Shedding Light

"Buddhist" is the popular self-identifier one often comes across
when encountering relativizing post-hippie pacifists who get by
with "live-and-let-live" so long as no actual aggression confronts them.

Buddhism however, is not relativistic in the least;
it certainly addresses relativity and all that is relative.
But it gives objective analysis and points toward truth.

Dharma could never have taught Right Action by relativizing.
The Compassion and Generosity of a Bodhisatva aren't atheistic,
they are void of ego, which by its very nature is loaded with relativity.

Karma is not even relative, and can be depended on to teach
responsibility to those who use the term to excuse their own passivity.
Keeping a faked "peace-of-mind" by philosophizing on others' suffering

because it's not viewed as one's own suffering, and therefore "their karma,"
is a refined form of sloth at best, and narcissistically arrogant to say the least.
To apply oneself as a Buddhist really, to relate to the Teaching, is work.

The path of a monk is not to escape this world, but to apply oneself
in perhaps less visible dimensions, to develop on the meta-level
all of one's spiritual potential, for karma is action, not inaction.

Right Action requires involvement without being sucked in.
This means meditation, contemplation, reflection, discipline, study;
it clearly doesn't mean hanging loose and being "non-judgemental".

Discrimination cuts through the relatives - there is light, there are hues;
they are each beautiful in characteristic, unique:  red is not blue, yellow not indigo.
Even white is not quite clear; the Clear Light of Dharma is absent of relatives.

All descriptions notwithstanding, its true nature is basic sanity.
To really shed light on the matter, the personality moved to accept the Path
is already motivated by that Clear Light; all other considerations are relative.

Flame of Kalachakra

A dizzying scream builds in me, nauseous with empathy
I focus and take refuge in the Great Compassion.
I offer all this, disciplined and compressed into that flame
steadily flickering from the oil candle before me:
never extinguished, bearing witness, burning karma.
All other flames here come and go, this one alone remains
all hours and all days.  Into it goes all devotion and all prayers, hymns, mantras.
The sickness in my gut gives way to an iron strength.
The whole world is held between my thumb and index finger tips,
like the string end to a balloon.  And all the Great Ones
are centered in my heart, as I breathe, as I breathe.

That flame is centered in my gut, containing sacred syllables,
it goes where I go.  Practice never ceases, love's duty is Dharma.
Flame is in time and out of time,
the wheel turns, and the wheels:
My age unites with the Ages, timeless - the unbearable is bearable.
Nothing is in my hands, and everything.

Not a Sparrow Falleth...

How often do I hear demanded
with the same easy umbrage and scorn –
sometimes quite poignant, often quite banal –
always easy, because to drop anchor in deep waters
and to wait it out requires work – and character:
how often have I heard demanded,
"Where was God?" or "What kind of 'God' would allow...?"

The real despair is entirely understandable,
the righteous indignation behind it makes a lousy argument
for self-styled atheists and agnostics or followers of
a materialistic gospel leading ultimately nowhere.

The Question begs an answer, for it assumes an intellect,
yet is intellectually weak and wanting a breath of life –
I will try to give it that, a goose in the ass, a jump start.

Putting aside any chat of "predestination" or joining the chorus
of misusers of the term karma, consider for one moment:
if I get in my car right now and someone else climbs in one,
and each of us has a preconstructed plan for the day
based on habits and wants and needs and routine – clueless,
neither of us plans in an accident, but we arrive
at the same intersection and it happens.
Someone wasn't paying attention. God always does.
(But we shell out dough for "navigators,"
and we ask, What kind of God would allow this!)

A child is murdered, a pet is run over, an elderly woman
is mugged, a homeless man is beaten half-dead, a girl is raped.
There are so many persons all at once, whose person-selves
are each planning an agenda without knowing everything,
mostly without a clue because you cannot know everything –
people crash, slip on the ice, commit suicide, shoot their mates.
Where is God? On the breath, but we aren't.

There are mass atrocities, all ideological, committed with religious fervor,
the latter unspeakably committed in the ever-abused name of that "God"
of whom we are now demanding, How can He! How dare He!
The natural world is being laid waste, greed and crass consumerism rule,
construction and de-construction and destruction – millions of egos
carrying out their grand or petty agenda simultaneously over lifetimes.
With such odds, something's bound to occur.

Ah, "God" – that laughing, scorning Psychopath with a sadistic sense of humor,
infantile and pathologically narcissistic, surely a Deity with issues.

There is one very unpopular and uncomfortable reason
for all this: we are free to choose, we are not machines.
It is a characteristic of that same God, that we are born
with this very freedom, that we came here of our own free will,
to be and to become human, to dis-cover Him as our own true nature.

It does not mean we are born conscious, nor that it will make us so.
But we are free to wake up at one time or another, and when we do,
we may also choose to stay awake and live in an awakened state.
This requires of us the most intelligent responsibility.

