In temple statues, the Buddha has eyes where Jesus has wounds. An open wounded eye in thorn-crowned forehead, wounded eyes in breast and navel, wounded eye in one palm raised to bless, in the other to gaze down touching, healing the earth.
What would we see if we had eyes in the soles of our feet where Jesus was punctured by nails? Perhaps we do, but they are too painful to open.
What if we had eyes to see through the earth into emptiness, to see the breath in stones, the sentience in four-legged and leafy creatures, the luminous Buddha in our enemy, who walks beside us through the labyrinth of Samsara, til we meet as one all-seeing I?
What could I hear with an ear in each cell of my body? What could I touch if my soul were contained in an organ of flesh like a wineskin? But indeed, it is already so!
If pistils and pollinated stamen sprouted through my nerves, connecting trillions of delicate floral orgasms into a single sparkling web of consciousness?
If tongues streamed from my crown like serpents in starry gusts of cosmic time? What would I know with an organ of memory swimming through the marrow of my bones?
What if every atom in my body were an organ of perception? If countless subatomic lingams and yonis ejaculated bold new luminous juices in my DNA? What if rivers changed their courses and continents trembled when I danced, my navel fixed motionless at the center of the vast suffering galaxy whose name is Christ?
What if supernovae and black holes are the imaginal cells of my flesh, yearning me toward rainbow wings tessellated with the stuff of galaxies? What if mastodons still wander through the wilderness of my cerebellum? What if the amygdala might be a dragon guarding veins of golden fossils that burn in ecstasies of the reptilian mind, releasing their smokey ghosts of into eternal night, to roam forever as new constellations?
What if Indra-netted dragonfly-winged cathedrals of pure geodesic space, suspended in the secret bodhichitta mind of Pythagoras, Plotinus, Geordano Bruno, Nikola Tesla and Buckminster Fuller, are the virtual organs of the void itself, hearing, feeling, touching all music that shall ever be composed by the humming of innocent toddlers?
What if silver triremes crowded with jewel-armored Ninja warriors sail up the arteries of my blood, carrying the booty of all my ancestors toward the virgin rain-forest of my lung-bellows, where ancient prayers distill into my silent breath, offered in burnt sacrifice to the sky unfolding from my lips, as I whisper this Word, containing a previous universe, carried again in the ark of a kiss?
O lover, O friend, O Parvati, I pass my secret to your mouth. May your wounds also be eyes, that you may witness the brilliance of this night of love, disappearing into silence.
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