Body, Psyche, Sexuality

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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/

"Balm of the Arab Masses"

I had a dream of which I very rarely tell, and at the same time have referred to in one or two poems ("Cornerstone of Your Faith," for example).  The dream's importance in my life turns on the time and place and circumstances in which it came, but also as a task (or so I 'd understood it) for me to fulfill in my life, and to this day I am wondering whether and how, and whether in the literal or universal sense, but there it is:

Summer of 1976, I'm 21 and leave Boulder for the one and only "Sufi Camp" I would ever attend, and it was at Neve Shalom, a piece of land smack at the midpoint of the boondocks on the Latrun road between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.  Across from us was a Benedictine monastery which produced wine - of course.  Neve Shalom was already an established plot of land used for the purpose of Peace Alternatives, of bringing groups of youth together, Muslims and Jews, Christians, Israeli and Palestinian...here was where the four week long camp was to be held and was held; preceded by a three week long work camp to set the camp up; I was in it for the full 7 weeks, and it was all and altogether an experience that's remained with me for life. 

Three individuals were to have been the main feature, not the only but the main, here:  Banefsha Gest, one of the earlier pupils of Samuel Lewis in San Fran, Murshid Hassan who she first introduced to us in the first place, in Boulder, and Rabbi Zalman Schachter who taught in Penn., a wonderful and dynamic man.  The Camp's intention was to bring Jews and Christians and Muslims, Arabs and Israelis to work together, worship and celebrate together and to eat together - and together we performed the Dances of Universal Peace given by Murshid Sam Lewis with all the Hebrew and Arabic and Christian phrases, etc., to finally sow these seeds on Israeli soil, where Sam Lewis never set foot (he'd been practically everwhere else).  This did happen.

As as it so happened, Reb Zalman was certainly there and we in-joyed each other's presence very much.  Banefsha was most certainly there, it was sort of "her" camp - there was much to appreciate about her, but she had this ego.  And that was the rub, why Sheikh Hassan was not physically at the camp, she'd had a falling out with him, and that was its own story.  Where was he while I was there?  He was with us at our house in Boulder, staying there on his 2nd of 3 visits (I got to catch him on the 1st and then later the 3rd) - so in a typically comically "Sufi" madcap way, it was all perfect.  He was where he should be and I was where I should be.  And after his first visit with us in Boulder I carried plenty of what he'd put out there in me.

A quick background, so as to put the dream in still better perspective.  Since the age of 19, now going on just over 2 yrs., I had gone around washing, literally washing, and massaging feet (with almond oil and intuitive reflexol.), as my inner discipline/ love-task to connect as directly as I could with the beginning of the Last Supper in John.  I washed the feet of street transients in Boulder, of students, of guys and women, of the hot and beautiful and the far from hot and not very beautiful, in fact as much and as willingly even-mindedly, the very shabby and dirty, and of my compadres in the house (our khanka / at times ashram), and of every guest who came to us - and that meant as well some pretty prominent ones, including among others, Pir Vilayat.  I had my wash cloth and plastic basin, my hand towel and oil - for a long period I was even seen going around in a Moroccan woven jalabea, sometimes barefoot myself, sometimes with sandals or shoes.   This was all okay in Boulder back then.   And I did this at Neve Shalom where I also brought this concentration to a close.  Pir Vilayat had told me after doing his feet, I should go on to full-body and work on that, which I already had but now expanded more to it.

Among the various Zikrs / Dhikr-Allah (ceremonial Remembrance of God through repetition) evening sessions (often called Hadhrat, or Presence) we did with Murshid Hassan in Boulder, there was one very soft and mild one, or a version of it, where we stood clenched together in a line or a wide circle swaying left, chest, right, chest, left... intoning like a breeze:  Ya...Huu...Ya...Huu.   (By the way, the original "Jews" addressed God with Remembrance of "ya hu," hence Yehudim, its form YaHuwa may appear familiar: Yahuvah, Jehova...)

