the center of your person, in the chest and belly, heart and hara, glowing, expanding. Inwardly see the blinding sun, for which the sun up there is but a metaphor. Don't strain the brain or the lungs, don't try to do or to control anything, rather let it "do you".

And having held that for just but a scarce moment, let the out-breath proceed with Baruch Ha-Shem releasing up and through that breath passage and out the nostrils, gently, naturally measured. And using the same concentrated visualization – just as will has no impulse without concentrated feeling – let that outgoing baruch ha-Shem really, actually, tangibly radiate as love, through your very pores, through your hands and your feet, out your back, out your chest, 360 degrees, through your eyes, let it expand out, out, out, limitlessly back into the Cosmos and touching all of Creation therewith. Not theoretically, but really. It's not "you doing" it, it is being-done, and with and through you, as you are willingly devoting yourself to this action, this very creative, humble little action.

If you can believe this is being done, that this is happening, then that is faith, you have a faith to build on, you're cooking on the Big Burner.

Practicing this, opening to, Being, sending, drawing in the Oneness of All, blessing the earth with this nefesh, this breath of consciously unconditional love, then of unreasonable, illogical joy, then of peace – not cease-fire, not opposite-of-war, also not graveyard-still – but living, pulsating, symphonic and mind-blowingly of the full I-Am-ness: peace.

Being Jewish like this, you'll never be arrogant like you were, nor self-conscious like you were. And all your family ancestors can finally give it a rest, and your future generations get an endowment better than putting your name up on another hospital. Hey – now you are no longer part of the problem, you're part of the solution, you're healing the planet! And the great thing is, you don't even have to graduate medical school!

So - now you embody the Six-Pointed Star in your own form:  or, "as above, so below."  A real Magen-David now, that's what you are.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=YcOQY-n-EWs 

Light One . . .

Light one candle or as many as you like, it doesn't matter -
the flame will be the same anyway, with each it burns
more or less alike, but it burns.

Let it be slender and elegant, or plain, or ostentatious,
let it be tiny on a birthday cake, let it be round and massive,
or short and plump: but when I light the tea-candles to my Puja

I see that every flame is one.
If a flame is poor or dirty or foul,
either the surrounding air is bad or the candle sucks.
 
Just so is the soul,
and just so is the essence of any religion:
if that religion is understood to be a bond
between a soul and it's origin in this present incarnation.

Soul is just soul, and a flame is also just that.
I have never joined a religion, so can I never leave one;
and the one I was born into I needn't reject,

yet no religion can make me it's member
if that excludes me from any other,
as my faith knows and embraces all faiths.

The Bhakti Path or the Path of Sufis
has no members, and no membership,
so can neither be joined nor left.

Like the prodigal son who returns, begging
his father: "take me back!"
and Dad says, "oh get off it, when were you ever 'not mine'!"

Two flames meeting or a hundred flames,
a matchstick or a bonfire – and there are great-souls
and there are deeply underdeveloped ones.

Flame is one, soul is one, religion is one,
lovingkindness is one, beauty is one, Being is one -
all else is the scenery of incarnations.

Body, Psyche, Sexuality

(you must be 16 or older to read this, please show ID)

I've massaged for some 40 years now. It developed ad hoc without schooling, over time, on inspiration and inner movement. I developed a style which made limbs and backs and psyches feel great, I removed headaches in a few minutes, I began with feet and stuck primarily with that for two years, washing and massaging feet of every kind of person, friend or detractor, acquaintance or stranger (and some were pretty strange), in rooms or on the street or in parks, as an act of private discipline and devotion toward my ideal. Foot-reflexological developed of its own and became a specialty – the reflex book or two I much later consulted or owned mostly served to confirm what I had already intuitively learned through doing. And I'm still at it.

 Massage is body work – nothing and no age-process or ill-health either disturbs or disgusts me. I love the body as I love my own. I found through massage that this was always effortless for me, it could not tire me out, as I felt coordinated with the other body (my back is your back is my back, so I automatically know what to do) - I always received energy in the giving, and the person felt great and I felt wonderful. And I'm still at it.

