Gospel of the Dragonfly

This is verse 1 of the Gospel, written we believe about 50 years before the birth of Jesus, by Krisht’ Al’ Fanaa, a wandering Romani mystic from India who eventually resided in Rome, then in Province, where he tended the mule that transported water barrels up to the cave of Mary Magdalene. Jesus himself kept a copy of this secret scroll inside his seamless blue gown, hidden from the Pharisees, just as we keep it hidden today from the archons of our universities and political parties, who want to confine us to their prison-matrix of linear conceptual thinking. I had to access the scroll in the archives buried under my cerebral cortex, where it is inscribed in hieroglyphic neural pathways entangled in an ancient gypsy Gnostic script, though it is really quite easy to read when you gaze with compassion into the radiant crystal hollow of your own pineal gland.

What is meditation?
Prayer dissolves into presence.
The question dissolves into listening.
I dissolve into Thou.
Rishi Ashtavakra says,
"Layam-vraja, dissolve now."
 Let 10,000 things evaporate
into zero,
but don't mistake the empty circle
for nothing.
After reciting all his meritorious
services to the people,
the emperor of China asked Bodhidharma,
"What merit have you acquired?"
The wandering monk replied, "Wu,"
which means "Nothing."
Invisible moonlight caresses 
the ocean kelp
in every cell of your body.
Millions of suns evaporate
into bewilderment, 
the ever-expanding glow
from your chest.
White mountains, golden palaces,
black swarms of mad hornets  
appear and disappear like bubbles
of foam in the pot still
of your quantum eye.
When you let the effervescence
of awareness aerate the night with stars,
a piquant self-pollinating sap
gushes up your lumbar spine
into the stems of every garden,
East and West,
with luminosity so fine
it makes stones pulse
and atoms spin in the rose,
their exact and infinitesimal orbits
holding our galaxy to its vow
of silence.
According to Rabbi Ishmael,
"The mind says let us pray,
but the heart says let us play."
We no longer bow our heads.
We throw them back
in the gesture of roaring.
No Word comes forth but a smile
whose fire devours the cosmos.
What will be the figure of your dance
when you genuflect to a priesthood
of lady bugs and dragonflies,
your scriptures are falling leaves,
and a single dust mote is the sign
of liberation?
What will be the sound of your name
when your body feels
the holographic tingle of one photon
dissolving into Shiva,
and your waves of darkness
return to the Mother from whose
womb you keep taking,
no, receiving
your first breath?


Listen to a reading HERE. Digital image by Lexica.