Union of Kings

The pile of thoughts
— past, present, future —
Give these to Ganesa.
This demon becomes a mouse
to search out the subtle.

The notion “I am”
— very core of your soul —
Give this to Murugan.
This proud-tailed bird
will draw all things to One.

The two-horned intellect
— Real and unreal —
Ride this up the mountain.
Devoted bull Nandi alone
makes ascent to Kailasa.


In childhood
I had the form of Ganeśa
— thick-limbed, pot-bellied
substrate of all universes.

In youth
I had the form of Skanda
— a rebel, running-through
expectations for radical Truth.

In adulthood
I have the form of Śiva
— bearded, filled up with
silence, wandering in peace.

In all ages
I may take the formless form
— cross-legged, become Lingam-
in-Yoni, Sadāśivom Sadāśivom.


The filth-crusted alley,
like a plague-filled artery
beginning its collapse,
presses around my meditation.
A bag of wasted food,
plastic wrappers, moist paper,
and used condoms —
the discarded dream
of human progress —
serves as my cushion
as I hold the pose
of easy victory.
A wall of guitar,
heavy with reverb —
a post-punk prayer —
comes from a distance
to vibrate just by
the right ear
which listens for God.
The smell of decayed personhood
mixes with the howl
of so many golems,
shuffling clay and air,
to preach a sensory sermon
on the relative reality
of waking nightmares,
hungry ghosts,
and living death.
The lesson learned,
I shall dwell in this tomb
for so long as my Father wills,
but of fresh plaster
or of white wash
it will never know.
Until that day comes,
the tomb shall be my temple.


Cypher and bindu
Circle and point
The battle of Being
against Nonbeing
is at an end.
Being and Nonbeing
are not one.
There’s no such thing
as two.
Do not say
there is fullness
or void
It is a lie.
It is a lie indeed
that there is neither
fullness nor void.
“Is” has already
confounded us.
But isn’t isn’t confusing?


rises up my spine
sends the tingle of a message
out through mouth
through fingers
through eyes

speaks out of Yoga
arises as the word of bhakti
or of free heart’s love

lives of unity
bringing out of false duality
a man (a woman)
tricked a trice
by personhood

A Few Poems

Praise not that god
who claims a unicity beyond himself
and jealously guards what glory he has
through the tools of oppression.
Worship truly that God
Who claims for Himself only Being
and grants us, whether in heaven
or hell, the tools of Liberation.

There is something which is
— and always will be —
sinister in the heart of me.
What great good fortune!
that my God adores
even the dirty undead.

You could spend your time
and the karmas of this life
with anybody at all.
Often enough, you pick me.
One such as I
should feel honor enough
just to have you cut my eyes.
Perhaps I’m not so bad
after all?

Necromancer I

“It is quite true,” said
my friend the Necromancer,
“that the tusks of dead
elephants have a powerful,
holy magic.” He drew a breath
of smoke from his old pipe
and, exhaling a formless
cloud of Autumn and
the lungs of corpses,
continued: “But, I’m afraid,
only for the elephants.”


It is not a white light
to which the yogin aspires.
The hues by which God
tempts us to the Center
neither turn to mud and tar
nor wash out like blank canvas.
No mere shade approaches this
axial diamond clarity cast
forth as light and dark.
Whether black swamp,
green leaf, or crimson bloom,
each leaps as lightning out
and burns like sacrificial fire
back into the Root.