So I'm on my flight to Israel via Tel Aviv.  I'm starting to compose my Christ-poem which you have already read, "A Prophet's Reward," making myself very receptive, primarily through the text of the gnostic Gospel of Thomas which was unearthed at Nag Hammadi some 30 yrs. earlier, and through the Shiva Sutras of which there were some 107 or so listed at the end of Paul Reps' Zen Flesh Zen Bones, and I found myself picking one and concentrating on that, it was focused on the outgoing breath and holding that point between the exhale and the inhale.  And "dying".  I believe through these two practices, the Thomas Gospel and the Shiva Sutra, I received all the impressions I needed for this poem which was also centered on the washing of the feet.  On the evening I finished this poem, that August in '76, in a big tent at Neve Shalom, Ramadan had just begun.  It was about 1 a.m. and I went into the open field and zipped myself up in my sleeping bag and was out.  I woke up around maybe 8 a.m. with tears streaming from my eyes after having the following dream - which I'd tried to crawl back into but that didn't work:



In the dream I was in  a hole in the ground - in later reflection clearly a well, but there was no water in it, we were standing dry.  We were three:  myself, Reb Zalman and Banefsha.  Murshid Hassan who was not with us there but was thoroughly present and dominant in spirit - or literally, on and in the breath - in that we performed the "Ya Hu" dhikr between us three, hands and arms clenched, swaying in that dry well.  While there was no actual water in which we stood, the entire atmosphere in it and surrounding us and reflected in the dhikr was full of the water element.  And added to this we were weeping together.  Why?  Well one, we were so deeply moved.

And two:  what is most sacred to desert dwellers?  Water.  And where was this well?  In the middle of the fucking desert.  While we were in this condition, there surrounded us inside the well a voiceless voice, that is, no one spoke and yet the voice-impression surrounded us and permeated the place even as the element water had - you could say, it spoke in our hearts and addressed us there.  It said, and I remember this, it referred to our dhikr in there and the condition it brought us to:  "This is the balm of the Arab masses."  - 'of' or 'for' are the same here, the 'balm for the masses' was meant and I also strained to grasp later whether 'Arab' or 'poor' was said, and remained certain with my first impression, that by 'Arab' was meant 'poor' - and not in any positive or any coddling sense.  I did also understand - or misunderstand, but I maintained for a long time - that this was more universally meant, not just 'the Arabs' - today, I see that differently, as I also always maintain:  the real enemies of Islam are the Muslims themselves.  But the dream:  it was really clear to me afterward, that this was the voice of Prophet Muhammad, and the 'well' was his own heart.  Period.

And our instruction, to take this out there, struck me while still in the dream as being like - or being literally, in dream-symbol - carrying a pan full to the brim of water on our heads over the desert to the thirsting masses without spilling a single drop - some undertaking, that.  And this made us weep further.  And with that I woke up, still weeping.  And with, oy, such a headache!

And my Christ-poem was finished and would be read aloud that morning by Banefsha to all present, and my dream was intact even if I wasn't - don't ask me whom I then told this to, I don't even know any more, I was no longer in touch with anyone there interestingly enough.  Except one correspondence to Zalman in 1980, where I hand-typed some 100 letters to Jews and Christians and their respective organizations and congregations, of my intention to some day and somehow make it to Germany as an American Jew and, yes, in the spirit and reality of Christ (some Jew, eh?), on my own recognizance and following my own inspiration (with encouragement form my Teacher but in no connection with any group or sect) to connect specifically with the population of the post-war born generation, mine and the one just prior - of younger Germans who MUST largely be normal feeling human beings like myself (yes, they were) and therefore, if I as a Jew was still so affected by the Shoa, I figured - and I was right as rain here - how thorough and yet ignored, unrecognized by everyone else must their burden be as children and grandchildren of the perpetrators and members and accomplices and those compliant, of the Nazi generation!  I had to meet them and let them meet me, to listen and share with each other, to find each other, to let them know that here was at least one American and Jew who wanted to meet them and hear them out and join with them - and to expose myself to exactly what not one single Jew or American I ever met even once ever considered or considered possible, ever mentioned or even wanted to look into.  Where was our compassion!  If I were the child or grandchild of Nazis, I figured, I'd want to shoot myself.  We needed to meet and we needed to embrace.

As fate would have it, I wound up in the Army in '86 and without my asking and without asking me first, they sent me here to Berlin - really, the Army was the horse I rode in on.  So I joyfully got here, joyfully stayed, stayed longer, remained.  And my hunches were all true and produced 23 yrs. of relationships.  So fine, I'm in Berlin, now what do I do with all these Arabs and world's third largest Turkish population in one city?  The trend is not, nor ever was, toward Sufi thought, Sufi tolerance, Sufi dhikr and universality - rather toward nationalism, mythological Islamic supremacy, playing the victim while milking the generous social system here for all its worth, producing more kids while barring them from normal schooling, i.e., from participation in important and normal activities if not keeping them home altogether, maintaining a parallel society which no politician has the balls (or ovaries) anymore to challenge with any teeth, and of course keeping a tight hold on family holdings in Turkey and shuttling between the two - keeping the wheels greased so that they can get what they want out of Germany without holding a whit less onto the Anatolian illiterate, superstitious and controlling village-mentality.

