19th
Stuti # 3
To You the Most High I bow thousands of times in an instant.
Knowing the truth of your beauty,
knowing the reality of your white hair untouched
by sandy specks of worldliness,
You Exist in Consciousness Bliss,
blowing into conch shells, eating flatbread, salt, and garlic.
You speak parables,
hungry disciples who want curried chicken,
given cooked dough no ghee,
give them a taste of what you eat -
molten glass, ultraviolet rays.
Unsatisfied with my own posturing as spiritual,
I seek only a bath;
Baptism in an unstruck buzzing.
One moment my forehead surrenders onto carpet,
the next I am trying on German footwear.
Stuck on the physical plane,
I need to ride in the ascension of Your hot air balloon.
The one with the ochre colored canvas;
an emblem of a white swan in flight.
That transport that doesn’t pause
at tea shops and shoe stores,
that doesn’t need the fragrance of sandalwood
to remind its passengers of the odor of Liberation,
but flies directly into its own pyre -
the heat of the Sun’s fusion.
I am standing in a suburb in the Inland Empire
with my thumb outstretched in anticipation
of the trip that terminates the traveler.