I have massaged men and women, children and adults, of all ages, body types and conditions – gorgeous and hot, ugly and plain, all are beautiful to me, all. In nursing school here in Berlin I did a 6 or 7 week practical stint on maternity – as a bonus I gave pressure-relaxation treatments (Beruhigungsbehandlung) particularly designed for women on maternity but good for anyone, and it was a huge hit, non-stop; this little number I did pick up from someone, an alternative fellow-traveler among my nursing faculty. And I'm still at it.

I have massaged men, gay and hetero, and with the gays all went well (sometimes amusing because of their expectations or because of my own residue of clichés) and even if they had wishes I could not fulfill as a hetero I certainly had no qualms about massaging them, as comfortably as with any other person on earth. And nothing has changed.

Now when I massage – anyone, but let's take women as I am going in this direction in this writing anyway – I see through the massaging itself, only a woman's beauty. There was a grade school teacher, 40ish, unattached with no sexlife (or none currently) and with horrible lifelong acne on her face, she was a client of mine for awhile many years ago. Nice bod, but that acne! When I massaged her she became beautiful. First was my imagination, then the transfer of this recognition into her – not visualisation because I was just recognising her as she was – through the touch, and she'd relax in herself, knowing through my hands that she was loved and even possibly desirable as a woman. No words about, no talk, all conveyed through the massage. She asked me once after many sessions, how I would view her from the standpoint of looks. First what went through my head was, “shit now what – think fast and be authentic but accurate!“ Then I spoke from the heart and knew the higher mind was speaking: I heard myself telling her, when I look at her face I see the beauty behind the exterior. She got it and was moved, soothed, relieved, satisfied. And it was true: hearing my own words I got it: that you don't lie about the acne, you don't give it center place either – you move beyond that and talk real. People will know it, they're not stupid.

So I see the beauty, massage the beauty, the beauty is awakened through this, and in the relaxation of self-loathing, the beauty takes place and is there, it wells up from within and rounds the body again or it descends from its banishment back into the body like spirit and finds it place there where it belongs. No shit. I really really do love bodies and I really really do love women. And no bodily function or happening or excretion scares me or inhibits me or disgusts me. That said, I have no fetish-perversions nor entertain any, so I won't even go there.

Beauty is not in the barbie-look, an exterior, culture-dictated babe-look isn't beauty, it's an empty shoe box. Can't dance. Beauty has so many dimensions, and one dimension which itself is multi-dimensional is the erotic component. I have known this intimately in women who never would have turned a head by ordinary standards – I have my own and stick to that - but I sensed it with a nose for the erotic I could only wish every other guy.

Over the years the massage has also developed its erotic component, I gave this full expression after many years not having done so. And the results have far more often been far more rewarding for both, than the occasional hit-and-miss. I have had many lovers from many walks of life, and many ages, older and younger than I. Some in their eighties. Very rewarding, and I do mean mutually. Each a Sam-Story of its own.

There are - or have been, over my 25 years in this town, bordellos where I was a most welcome semi-regular, where I arrived to massage and we took it all out in trade, where I gave instruction in the “Tibetan 5 Rites of Rejuvination,“ where I was the only male I ever saw being granted the neighbor-status as I call it, of being welcome to hang out at the kitchen table of certain said bordellos and yack with the ladies, proprietess included, whether there was necessarily bed-business or not sometimes.

My eye for erotic is a wide-lens camera: I never compare two women ever, and I never judge – I not only accept “flaws,“ I cherish them, that's sometimes where the erotic component even is, which is why so many guys miss it – it requires a mature eye which most altogether lack because they've bought into the bland dick-tates of cultural status quo and commercial marketing. I rejoice in bodily hair wherever it is, au naturelle, and if a woman is herself more cmofortable without, that's alright. There is not a bodily orifice on a woman I avoid, either in massage or in tongue-play or cock-ulation, not a single one. Firmly but gently, with timing everything is possible – and passionately in-joyed. Nature has given us so and so many digits and so and so many orifices, who needs toys – or to borrow from Monty Python, acoutrements. I love mouths, lips, breasts, nipples, vaginas, butts, anuses, thighs, I absolutely relish armpits, I tend away from too-slender twd. a robuster fleshy, a healthy amount of it, I don't consider any woman “overweight“ until she acutally is. I'm not telling this to be vulgar, it's just a matter of fact and openness, I don't intend to get graphic here. To recall from an earlier passage:

