At the Stupa

At the Stupa

In the Colorado Rockies the Stupa of Shambhala
Stands tall, 108-foot icon of conscious Otherness –
Or maybe just a psychedelic spaceship poised for
Ecstatic ascent to the Four Unlimited Minds
Where we can ooh and aah at the naked splendor
Of hot-shit Bodhisattvic meditative mantra-power
Glimmering and oozing in its LSD daylight dream.

Here Trungpa sat in his dumpy little trailer
And imagined this gaudy giddy masterpiece
From No-Mind into Being, into Timelessness.
Multi-shimmering unbelievable Un-Thing,
Stupendous stereoptic Eastern Sphinx-ter
That purifiies my dingleberries with raw Color,
Stings my four eyes and brains with de-Light.

I hike the snow-creased trail to Marpa Point
To look down upon the Stupa’s gilded glans,
Climb the last stand of rocks to the summit
With its mini-Buddharupa and prayer flags
Fluttering in this windy zone of human ashes
Being scattered in the manner of sacred matter,
Burned bodies returning to Earth through Air.

I kneel, I pray, I cry, I expand into the moment,
To snatch a brief glimpse of adamantine space.
I cite the names of all my dear departed dead:
Daughter, brother, mother, father, friends.
Their names go out upon the wind, their souls
Roam ‘round me and within my heart and mind:
Blessed be, blessings on thee, my own beloveds.

Soon enough I shall join these disembodiments
And feel no pain no more, no love, not anything.
The snowbanks glisten, the clouds silently drift.
The Stupa glows below me like an acid dream,
A vividly unreal Ur-vision of spiritual reality.
I wait for it to rise up from its launching pad but
In the end, return to meet myself once again

At the Stupa….

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