Tracks of the Garuda

“The nature of the bird is illuminated by the ancient Bon myth that relates how, at the beginning of time, the… [Garuda] manifested spontaneously out of the cosmic egg as a fully mature being. The Garuda can transfer itself instantaneously from one place to another.” – The Flight of the Garuda, Keith Downman, 2003, p.52

“The exact size of the Garuda is uncertain, but its wings are said to have a span of many miles. This may be a poetic exaggeration, but it is also said that when a Garuda’s wings flap, they create hurricane-like winds that darken the sky and blow down houses.” – Wikipedia, “Garuda”


The end of the world
is no more real
than its beginning.

When I asked
“Who wrote these words?”
the stars came out at noon,
without effort or intent,
the sky so filled with brilliant points
it was like rain and
you could taste the silver
just by stretching out your tongue.

Fingers unclench the page,
drop the script,
exit centerstage,
keep walking until the air
is clean enough to breathe again.

In the west,
over the hills just after sunset,
those wisps of clouds,
prismatic the moment before,
subdue to silver blue.

The Garuda glides
above the darkening horizon;
tailfeathers relax,
fan out in final slow salute
to the shining sliding away.

Venus blows bright diamonds
through a hole in the dark dome,
this sacred shameless exhibitionist
rips through black velvet
floating naked on haloes,
keeps me pinned to the ground
on knees breathing hard and easy
while she peels my awareness,
exposing me to the emptiness.

I bleed joy from the pores
as Aphrodite is my witness.

The cool clear sky is still,
cleanses the lungs,
tempts the heart-mind open
until it’s trembling under the moon,
a rare midnight bloom
bathing petals in rainbow-froth,
the exuberant void coiling
into interpenetrating dreams
dissolving the instant they arise—
the glittering adornment of being,
never absent,
never there.

I have no idea who
or what
wrote any of this.

What happens with words
in the wide-open world
of what is?

The first instant
is the only one;
not one sequel follows this.

We who sleep
see nothing real—
only the moving projections
of our own delusions,
maidens and monsters
in the dark.

The “I” I was
persists a little longer
in doing what he always did.

At first,
he doesn’t even seem to notice
I am no longer there.

Then,
he smells the first faint whiff of peace,
sees the forms fear fashioned fade
from his fists,
finally lets go of littleness,
disappears with a laugh
in the vast incandescent
empty primordial compassion.

A mockingbird combs the air;
a lush cascade of audible dewdrops
baptizes my inhalation,
is gone before the out-breath.

Sparrows are singing to each other
about sunlight and water and
feeding the kids breakfast
before school.

The bustle in the branches decrescendos
into decreasingly frequent whistles
of avian gratitude as everyone
slowly hops and shuffles further
in towards the trunk,
to the darker shadows in the branches
where an altar beats and burns
in the heart of the wood
while feathered parishioners
on back-bent knees
gather in secret deep in the trees.

Did it ever happen,
or was it merely momentary misperceptions
strung together on a necklace,
a strand of sweet notes
for the Queen of Silence to wear?

In the west,
over the hills just after sunset,
those wisps of clouds,
prismatic the moment before,
subdue to silver blue.

The Garuda’s tailfeathers relax,
fan out in final slow salute
to the shining sliding away,
to tunnel-vision pretensions of finitude,
failure and glory,
drama, danger and desire,
the glittering emptiness,
this fantastical magic space-time show,
spun from nothingness,
the sweet rainbow cotton candy of dreams
is gone as soon as it
touches your tongue.

Nothing could please your mouth more
but this one last chance to kiss,
this unspent silver on your lips
where Venus left it while you slept.

The middle of the world
is no more real
than its periphery.

In the west,
over the hills just after sunset,
the Garuda spreads his wings,
embraces darkness
as it slides through lifting every feather
like the mother of flight,
the father of light
grooming him
for wandering wakeful and forever
through a wider well-lit groundless land.

We witness the long-awaited waking,
hear his call thunder-slam the ground,
echo back through the bottoms of our feet
from bedrock a mile or more beneath,
see his slow arching flight,
the invisible track carved through midnight
by unfailing primal sight,
with eyes open sea-deep,
wings wide-offered to an effortless grace
lifting him weightless through the hours,
circling higher against the stars
until he disappears
and we’re not sure what
we saw anymore.

The inside of the world
is no more real
than its outside.