So where is God now, and what is it that He appears to allow?
He didn't give us ISIS, ISIS gave us ISIS. We gave ourselves
all the shit we see before us, from the most intimately personal
to the most regional or global – everything which causes some to
ask ceaselessly: WTF was God thinking! In short:

"God" will not solve your problems, remembering Him might –
that would be to mindfully and with devotion stay in the breath –
But God will not "solve" your problem.
We are given the freedom to responsibly pay attention.

And there is being with each other and for each other.
And staying really close, and really loving.

A poor woman came to Buddha,
wept over her dead son,
begged Buddha to bring the boy
back to life.
Buddha said, fine, okay, I'll do it.
First bring me a mustard seed from a
household which had never
lost a member and mourned.
She went out, she sought all over, she returned empty handed.
And she got it, and she took the Path of Dharma.
And she began to pay attention.

"For a few pennies ye buy yourselves a sparrow,
but I tell you: not a sparrow falleth, but the Father knoweth."

Not a sparrow falleth.

 

Pregnant With Radiance

The period of mid-1973 to late '74 was particularly formative for me and informed and imbued the rest of my life from there. A student at CU-Boulder, and not much of one at that, I followed Mark Twain's lead and never let my schooling interfere with my education.

It was in this period of my life that I discovered the beloved Swami and many others, and the Bhakti path I was to take, and that I began to massage – and to sing, ceaselessly; it was in this period of my life that I would discover the Dances, and the Sufism which so decidedly established my future, from which place I'm now telling this in retrospect; it was at this juncture in time that I discovered in this way, all the Bringers of light, of Dharma, and discovered Christ, and found my own Teacher out of a marketplace full of 'em - the Coach I'd prayed God to vouchsafe me.

I'd longed to be pregnant with radiance, You may love a certain food but you have to eat lots of it to get fat on it. So it is with light. I wanted to be so full of this love I'd discovered, that I could swallow all the world's darkness and shit out light.

Neither drugs nor grass nor booze played a role in my life. I was stoned however, flat-out stoned on love. The only thing lacking was a dime and maturity – and the latter comes with time, no security. I worked at Ticos, washing dishes with joy and some soap – my pupils were sometimes actually dilated. I'd show up giggling but always on time and fit for work, my supervisor on the cook-line, a Pisces named Jeff, looked me straight into those stoned eyes and asked if I were showing up on the job drunk or on weed. I smiled and assured him, I was drunk on love, just love, patting his arm. That was the period of my wearing a wooly, multi-colored Morrocan jalabea everywhere, my hair grown long, first beard, and passing out roses in the park, washing and massaging feet – anyone's. The only beer I got soused on was Bir Hanumana (strength of Hanuman). My beloved Swami embodied that, and he was pregnant with radiance. All Great Ones are, and I revered them - and I wanted to be pregnant with that radiance.

One fine early Spring mid-morning in '75 I guess, on The Hill just off campus, I walked by Chuck's Grill, which was nearly empty. I only wanted to use Chuck's restroom, which back then was the norm without making a purchase. I just had to do a quick number-one and leave.

On my way to that restroom I noticed this young woman of very unremarkable form and features – let's be honest here, you would have walked right by her. She was neutral and apathetic, also rather dumpy, and that turned out to be because she slouched in the booth where she sat alone, the only customer in the joint.

Because of this slouch, and her pullover sweater, it crossed my Lucy-in-the-sky-with-diamonds optical-perception, that: she might be pregnant. To this day, I don't know what took hold of me - but after I'd left the restroom instead of heading straight for the door leading out, I swung by her booth and with my right hand gently on her shoulder and my left gently on the hump of her belly, on the pullover of course, I asked her with sincere elation and warmth, “When?...“

As in, "when's the date, O mother-to-be?" She did not call the cops, she did not make a scene, she did not say, "WTF – you some kinda goddam smart-ass? Get away from me you freak!" She did not react angrily or even look hurt or burst into tears at this otherwise seemingly insensitive cruelty. The fact was, she was not remotely in the family way, she was just frumpy. She had a gut on her. So?

Not a word passed between us, her eyes registered bewilderment, to which my eyes registered "Oh shit, you're not pregnant?" then, "OMGdess, I fucked up, am I a schlemiel!" I muttered a genuine "sorry, I thought..." but outside of that it went all without words. And then something happened. She got it, and her face brightened up at the idea, and my face brightened up again and for that moment gazing at each other, she had the radiance of someone pregnant with life inside her. So she was in that moment pregnant with radiance.

Then we both laughed, just a sweet, tender, ever so human laugh, shared in love between two total strangers under quite comical circumstances. I collected myself and nodded goodbye, headed for the door. One last look over my shoulder and a wave: that woman watched me from her booth, still smiling and still glowing, sitting a tad straighter there, and I have no recollection of her voice, as not a word had been shared, it was all through the eyes.

