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Cloud Of Witnesses

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      Christian scripture calls it "the communion of saints... the cloud of witnesses..." Mahayana calls it "the Buddha fields." Exquisite phrases to describe the multiplicity of the One, and the One who mothers the many. There is a unified field of awakened Silence where we dwell at last and before the beginning. A fecund darkness where the humble scatter like seeds in the furrow of your missing rib. Here, composted in your own cytoplasm, are Beethoven, Rumi, Einstein and Blake, Lalladev, Rabia, Veda Vyasa, Milarepa, Pythagoras, and Fra Angelico. They flared a moment at death, then awakened as unborn stars. They did not return to the ocean like tiny drops. In each, the whole ocean became a drop. Their cosmic Silence is not above you but within you, like a pulverized crystal. Relax into the limitless expanse of the humble, not by erasing your quiddity and queerness in a universal concept, but by penetrating the minute particular. Enter the portal of...
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Altar

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         A few last roses from your Autumn garden sharing a table with your favorite old books. A little altar igniting the flame of prayer,  illuminating your heart with the silence of meditation, filling your room, your home,  your whole day with the fragrance of gratitude. A little altar, a fulcrum where the sun, moon and stars balance vast turning wheels, moved by one breath. Your breath. Parts of one body. Your body. Gathered in one presence. Your presence. You don't need to live in a mansion. A little room is enough, when you have an altar where sacred solitude expands to hug all sentient creatures. Like a humble chink in a dark wall, yet a window to the inner Sun, lifting vast clouds, clearing a thousand storms…
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Don't Tell Me How To Whirl

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Moons, planets! Don't tell me how to whirl. You have your dance, I have mine. If everyone would just stop  trying so hard to live in harmony  and not offend each other  we could stumble like drunken pilgrims, laughing and lifting up  these broken hearted children, ourselves,  every friend a fallen stranger. I'm not you, you're not me. Love laughs at non-duality. Its because we have nothing in common that we taste some erotic fiery juice pressed from wingless bodies clinging like magnets bosom to bosom. Now can you hear the two-syllable name in your heartbeat? Jesus, Allah, Shiva, Ya'hov. Don't get too multicultural: they all have the same Mother. This breath, fragrance of emptiness, who dallied with the Almighty, conceiving the world in her belly of darkness, God's untainted harlot. Here's a riddle from the kingdom of Loss: The Father is silence,  the Spirit ululation. Wave and stillness give birth  to the Child. You dripped from the wounded anvil...
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