…The wild erotic energy radiating from its female form is full-fleshed, generously-haired, musky and mature, and not without subtlety.
By full-fleshed is merely meant, that the entire span of her corporeal body communicates a hearty welcome to life-radiance at the erotic level.
By generously-haired is meant, she is not bound to male dictates of artificial beauty.
By musky and mature are meant, her own-scented fragrance and earthy experience are her jewels and likewise independent of controlling-male notions toward hygienically sterile bodies robbed of their history and wild heritage.
By subtle is meant, even if the personality were somewhat crude or asleep, the energy is certainly awake, and for those who will encounter and acknowledge it with an attitude of respect and meet it with the proper degree of energy, it is as benevolent as it is wild. …

 

And now I'll finally cut to the chase. An American woman looked me up while here on business, end of summer '94 Berlin, she got a full, good massage. She was by all accounts, in her sweats and bike and glasses, “not a looker,“ yet when she'd disrobed and received the massage, not only was I storngly aroused by her splendid erotic beauty, I felt it in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. Still I exercised caution. She was leaving town that day to do a 6-week stint in the new-East Europe as she was with a major news network based in Atlanta, I won't name names though. We hugged and agreed on a massage when she swings back through. I left a message on her recorder explaining my impressions, offering the full monty if she should so wish, and if not then the best massage and we'd leave it at that. On returning she told me she'd played my message back six times, so she got a massage and we spent one long splendifulous night together, followed by a very very hot correspondence until gentle and loving closure – remember, there was no internet back then, you licked stamps with that same tongue you...never mind.

Now here's the kicker: As good as my hunches are, this one went right under my radar. We went up to her borrowed flat that second encounter, and we kissed. I noticed she was a bit unhandy and it didn't matter, it was endearing. When she told me she'd been out of practice for a long time, I only figured she meant at all, but she meant with men – then she explained she's lesbian and in a relationship with her partner back home going on 15 years. I laughed so hard from the belly, I had to explain that the laugh was on me, one because that had not even occurred to me although it ought to have, and two because I could now really be the proverbial “lesbian in a male body.“ She had been harboring a growing need for the whole past year to feel a man in her again. We not only loved and in-joyed one another deeply, erotically, passionately. She said this had healed a wound in her she'd carried since age 16 – I understood immediately without any elaborations. A lot of women could relate. I later encouraged her to remain as lesbian as she wants, whatever came of her partnership, but that she also could know herself now as bi-sexual, and that this was also wonderful. What matters is only to know and to cop to it. I've met lots of lesbians in dail life and the ones I've always really appreciated are the butch-cut ladies who are so fucking cool and mature (usually over a certain age) and self-confident and male-friendly-while-needing-none.

So there it is. By the way, before I clothes – sorry, close – anybody know the one about the old wrangler sitting in a bar having his beer, and an attractive woman takes the stool next to him, has her drink in hand and asks him sort of off the cuff, “So, are you a real cowboy?“ To which he replies, wrangler-like, “Well, I get up mornings early, go out to the horses, tend to them, drive cattle out, brand calves, repair fences, pick up feed and supplies from town,“ etc. etc. - “...yeah, I guess you could say I'm a real cowboy.“ She replies, “Well I'm a lesbian. When I get up mornings I think about women, when I shower and have breakfast I think about women, when I go to work and go through my day I think about women, when I come home and watch TV or read or have dinner I think about women, right up until I go to sleep, I just think about women women women.“ Then she sets down her drink and they part witha mutual nod. He sits there and stares forward, until a nice frinedly middle-aged couple from out of town join him at the bar. “Saayy, are you a real cowboy?“ the husband inquires. The cowboy takes another swallow and considers for a moment, replying reflectively, “Well, up to now I thought I was, but now I reckon I'm a lesbian.“

Much of my poetry reflects what I've written here:

You there, with that nose of yours,
that longish, elegantly erotic nose you hate;
you with your 'not quite symmetrical' face, don't you know:
that very jawline which shames you delights me?
Quit feeling 'fat' - define your standard, who told you that?
Stop chasing warts, leave them;
if your body-tatoos can be so alluring, why can't a mole?
Are your breasts still 'inadequate' - or overmuch . . . but
look at your thighs, what form they give you!
Think of Aphrodite, not Claudia or Naomi!  Erotic, not neurotic!
Go neither obese, nor half-starved to please; shave nothing, smell enticing!
Stop cursing your buttocks, think classic, not anorexic!
Breathe in your own inner aroma, let it wend its way in and out unimpeded,
brightening your woman-face, your sensual sensuous body, restoring health -
or haven't you suffered enough sickness over false self-image?
When you speak against your own beauty, when you deny it,
you speak against me, you deny me - for I,
I am full of your beauty, and cannot get enough of it.

