The Book of Crying Kanglings

                       I.

— in routine packet.

Dear Kirsna: yes, I saw your dream last night

through that fair blue of the eyes

of your Siamese kitten. You were happily

riding the stormy seas in the Bay of Bengal

in a wicker thumb-print

plugged with black goat hair and candle wax.

A man in the sheerest of blouses, the blue of this moving sea,

smiles while he passes you —

he's walking over the water. His brother was near,

involved in the same siddhi.

They are your lost cousins, I think?

You should feel safe there in Virginia. The earth

has a very gentle breast.

If you study your Uncle Ekajati's transcripts

you'll find mention of 'the seven hills'

of a late coastal Mound-culture?

They are the local palas

you should feed cake to . . . they are

the only ceremony of healing.

You are ten now, and no longer a small boy.

There are much younger cadets in the Academy

and you should be assisting them in your loneliness.

You will only dream of the fire on Cottonpet Street

for another six months, at the worst. And then

your body chemistry

will change more than your dreams,

and you will be at peace about the fire

and the death of your parents . . .

So, as of the last full moon you've legally been my son.

I have the papers from the Delhi court. And yes,

you should feel strange, for you were my mother

in your last life. But now, here,

you are the boy Kirsna.

That is enough to worry about.

I've left my cave. I am staying in a hut

that was a cholera checkpoint

at the turn of the century here, on the border of Ladakh.

I've agreed

to work as an oracle for these five villages. By ancestry,

I am the Madame of Achi.

Listen, K., you should call me

whatever you're comfortable with.

Mother is acceptable, but not

the greatly familiar, L'urze.

Your uncle was a great eccentric. Yes,

he and his friend, Georg X.,

are the two most frightening deputies

of the innermost assembly

of blue and red dakinis, respectfully.

That is to say, in the affliction of speech

that visited my childhood — Georg X.

is the red. We love your uncle and, yes,

he will protect you. But, please, remember

that when he is human

it is the strangest adventure — for example,

in opening the Dza Obum he canceled his friend Alfred

and the entire universe Plaget.

He found me irritable about this? He would tell you

that the 111 lotus births in that lost universe

balanced the damage I did in the star cluster LXT.

Gender is just like gasoline. Make of it what you will.

Now that I've been given treasure

here in Ladakh — in particular, an oboe,

one thigh-bone kangling,

                                       a human bone with diamonds

virtually wrapped in silver, female knuckle-skulls

dimpling their moon . . . Now

that I'm on the payroll as a terrible hill oracle

I will have to mend my ways

with regard to men.

Sometimes I think they are nothing but a superstition

in the same tradition as the testicles

of the extinct white rhinoceros. But

the neighboring Bon witch

actually gave me a taste of that stuff this last winter —

I flew, adorned in foxglove —

I've got to remember who's listening. I'm sorry Kirsna . . .

Your uncle and Georg X. are difficult to ponder —

If they were fish in your mindstream,

your string would not reach them. You would need

drunken box turtles for bait,

and when they broke the water to greet you,

their presence would be like land itself.

I know that you don't understand 'the great coffins.' Or reports

of my last Black Ovum.

You are too young for these subjects.

But about your uncle's artifacts: the Keet

left sacred scripts of great sleep — for purposes

of creation, or destruction —

and this category of Dza is called the 'