A person’s growth may depend on the denied experiences in the bardo where death hangs her ugly head on me when I fear the inevitable need for change. Nobody can die for you or in your place- it must be you. And I know you think you already know this, but do you? Krishna said in the Bhagavad Gita, “I am more you than you yourself are.” What does that even mean? Get out of the way, you aren’t even here, the head of death is ugly and if you don’t chop it off someone else will. We don’t need to be the one to get the story straight, sort out the facts, present the evidence- oh no, we only need to be the one that goes away, gets out of our own way- the way being the path of the mystic- the writer of where his lover’s meet, where and when will I find you wrapped in black and sheets of melting ice? The bardo is long and hard and will fuck you back to death, nothing you’ve seen on your big computer screen can compare to the evil clown faces there, and no, you’re not prepared to know kali and it’s not her name that we conjure- it’s her self promoting flame of fear that lights every heart in the bardo- until whoops! born again straight to hell or maybe just another fido on the end of someone’s leash. Why should you blame your parents for anything- you’re the one watching them bleed into each other- and you’re the one still thinking it’s you. Obviously if you weren’t on some subversive S&M trip down on XXX row in the bardo of bestiality and wicked grinning kindergarten teachers- none of this would ever happen, trust me, pain isn’t sexy, it hurts like a big ruler on your little rear end. And the faces we take and we make in the bardo aren’t Krishna, the One, being heard, it’s just us again, totally full of ourselves and the same old shit and we blow out the smoke in everyone eyes thinking it isn’t us. We however are not any of it, there is no gag in your mouth, no blindfold on, no gold star for not wetting your pants- you’re just one step away from dementia and you still think the show must go on? That there’s still another foot for the shoe that won’t fit? Krishna isn’t a gimmick or really even a God, Krishna is a discovery that it didn’t have to hurt so bad after all, because when I give up my ludicrous version of me, then the love of the sound was at least as clear as the clanking of the vice, the vice known as thought. Krishna is so quiet it’s spooky- and so you don’t really blame “him” you blame “her” instead because she’s loud- yet they aren’t any more separate than you and I are- and I could use any other cultural version to make the same point, it’s the same effect- your head sucks metal sharks and your mouth is filled with barbed wire fangs, your feet are filled with lead and your hands are tied because your heart is dead- that’s the condition we’re in, like it or not. Your weary heart can’t even know its own silence because that would mean you’d have to stop chasing girls in short skirts and men with big houses and scam artists who paint pretty pictures of you and sell you some perfume to cover the scent of shit rising. “I am you more than you, yourself are.” Get out of the bardo now while you still have a chance, the inbetween this and that, the “I’m not really alive but haven’t died yet” hospital waiting room called America. You never belonged to this mind vice hell market of men selling God trinkets and yoga bags with sayings like, “be the change you want to see” right. you never needed the whips and chains to prove any false allegiance to Kali . Kali isn’t a God anyway, she’s a condition you get diagnosed with so that you can heal from the disease of attachment to your shit. Krishna isn’t a God either- but a cure to the disease of thinking either you are- it is- or you- need more shit in the form of false prophets called friends and places and things of remorse and regret -to fill your already aching gut. So this bardo is here now where we are and why won’t you believe me- crying about no lasting security or how you’re missing the gurus in white- right again. Wrong, you’re in shackles getting whipped and getting off on her denying you all sorts of fantasies aren’t you? Can’t wait to get the big prize for all the beating? The places outside that we pine for and devastate are the things we can’t see that we’ve done to ourselves. You’re cut, you’re bleeding, what happened? I don’t know, I can’t remember…does it hurt…I don’t know I can’t feel it…and so chasing the sticky bate that leads you further down the shit hole bardo of your own escapades and perversions unleashed -no prizes for losing the game and I’m sorry that you couldn’t ever replace the One that struck you senseless and whining for more mommy this, more mommy that…studded belts and snuff movies might not be the way to work this out after all huh, work out the warped methods of the antichrist who would have you tied to his bed forever being “Kali” boys or girls- who cares everyone comes with a tender hole- I’m not gross, I’m aware of where I’ve been and that it’s just another game boy- and there’s no way me, or you or anyone can define Kali as cruel or even Krishna as kind or whatever God and his people do during times of war, I don’t know- it depends on how long you think you can fight off the grim reaper’s cats- whose claws leave marks that become oracles- and so I can only attempt to paint a better picture with my interpretation in words- of the war at the end of the world-that’s still yet to come- for a place you might be, a person you might hear, a trip you might be on- a rollercoaster ride about to jump its bumpy tracks, and say, “hey, there might be a better way.” You are HERE. and I think you meant to be HERE. Which way do I go, how long is the show….long dingy hallways of half drawn nightmares- and besides me, there is no rest of you – it’s true- hell hath no fury like a woman scorned… the bardo is the pain lust left over from who we were- into who we will become- again to act out in a body made of meat, one S&M trip after another…
yet to perish now beneath her pure foot is another way to purge the pain lust of her liquid body, purge the identity with a slashing of sexuality misunderstood- that kink in sexiness that captivates you like no other desire…we, as this, “being somebody” with a tool or a box to get the job done once and for all is the fantasy- in truth are just “hoping to hump scabs” peeling away at layers of ourselves and causing astral std infections everywhere…dirty emblems of dried blood and semen oozing- talking too loud, eating too much, hoarding, colluding, taking food from children already half dead- and leaking our ignored sex pus out in the church pews while thinking we’ve done something good for God…of course I’m just another dreamer and “God” doesn’t need my shit either. This thing we’ve skillfully created that we like to call “God” is just another crutch of our making, like coffee or wheatgrass juice or a glass of red wine. We somehow couldn’t even figure out how to be sincere in our daddy mommy- me and you- projection fantasy enough to do something big with it, like discover the source of our allies- the allies who implanted us with the idea that there could be wise men up in the sky and even pretty women with wings and there could be a dark mean woman with a long red tongue and a beautiful pretty boy who dances with a flute while skulls roll across the earth thinking and waiting in line for their turn to be the One on the screen, their 15 minutes of fame, their winning lottery numbers…oh and the shit hole is deeper than I can even shovel myself out with the inspiration that I could be free to preach the glories of God through a blog and maybe be somebody with a new dream of helping others to reach as high as the sky too…fumes everywhere and I know I’m to blame, the one with layers of names and no covering at all. Why is the head of death ugly? Only because the mask makes you think you’re still alive. “I am more you than you yourself are” is in the roses we lay at her feet offering our goat head to Shiva as the One.
Hari Kari could be Hari Krishna if you let it, I bet you still don’t get it. Haha!
Seppuku, the samarai’s death is the story of the Bhagavad Gita in a nutshell. It’s all interwoven,
laced together by the fact that there is no culture- but the culture of giving back something for nothing. The nothing we wept when we died and cried over our dead body in the bardo and then we came back to life with a sword lying next to our body and we heard a voice say, “you just couldn’t do it huh?” Haha
What honor do I have as a sexy soldier or a seductive fairy, what solid noises do I make that actually mean love? What body can I cling to if it can’t be yours, where is the bardo I’d like to get this straight. Stop leaning on me and instead touch the tunnel’s skin where screams leak from the fleshy walls and spiders crawl up my neck and into my eyes like snakes somehow slither into the my bellybutton and thighs… and women are everywhere cutting open chickens without heads and men have long guns they think are penises and everyone is going off and making a mess of one dead body or another. Over my own dead body shall I bow victoriously and hold up my severed head for Krishna alone. Whose got the guts or the guns or a box big enough to carry it all- I ask you, who?! Proclaim the ending of a backfiring fate and stop messing around in this stewpot of sadistic glory…she held up a sign that said, “this shit is over.” Why can’t you believe anything she says? Is it because you think she’s a liar or is it because you know you couldn’t buy her?
Too many recipes I guess….your head is under my skirt and the saddest part is I moved out a long time ago. The bardo is gone, it was only a dream, you’ve been dead forever with me pretending to be your grieving mother. I’ve thrown away your things and I’ve burned every picture of then, I’ve forgotten the sound of your keys and the hook at the tip of your tongue. I’ve said goodbye to the cages and dungeons below, I’ve left everything misunderstood for the future to figure out, as if there was a place to go to find tomorrow without you…
this bardo, this triangular box, this core of desire that singes my cool voice in the dark, this piece of her tunnel that lies helpless in bed, tied up, tied down and laughing at the sword that no man could yet thrust…
into her as the conquest, topless and never tired, once a stripper always a stripper…with no body to hold,
triple x in the bardo.