A SLUMLORD FOR MY ANCESTORS
 
 

Existence can be creepy like Kundalini Devi - O Kalika!
Existence is filled with creeps who spend their time
Creeping about these hungry streets.

 Time is twisted.  Kalika krim.
Time climbs a rope woven from a Guru’s hair:
Up and away from tourists who have forgotten how they got here.

So I twisted in time in search of you – MahaKalika!
Cut the kleshas that bind me;
Remove the obstacles that impede me.

Once, mortal flesh swung in the wind.
Once, old souls wandered like saints
With one immortal eye upon swan-lake
With one mortal hand breaking thru black ice.

And now, you take me  into the wyrdglow of  our Ancestors time:
And now, time has twisted, become the wind, become the servant
That fans your form once again: krim kram krum Kalika krim Kalijai  svaha!

May all who have gone before acknowledge all who scale the great divide
And come thru the great passage of You, Great Mother of Time.

In all hungry streets, and in all strangers eyes I know you are watching - O Kalika.
Talk to my ancestors before and after I walk the road to Benares.
Give all beggars coin & remember who the real cripples are.

Light our ancient wisdom path. With intimate sparks build a fresh pyre of flame
Build the youngest fires of liberation with the pages from our family tree.

Meditate upon this smoking dhooni and see all sacred books written in Ash.
The oldest and the youngest
The dimest and the brightest of us shall have paused to contemplate
The return of familiar faces & the reflection of the stars
Thru the thickening smoke of sandalwood at midnite
Riverside of Benares in  these waters – now of Ganges.
 

Once in my time, men became sainted who knelt to kiss lotus feet
And surrendered to each ripple of Understanding that dissolves flesh
And floods the blood of Heart with Love.

Remember me who remembers those who worship you – Kalika krim.
Remember the flame that burns between time, space, spirit & flesh
Now in this place a lock of hair twists like some genetic link to become
A relic, a cousin, of some wandering saint

Blue moons in January
Blue moons in March:
Lifetimes & ancestors cut with silver scissors
Are the tantras woven in  my time.

Tonight in the shrine to the ancestors
You can find room even amisdt the ashes.
Our family flame shines with a deeper shade of black and red
 

- Irradiatus