Kali R.I.P.
for Marit
Beyond Black Time
Even in death she runs fast into her next life
The small of her front incisor bared
A shy glint like an ankle displaying her feline ferosity
Amid such beauty –that dakini smile of come hither to the
death of ego
To swoop grasp and clench her prey
Stunned legions
of baby rabbits, birds, squirrels and small
creatures
Unsuspecting of her appetite for lethal play
Then dragged through your precious door on Baptist Hill.
While Helpless in the grip of Kali claws
But delivered from ignorance
Unto a better place beyond animal fears
Into that divine palace of no return
Om Mani Pema Hum Hrih
May it be so—feisty diva of catdom
In death we celebrate your loyal tender and sweet
contentment
The brave stance of your life force unto death
From this cosmic dance of constant becoming, may you attain
a rebirth into the loving arms
Of another mother to liberate you from the swirls of samsara
Into the human realm of possibility
Or better yet, pounce into the light of perfection by
default
Or special circumstance to romp in the forest of dharmapalas
March, 2012
Tsegyalgar
Photo taken by me from airport transportation speeding past the Lincoln Monument
AWP Sightings
I.
Summoned at dawn
In search of Starbucks
At the Omni Shoreham
I take the other elevator
Leading to the basement
Into a dead space I see
A legion of grey-clad maids
With frilly aprons and long skirts
Descend down the stairs opposite me
to the Palladian room with crystal chandelier
I’m curious who these Black ladies are
Some crippled gripping the railing
Their bodies ample and tangible
In crisp attire of formality
Their faces glowing
Only later do I ask myself what are they doing
Then and there, in uniforms of another era
as they glide into the large empty ballroom.
II.
The poet gets into the airport shuttle
Sits next to me. I doubt he recognizes me
Although I’ve made his bed a few times
at our residencies
As director turned housekeeper
No gap in his words with his friend seated
behind him—
His back turned to me the entire ride
They speak of Whitman
The bard’s magnitude and focus
These poets question the veracity
Of Whitman's testament the President nodded
to him
to him
As we speed past the Lincoln memorial
Whose sighting I know but not for sure
When I snap the picture with my I Phone—
traveling the capital anonymous
a nodless nobody.
III
How’s the Buddhism?
She asks----
Meaning, I suppose, I fall short
Or failed to turn the other cheek
How it is can’t be conveyed
In ordinary terms--
Aflame, through lion’s teeth a foul vapor
Hair upstanding in
Self-immolation
That I might actually be
Content in the ashes.
Awp 2011
Washington DC