Come-Union, or: On Be-Coming

(not for minors, please show a current ID at the door)

Tongue and lingam should work together,

tongue must lead and lingam follow, always in tandem,

attaining a rhythm most naturally arrived at and held

through wakeful concentration and passion of interest.

And age is no matter, let us

dispense with that right now;

where erotic knowledge is concerned

youth and advanced experience meet well.

And a wizard or crone might bring

more energy and maturity to bear,

having long struck down the conditioned inhibition,

and unlocked beauty overlooked by puerile dictates.

Tongue and lingam should work together;

tongue and lips, stroking and caressing,

flattering, fluttering, probing, preparing,

arousing moisture and goose bumps, bringing flavor.

Entering all the same places, received with wild care,

creative passion always considering you, beloved,

where timing and spontaneity are taken to an art

through intuition or matured instinct.

Tongue tip on tongue, on lips, on neck and throat,

tongue washing armpits, over bitten shoulders,

teasing raised nipples with crazy circling,

tongue over belly, navel, thighs and clit.

Yoni and mouth yielding to swooning but untiring kiss

as tongue sweeps and caresses without care,

the taste of you and your luxurient hair,

your perspiration mingled with rose oil and juices.

Small of back massaged with hand and with tongue,

so the buttocks, kneaded; so also between, where cleft and anus

are stimulated in a manner known since ages

and still indescribable.

Coming in your mouth, lingam gliding over your tongue,

I feel myself entering your very bloodstream,

charging every cell in your entire body.

That is just one variation of course.

Gliding lingam on your neck, over your armpits,

between your breasts, against your nipples, across your belly,

along your thighs – and coming anywhere there,

is well spent . . . but spent.

Coming in your yoni via whichever of so many positions,

your gratification is central to my interest,

for by abandoning the central interest in mine,

my own climax is assured merely by being in you, serving yours.

But for all that, I find coming in your ass to be

the gratification par excellence for both,

bringing forth unimagined fruit, once discovered

never to be forgotten nor forsaken.

I will tell you why I know this.

Deep as the yoni well is, there is something

primally deeper still, in a different and healing way,

about entering that ass gradually with lingam.

The ass is charged with a negative and a postitive

association both, a crossing of pleasure and pain,

reward and punishment, expectation and relief,

tension and gratification, erotic and banal.

Negatively seen, the brutality of a sadist finds

in this the very place to ravage and humiliate,

to abuse and fuck to death your very soul

in that place of your most basic security.

Positively seen, lovingly and consentually entered,

there is deeply erotic, healing, validating union

in a place so deep in the psyche as to defy words.

And to come there in love, respect, appreciation, is ecstasy.

http://titsandsass.com/the-erasure-of-maya-angelou/

No Sunset

The sun of this world is blinding,

if you stare into it long enough

with mortal eyes.

The sun of inner wealth

is brighter still and blinds as well,

but you will only know it with eyes turned inward.

Staring into that with longing,

with concentrated devotion,

you will be granted sight where once you were blind.

When I look at an image of this beloved Swami

I am moved inward, seeing with my heart

that sun of love, unborn, undying, never setting.

Warm, detached, constant, radiating Self,

simple and majestic, seeing all, feeling all,

and knowing only joy.

Lighting all worlds, transcending death,

burning, burning, burning, never extinguished.

Suffers not, judges not, residing in perfection.

All the worlds are held in its rays,

all life is sustained in its glance,

every form is nourished without asking.

The sun of this world is a metaphor of that sun,

given us as a reminder to return and to remember.

And what we call night is likewise always there,

but passive, no longer dominating -

as a dark room is merely space in the absence of light,

when the lamp is lit darkness knows to leave.

The sun of conscious love, with us from the beginning,

with us through the ages, radiating heart of original Self,

accepts any who come, full of beneficence.

There I will make my home.