Dawn Upon the Gulf of Anadyr

After such long dark
          we greet left-facing moon
          resting on a gravel
                    at the end of Arctic.

          And the saffron heralds
                    of this dawn
                    burning round ice rim
                    beyond zebra-folded
                                                  Siberian ranges.

We're heading East past Anadyr
                    crossing back to yesterday
          upon vast shelf of hardened sea
                    green against grey.
          It's cracking up
                    from May's embers
          it's rolling open for a fetch
                    as molten iron
                    climbs upon the barrens,
                    burning mound that
                    leaves violet marks in
                    my retinas.

One hundred thousand cloud cocoons
                    spilling South from
          these lead cliffs of Uelen.   

Forgetting Dharamsala

Under them heaps of grey
           our woozy post-dahl and roti          
            adrenals chase wakefulness
           in the Starbucks knockoff
                our white comfort hour
                on a distant free duty port.

           Some song fellow
           some lyrics and rhythm
           some second verse.

Tea plantation gone from eye
                                               to cup.

Pines and ravens and shitting cows
           ga-ta ga-te on the flag wrapt mountain
           monkey mothers pa-ra-ga-te
                         with their drooping
                                               pink teats.

           Mantra spinners clanging
           round the sam-ga-te circuit.

           Stumbled up by cane propped
                          wheezing elders
                          sweating below hatband
                          fingering swinging sparkle
                          of another mantra circuit.

If I had clarity, I could seek perspective
            but only the lapses of sleep starve
                          stalk me
                          and aversion to the
                          dough boy sneezing over there.
                          as the music cracks
                                               stutters
                                               gravels.
                           the angry wails of
                                                that flopping child.

                          (Now he toddles with mom
                                                grazing small fingers
                                                along the white wall tiles.)

The bells and prayers and honking streets
                          are still there, the
                          smooth gliding prostration beads
                          before Lokeshvara of
                                                the countless seeing palms.
                          it's all still there, parading
                                                and hawking
                                                triangular Buddha daggers
                                                in scented roadside stalls
                                                before the lumbering clusters
                                                of glittering lowland tourists.

Dharamsala paints its dream anew this day
                          and for each foreseeable future.

Kunga Restaurant

Polytent refractions
              corrugate
              the concrete of this patio
              with bleeding heart ruffles
              and dentine grin
              of enchanted Himalayan
              and everpresent
                            blow dry whir
                            fading in and out
                                       of front of mind.

We are  wanting to fork gooey mouthfuls
             wanting to slack spined dally
             wanting to moisturize the stacks
                              of desert lizards.

Because it's perfect
              fluffy cloud
              giggle boy
              flutter horse
              butter swallow
              pizza pie
              potato momo
              sun sun
              shine shine
              afternoon!

And high beyond,
               snow stone saw teeth
               fasten earth to heaven.

No-tea Break

In chiming silence
    the flapping of plaza people
    the echoes of child laughing
    the Midas parasols against
                                   soft grey heaven
    speedwalking nun's
                           cape catches breeze:
                           Red Baroness.

    Flex bone.
    Bide breath.
    Step another string of beads

                           until gong shivers,
                           to drain us back.

Flecks of Rain

Opened a page,
              but words
              have been swept
                       by the pines
              into wind.

Outcrop

On this day of dwindling
             rest below chatter of wild parrots
             as sky thickens:
             all is calm, but
             can't relax.

Up the gulch, did rest my hand
             upon matted haunch
             of dying dog.
             Tried to pray
             until boy monk brought the
             owner, who
             brought a rope:
             beyond my capacity.

Found a village down the gulch,
             but feared to enter,
                          for the dogs,
             so I snuck along the rocks
                          slippering brown needles.


Came to India for this.
             But it's draining out
             my finger gaps,
             like clensing amrita
                          spilling onto
                          polished emerald marble.

6th Fast

Lax'n 'neath whirly bot
Next door: they cut and pound.

We just ride ribs of oxygen,
                    tickering time.
                    Nearly a fortnight
                    in the room of painted draperies.

My mouth epoxied shut
                    stale brass upon tongue
                    on this day of missed flights
                                        over weight bags
                                        daughter stranded in Hyderabad.

                    With, a vague  dislocation
                                            frustration:
                                            dollars into minutes.

White Butterfly Ridge

This gentle wind bathes me
        on the ridge between Indian devotional songs
                                           and Tibetan trumpets.

         Charred stilts of forest
                       prop the tortured pines' soft foliage:
                                           sliver, green and rust.