These drunken eyes, pregnant with radiance.

The Pants of My Murshid

Over three decades since he last wore these,

cloth black and simple, made by a fellow student,

a seamstress – made to order, cut for Yoga

and dispensing Dharma.

By the seat of his pants I now sit in ‘em,

since three decades I wear ‘em off and on,

worn as long since they are.

My Puja-kitty likes these best for burrowing

between my legs while sitting, taking her repose

by the seat of his pants.

Am I smarter or cleverer for wearing ‘em,

did they ever enlighten me –

or is it just sent-to-mental?

I dunno, but the cat sure does love ‘em.

SAN FRANCISCO: The Tenderloin

(In '85, I was using this very humble digs on O'Farrell Street, as seedy a nabe as it gets. The hookers, the winos, the junkies, the rifraff. And I cherished it. I was working alright - home health care with about three different services, VNA, Western, this and that – but as broke as you could be and staying at that level. You could really almost say I didn't have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of. Yet I remember my landlord very fondly, and his lady-for-life, very dear people. I remember being in my "wife-beater" undershirt and sitting out nights on my fire-escape some 6 flights up, playing on a second-hand 120-bass white accordian to the fighting drunks and strolling prostitutes and general traffic down below – my sole repertoire: everything from "Never On Sunday," from the theme to the other fun melodies giving us the loves of Piraeus. I don't need to speculate on the appreciation of this down on the street but I was having a gas, puffing on my cheap cigar.

 

Now one late night I got a call to have a bundle of laundry left with me ready for someone from the house in Mill Valley to drive by and pick up. No hidden insinuations here, it really was just about some laundry. I was seeing myself as the house idiot, but that didn't matter, I was soon going to be deciding to enter the military, join the Army, see the world. But in the meantime, and on this particular evening, I had taken the only cooking pan I had, and made a nice little soupy stew, with onions and maybe rice, and I don't know what else, but I had precious damned little and was now using up the last of that. I did not even have garlic, on that I had to pass, which I hated to do but sometimes in life you just don't have garlic. And I had something in mind with this, something I was going back and forth about, if and whether I should - because with a certain group of "who-are-the-people-in-your-neighborhood" I still felt skiddishly apart and self-concious, and I wanted to bridge that and embrace them.

Sooo: around 5 a.m., still dark, the car rolls by as arranged and I'm down on the street passing over the armful of laundry - and after mutual greetings from these Dharma-sisters of mine, I'm standing there alone, about to go back up. Then I see her, Black and hooking, standing on the corner, not trying to get me over, just hanging at her corner, so I'd have to approach her. Which I did, saying – just to break the ice and leave her flabbergasted - which it oddly did: "Hey, kiddo,it's rather cold out here! You can't be making any business at this hour on a Sunday morning – everybody's in church!"

Well, she was somehow quite normal, natural, okay to me, not bombed or aggressive or whatever else may have inhibited me. I invited her up, lightly insisting, to a stew - no tricks on my part and no tricks needed from her trade. Just between us. "You haven't had breakfast yet, right, hon'? I don't have much, but I did just rustle something up for ya and would be obliged for you to taste it, c'mon!"

She did, she followed me all the way up, she told me she hooks to cover groceries, her mother watches her child thinking she has some night job somewhere. So oh shit, she's REAL. I really hit gold here, so she got her stew alright, maybe even a second helping. I got her to remove her heels, got out my water basin and towle and oil, and happily massaged her tired feet. She asked about a wife, I said, yeah, mine will come by soon just to crash after night shift as nurse, butnot to worry, she's not due yet and she's very understanding. So I asked her how she liked the stew, honestly now. And what did she have the gall to tell me: "It's not bad, it's alright, but it's lacking something... ...yeah, I know – it's missing garlic."

Every word of this is true. And yes, I was just bringing her to the door to personally escort her back down to the street, as my wife came home, irritated at finding someone in the flat, and I sent her to bed – or rather, to futon. My guest, thinking she was about to be murdered or at least dissed, I assured with, "Now don't you worry a bit, I'll take care of her - she's just tired, actually she's very understanding.")

TENDERLOIN (San Francisco 1985)

Pacing the curb all those hours for a thirty-dollar trick or two

to feed those twins your mother is watching over, she doesn't know

where the groceries come from – you look hot for me, baby,

for a dirty-thirty you'd let me put an unwashed shaft in you

or a bourbon-soaked tongue between rotting teeth- maybe then

not thirty, but fifty? and I could jerk my contempt off

into your belly and I would never have to know you . . .

Honey dammit come in outa the cold just this once I've got a

hot homey stew I made it just for you take off those heels no hurry

let me rub those ankles with a skill and a salve, ok it's not your routine,

but indulge me this once -

my prayers for your well-being are stirred into this stew it's alI

I want to put into your belly.