Love Tārā

I am Yeshe Dawa, the moon is on me.
I sat in mahāmudrā for ten million years:
शिव's throat burned dark blacking-blue
my milk came and went, tides of κέφι
and the suffering of many millions of creaturitas
passed through the open chamber of my heart.
I was approached by monks & told I was a great buddha
& should consider maleness as a form of birth
with perhaps greater potential for further attainments.
From then on I resolved always to be born a woman.

In orbit between the high crypt of the windowless 5th floor (better now, less toxic, but still a space of deprivation) and the cold shuffle of home: from bed to blanket-bunkered couch with stack of books, to bathroom, to changing clothes directly in front of heater (the one shot of heat in our otherwise parsimonious corn pellet usage). A 3rd stop added in later days: SWIMMING!: the mini orbit of lapping, the attention to tile patterns, the enforced breath rhythm – a retraining (recently having gained awareness of a habit of unintentionally holding the breath). These patterns are punctuated by the thrill of excavated winter limbs, flesh flushed pink underneath all skin colors, drippy, shiny, rubber headcaps, foam, the exciting activity-specific equipment of goggles, echoes. Finally, the quick and pleasurable shock from cold pool to hot shower before wetheaded biking. STAYIN' ALIVE!

RIP Lapidaria margaretae.
I trust: lithops energy is underground in winter.

meat is flesh the morning was
zero degrees fahrenheit snow dry
& powdery sky clear but with a brief
bluddy smudge for a sunrise the piglets

all huddled up shivery against their old
ma and the next morning same time the
sky was dark and blowy and it was fifty
degrees with the snow almost rained out
and the runt was pretty much dead