This dream of lichened sandstone:
        so familiar; so alien,
        next to yellow path
        traversed by sandled feet
        beneath maroon robes
        and black rustle
        of wandering crow.

Day of Fasting

On thin side of fat moon
             we hunker for morning, when
             sugar cubes will clatter teeth.

But that's tomorrow, not now.

Now is reedy insect counting new stars
             my neck crooked forward and
             aching knees hunching mound of bed covers.

Now is a thin wind in my mouth,
             a patient pulse
             a wetness of saliva
             unplanned words that sliced open Tara's vow.

Vagrant thought flutter
             like airborne termites
             speckling dusk beneath
             Good Friday's pink moon of April.

             (I found one dying by the stupa
              this morning
              four wings still rattling
              as it kept trying to clean its right antenna.)

Now Tara kindly works these knees,
             which surely preclude Nirvana,
             wrecking my posture,
             so I can't sit like a Buddha

             only perch like a
                                           stilted caucasian.

Marigold Bardo of Delhi

On the mend, we have
      set our bags for Dharamshala,
      where monkey brothers wait.

Our brains now packed full blessings.
      our excess slung round
                        in rolls belly fat.

All round, Delhi's arteries clog full
                  this day's CNG rickshaw justle
                  All India Permit, please honk
                  use dipper at night.
                  Grain-fed oxen now ready
                  hoof load bricks,
                  passed by man, woman, son
                  daughter on single seat
                                      motor bike.


Yesterday's festival enveloped us
                  in fabric throng:
                  pink saffron, imperial purple
                  young men flashed sword
                                    clashed sticks
                                    whirled.

We checked our shoes,
      stepped through footbath.
                   lacking turban,
      donned embroidered kerchief
      entered throbbing shrine, to
      circumabulate the holy book
      told by priest wielding
                   purest white pom pom.

      Trio sang the book:
                   harmonium
      and drum.

Now we depart these endless webbed
      canyon neighbourhoods
      street market spice
      and marigold vendors,
      men who push red white striped
      kidtraptions
      (metal, not plastic)
      down centre lane
      of 10 lane 20 k
      traffic jam.

We fly for refuge.
We fly for wisdom.
We fly to glimpse grace
            in each eye of love
            within one thousand
            open palms.

               

2 Pearls

Black Pearl — resplendent.

           Drags peacock   down     under
           below folded knees of Earth.
           Where eyes like cast nets
                       yank us from
                                shore to ruddy
                                          undertow, rippling
                                          below
                                          sturgeon's strand
                                          stuck upon by
                                          scattered dice
                                          shining black
                                          eggs like oyster's onyx
                                                                       below sea.

White Pearl — unleashed.

           Hovering impatience over petals
           then split night
                      like sparkling rocket
                      beyond milky bazaar
                                   rippling as
                                   one of one
                                   trillion billion
                                          upon
                                          great golden
                                          beach of
                                                                       galaxies.

Jewel Dust

Slide over patchwork India
         with concrete
                                smear
          and farm upon farm
                 jeweling the night
          and jewels of galaxies
                 watching over.

Here a murky ink
Here a
            line of obscuring
cuts town in two.

Our ragged eyes and
lapsing
         reveling in the
         novelty of all this normalcy.

This endless human glove
         long since strangled
         what was wild.

So wildness seeped 
         into corners of the
                  eyes of men
         men like jackals, looking
                  out for any open.
         men like turkey buzzards
                  circling, or glide
         thermal-flown vulture
                   prowling for today,

          since
                  tomorrow lost its
sandals
                  somewhere in the dust.
           

Fog Streak

That moonsun has been glowing
        all the livelong day
        above the furry grey-green
                         frock
                         of
                         sky.

The long glide draws time upon
        the weary brain
              ever hovers
                      over China's fog.

We race to waste
                  every unspent scrap of entropy
                  'ere eternal orb
                                     may cleave
                                     the firmament.

We relish in the verbs, the
                  jet speed shadows
                  the drapes of touch,
                  piping nouns
                                    like pole vessels down
                                           ear's canal.

When hiss transforms to
                  Mesmer's static,
                  heavy skull
                  may come to rest
                  against a
                  darkened
                  mirror.

Starting up

Fourth around
            on blue triangle, pocked.
            some greens offered
            as glint on turquoise raft
                                              points out sun.
            and purple plastic fumbles

muted roars as striped orange
slip fish hook in my cornea.


            this puzzle sky.
            this quilted kite.
            this can of tangled pink.


Black hole of moon
            so clear and clean
            reveals phospher artichoke
                         with secret child
                         in womb.

                         lacking teeth
                         or hair.

                         radiating trust.