it feels like I’m burning by a campfire
sitting in a rib cage.
only there instead of flames
there are tongues
of electromagnetic undulations
flashing forth
and then subsiding
into eternally rotating patterns of
flickering irregularities
of frequency
and bandwidth.

it’s been steadily raining for three days
and three nights.
one hundred million drops
of all the rivers
and the creeks
and the streams
and the clam beds -
one hundred million times ten.
tiny droplets of living libraries
every tear a sphere
of liquid memory and living Light -
Kalachakra crystals
cataloging every deed
of every angel
and devil alike.
  
I live inside a giant foot print
where a giant leather shoe once stood -
footwear for some ancient
Leviathan with legs.
giant leather dance steps
trailing on behind its
giant leather earthing moccasins
dancing in his
wide giant strides.
the shoes were skinned
and tanned
and cobbled off the heavy flanks
of the earthen hyde of Taurus -
that must have been an epic bull fight.
he waved a red muleta
wide enough to cover up the sun
and red enough to hide the blood stains
from his matador’s sword
stabbing up the bulls’s sides.

the house of consciousness is a castle
perched upon a cliff
like some lonely Himalayan monastery
or a high prairie stable
full of Bodhisattvas,
dragging rakes
across rock gardens
as placidly as Hindu cows.
this high up in the stratus,
the thunder claps louder
than the Leviathan laughs
activating all the chakras in my hands.

In the courtyard renaissance gardens
we plant rows of ivory footstools
for the Deity’s Feet.
in the courtyard’s spring house
we milk the ivory spitshine
with our teeth.
the magma flames from our ghost dance
couldn’t be extinguished by the rains
but the winds of change
have been known
to suddenly erupt
like a surprise Kiowa buffalo hunt
over the slowly rolling
western nebraska plains
now it’s raining white bison
over the valley below
our fortunes rise to greet our smile
but even sometimes they fail -
and even so…

The Eye of Taurus blinks not
above the Heavens
even with all the matador’s swords
stuck and sunken in Its flanks -
and poking out Its spine
like the sharp tails
of all the scorpions
hiding in the evening sky.
and even so…
we gather ‘round the glowing embers
of eternity’s campfire
so as to let our demons speak their mind.
the howling salts of the hissing desert winds
or the spider fang nettles of the whipping derecho rains
cannot extinguish this flame.
we’ve said our prayers
we’ve made our oblations
we’ve tied scarlet quantum threads around our wrists
we keep feeding fuel to the fire:
…the south poles of car batteries
…the northern ends of bullet train magnets
… even a sonar dome
hoisted off a fast attack submarine
and 100 pounds of copper wire.

now the fire-flames are flashing forth
in plasmatic rainbows -
gypsum prisms of green
and white
and blue
colors,
never before seen in Heaven,
or on Earth
or even in the Bardo.