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March |
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a poem by Joseph M. Gant
Cleansing
I wipe the rim, the counter-
clock-
wise bowl of piss--
ancient mantras
on my lips
Kurukulla
Mahakala
Kalachakra pearls.
the toilet shines,
water gifted
to the Shakti Maidens dancing,
fire on the lips of grace;
the fans--
bellows on the winds of bliss.
I prostrate to the altar's filth.
clock-
wise bowl of piss--
ancient mantras
on my lips
Kurukulla
Mahakala
Kalachakra pearls.
the toilet shines,
water gifted
to the Shakti Maidens dancing,
fire on the lips of grace;
the fans--
bellows on the winds of bliss.
I prostrate to the altar's filth.