but last night I dreamed in Sanskrit and I understood it all.

Asanas and yamas were floating through my head.

I completely comprehended each word not being said.

Cross-legged Maharishi floating inches from the ground.

I barely even blinked when he gifted me my sound.

Sometimes I’m late for a math test, running through an endless hall,

but last night I dreamed in Sanskrit and I understood it all.

A room full of low sweet sounds drifting softly to my ear,

sinking deep into my brain, and becoming crystal clear.

George Harrison touched the guru and then slowly walked away.

As he passed me on my mat he whispered “Namaste.”

Once I was Debbie Gibson and I was singing in the mall,

but last night I dreamed in Sanskrit and I understood it all.

The elephant in the corner held his hands out, like a bowl,

saying “Aum Gam Ganapataye Namaha”, his words became my soul.

I breathed in Om and breathed out Sah, as I lifted off the floor,

and followed the sound of the mantra as it drifted through the door.

Sometimes I’m on the edge a cliff, and I wake just as I fall.

Last night I dreamed in Sanskrit.

And I understood it.

All.

One does not feel any weight on the back in correct Paschimottanasana.
—B.K.S. Iyengar, Light on Yoga

I surrender to an avalanche of paper woes,
fold like paper, head aspiring to the toes.

I surrender to the days and nights of solitude,
my ribcage on my thighs—a nude
in charcoal, crude initial, husk, a shell—

I surrender to those who do not wish me well,
to those who would stand on my wide, open back.

My east surrenders to my west: sun is setting,
houses, faces, facts forgotten;
the day dissolves into skin-creases.
Chin against the shin—long razor-bone;
breasts on kneecap—rainclouds, stones.

Surrender to the time the body measures
and the time that measured breath refers to

far beyond the body. My north
and my south have never known

each others worth; I fold the map
to find the moment’s true location.

Keep a prayer for peace
in your nightstand
addressed to the Universe.

Open it when the death toll
reaches a number higher
than you can imagine
in jelly beans.

Drive to the outskirts of town,
turn left at the motel where
you would never spend the night–
the one seeded with shower
curtain mold, fiber sheets, cable tv.

Roll down your window,
feel the nuzzle of desert air
soften your collarbones.

Look closely for a field of sunflowers
and release your well worded plea.

Feel effective,
compassionate.
A ripple, maybe, in the cosmos.

Drive home believing
an African woman
was spared rape,
her children untied from a tree.
The man on the ledge stepped
back, returned home to kiss his wife.
A V.P. requested a moment
of silence in the middle of a meeting
so that an entire office
could connect to their breath.

If you believe this is possible,
keep reading.

Spend the next ten seconds
in the white space of your own prayer.

Without the space, nothing can be,
The true essence of you and me.
Activities past and future are gone,
Just spontaneous consciousness on and on.

You smooth and warm my skin,
knead out the knots, blend the worry from my brow
Like a warm blade on butter, you melt my resolve and I drink you in
Let you mold me into something of your design
You carve out the beauty I hide within
And make plain, what others do not see

Willing to be your creation, I bend myself into the mold of your artist’s hands
Stretch toward your agile fingers
Wrapping them around me like a coat
And wait with anticipation as you bring me close
Paint the colours of my skin then place me in the light so that I am revered

When you go I am distraught
Gazing at my reflection with a timid realization laced in doubt
I am amazed at what I see
Even I didn’t know what I could be until now
Dropping disbelief to the floor, I embrace myself
And I am born.

When I encounter resistance,
Within my body in a pose,
I have come to understand that the root,
Of this resistance lies within my mind.

Memories etched in the unconscious mind,
In movement revealed,
Come as I am ready to heal them,
So I let them come.

I do not resist because I know,
All things in their time will surrender,
To the Love that lives within,
And the pose will evolve.

I have come to trust my breath will lead me to relinquish the pain
And bring me to that moment of release,
Where my being conjoins,
And I reach the state of Oneness.

This poem is not fancy, I know-
but listen carefully:
something is there.

My friends have their houses
and I guess that’s okay.
But this is an eternal house.
Never needs painting.
Roof never leaks.

Why did Neem Karoli Baba
lie there naked on a blanket
smiling like a walrus
while Ram Dass took his photo?

What were his clothes and belongings?
What was his roof and awning?
What was his porch and railing?
If it wasn’t This,
what was it?

That’s what this poem is like-
unadorned figures of speech,
not costumed by poetic diction-
plain speech and metaphor
wrapped only in a light skin,
no ego world to cloud
the natural shining effulgence.

I myself am flopped out in this poem,
bare-bottom,
with a long-toothed grin,
nothing of myself but listener and scribe-
no erudition or wit-
Mind at the service
of the great Creator.

As Sixth Zen Patriarch Hui-Neng said:
The bottom of a pail
is broken through.
Personal contents have gone out.

Here it is again.
Yesterday, I was making plans to kill my banker.
Today I listen to tapes of Ram Dass
overdue at the North Portland Public Library,
watch the brilliant and perfect life of Bob Marley on video,
gratefully listen to and give advice
to my beautiful child on the phone,
and it comes to me again, the great gift,
the empty mind, the no-mind.

Say something, say something, was Bob’s song.
Were these events today connected,
or was it just grace?
I don’t know, I guess it was these things.
But just to experience no-mind is enough,
trying to figure it out seems greedy.
Plus it interferes with the experience.

Could you be, could you be, could you be love?
It’s like this:
no thoughts, no anger, no conditioning.
No worries. Nothing is not okay.
No description is really accurate.

By conditioning is meant fear.
Yikes! I hate to even say it.
No-mind is fearless. It’s immortal.
Whatever has happened in your life-
doesn’t matter.
It dissolves into the eternal present.

I’ll tell you, love.
Just close your eyes.
Wander around inside the temple.
Inside the body.
The turmoil of the congregation is gone.
The church organ is quiet
except for a slight hum.
The pulpit is empty, baby.
You don’t feel that much under
these circumstances.
You can’t distinguish between what is and what isn’t.
Except you know that what is, really isn’t.

Jesus is still,
hanging there behind the pulpit.
You know again, it’s true,
like you told your Mom, who is dying of emphyzema,
he didn’t suffer on the cross.
He didn’t. He was empty, like this,
of everything conditional,
of concerns and evaluations and thoughts,
of hatred and revenge and desire,
asking that the stone-throwers be forgiven
in their ignorance of the freedom-bestowing source.

And I ask to be forgiven, too,
including for my righteousness,
like Jesus throwing the moneylenders
out of the temple (the banker),
(that was yesterday, okay?)

And I love my mother,
source of all that is conditional,
truest love on this planet,
although even she now stands outside the temple,
or perhaps is laying on a white cot in the dispensary nearby,
waiting, ready, relaxed,
while a friend is visiting, visiting,
perhaps to stay.