 I advised a dear American friend who wishes to travel to Pakistan to bridge understanding between Christians and Muslims, that what she is bringing with her there is not popular, certainly not now - and is this an understatement!   On the other hand, when Murshid Sam Lewis (also known, in fact specifically there in Pakistan, as Sufi Ahmed Murad Chisti) was over there and in India in the '50s and the '60s, as well as Egypt, Japan... meeting Sufis and dervishes and roshis and masters and saints and swamis of a whole range of caliber and standing and attainment and energy, he was constantly running into them, as American as you could get and yet recognized everywhere he went as one who'd "got it"  - and initiated into and brought further along by several orders and schools - his life demonstrated that when you are there in the breath and conscious of what you are doing there, magical things do happen, which "don't get written up in the papers, as not-news" as he often loved to point out.  This all fed into his eventual breakthroughs in San Fran.

He passed away in Jan. '71 at the age of 75, after tripping in Dec. of the top step of the flight of stairs in their house in San Fran and suffering the expected concussion and any other such injuries as a fall like that can bring on.  That was the entire story as I always had it - there was never anything else to it.  Yet at the beginning of this year, I received word which was from pretty unquestionable sources, and supposedly corroborated when my source asked further (by certain former pupils of Sam's from that time), and that this was already well known among at least some in the Sufi Order - but news to me and very disturbing at that:  he was supposedly or evidently pushed down, at that dawn hour, by a Muslim fundamentalist (what one was doing in THAT house and moreover at THAT hour, beats the hell out of me).

He did not have "friends" among the Muslim Association of San Fran, although he was due to meet with them in the near future. He never had anything to do with them, he just did what he did (and cnfirmed to him by Sufi Barkat Ali in Pakistan) and was better at it than they ever would be: he brought hundreds to chanting "Allah" - and the Muslims blocked any dialogue he may have offered.  Once they approached him in regard to the Dances of Universal Peace which he'd received in inspiration directly from the spheres and the instruction to manifest this directly from real Sufis, the "Muslim Bruddas" approached him there around '67, and said, "We don't appreciate what you're doing," they meant using the sacred Arabic phrases in Dance, praising God and producing actual joy - they didn't like that.  He replied, without losing a beat, "Oh I'm sure you don't - but the only matter of importance here is, whether Allah appreciates it."  He said they took off in a huff without another word, and that he knew then that their arrogance would net them a smashing loss of face in the '67 war with Israel, he saw that coming.

I went on to advise my American friend to always stick with what she knows and come from experience, to stay open to inspiration but trust Allah and no Muslims.  S/He's got your back, I cautioned, they'll try to put a knife in it.  And last of all, I offered her this as a Great Concentration:

"On the in-breath:  TOWARD THE ONE, on the out-breath:  TOWARD THE ONE.  Let it sink deep, take it in, anchor it, let it guide you and energize your work and cover your ass."

A Prophet's Reward

July-Aug., 1976, Neve Shalom, Israel

On that evening before his Departure,

  the holder of the secret of Life

   bent low his head

    in the last private moment

     among his friends

      to pour into their own hearts

       one perfect Son's joy and sorrow

        on being called to his Father.

Removing those garments

  which distinguished him

    from his companions at the table,

     this personification of our souls'

      deepest prayer

       proceeded with towel and basin

To exemplify, as he had exemplified

  so often unnoticed,

   the attitude of the beloved Son

    of a loving Father.

For by his example alone could he in silence

  exhort his brothers to love

   the One in Whom

    we live and move and have our being.

Yet who had eyes to see?

  Who can hear the simple message

   of the gentle hand caressing

    the dust-laden foot?

Did Abraham recognize his stranger-guests

  when he washed them

   and fed them

    and gave them to drink?

One would doubt for the rest,

  it takes but one,

   and the doors of the heart

    are closed straight away.

And to him who would doubt

  did our beloved say:

   “Without understanding this

      you can have no part of Me.

“This – this is the holy sacrament!

   Why did I tell you to discard

    your swords, your pens

     and your books

      which deny men their Life?

“For the same reason that I would

   not defend Myself.

    Nor allow you to defend Me.

     O Father, Father,“

      he breathed a deep sigh

       and then continued,

“How shall I liken this generation?

   Will no one let his feet

     respond to the melody

      which the Father pipes through Me?

“Who will take up the tune and follow Me?

   Is there no one among you

    who can see what is being done?

“This night is the balancing point

   between the worlds:

    are you with Me now in this

     last hour?

“Verily, the feet are the key

   to Understanding and to Wisdom.

    And Wisdom is born out of the bond

      of Knowledge with Compassion.

       Therefore be ye diligent -

         and watch what I do.“

The hand was not separate from the foot

  nor the water separate from the breath

   of this Yeshuah,

    this our Friend who taught us

     the meaning of Friendship

      with his Life.

Wherewith our Teacher

  took and washed our feet

   giving special care to each companion

    as though they were the feet of his Father.

When he finished washing our feet,

  he rose, ever so slowly

   and evensofar as we his brethren

    felt new life in our limbs

     and in our hearts,

      his own seemed now to carry

       a massive load.

And in a moment his eyes

  were once again clear and penetrating,

   his voice softer yet commanding:

“Who receiveth any in My Name receiveth Me

   and so doing receiveth My Father.

    Who receiveth a prophet,

      to him shall be a prophet's reward.

“You ask, Where is Grace,

   when will we see the God of our fathers?

“Verily, wherever ye stand,

   whomever ye face,

    whatever may appear to happen,

      know this to be the Grace,

       which reveals itself to you even now

         if your hearts are ready to see:

“That in My Father's sight,

   the last shall be made first

    and the first made last.

“As only the Father can love

   have I loved you;

    henceforth take ye up

     and follow in My Way,

      and become the Truth,

       that Life may be yours.“

He looked at each of us

  directly and coherently,

   regarding each person

    as though according to his station,

     and then shared further his secret:

“Witness, each one of you, as you partake,

   and know that you partake, if you would,

    of a broken heart.

“Be not saddened nor confused,

   for I will bear this sorrow Myself, willingly,

    that you may learn wherefore

      its nature and its source.

“I am with you, I am with you,

   therefore be glad of spirit.

    This wine I pass amongst you

      as the flowing water which poureth forth

        from the broken heart.“

Raising his hands as though

  in benediction, he fairly shouted,

   “See, see, and be transformed!“

And for that moment, in the midst

  of such overwhelming silence,

   certain ones among us nearly conceived

    of the magnitude of the Love

     which this single being embodied.

He joined us all hand in hand

  and said:

   “Wretched limbs

      have you always amongst you -

        take care of them;

         those in poverty always are with you -

           feed them;

“But truly, I send you out

   as healers of broken hearts

     from all walks of life,

      as now I break Mine in order

        to prepare you

         for what is to come.

          Go out and mend all hearts

             in remembrance of Me.

“Do you think that I am come

   to bring condolence for one another's beliefs?

“I tell you, I am not come

   to bring condolence but a healing scalpel

    to put an end to the suffering

     caused by so many beliefs.

       Not by placating, but by understanding

         the nature of beliefs

          can you be free.

“A knot tied in a moment may take a lifetime to undo,

   but know what is in your sight

    and all that is hidden

     will be revealed unto you.

“Begin, therefore, at the Moment,

   as I have shown.

    For the feet shall prepare the way

      to the Heart,

       and at the feet doth the way begin.

“The way hath been shown;

   the hour is come,

    and the cock croweth, O it croweth -

     Who shall be prepared to answer

        in My Name?“

And at the end of that sacred communion

  we sang the closing hymn

   and wept as lovers do before parting.

Then sitting awhile in deep contemplation

  we listened as our beloved Friend

   gave his final blessing to us.

And rising before those who stayed with him

  he whispered,

   “The hour is come.“

JUBILATE!

(For about two solid years until the point of this writing, I had been known for going about - on campus, on the streets, in parks, and finally there at Neve Shalom, with water basin and towel, with almond oil in hand, washing the feet of anyone, literally anyone, who accepted the offer. It was my own way of internalising what I had gotten out of the Gospel of John. This poem developed and evolved directly out of inspiration drawn from that Gospel and the Secret Gospel of Thomas, the teaching of Murshid Samuel Lewis, and working with the 112 Breath Sutras given by Lord Shiva. Upon finishing it, about 1 a.m. in August of '76 and crawling into my sleeping bag in the middle of a field, nearing the end of our “Jerusalem Camp,“ I received a rather profound dream instructing me what to do with the world Muslim community, and feel challenged to this day as to how to bring that to fruition. The poem was published in the April '77 issue of "Sonflowers," put out by the Holy Order of MANS.)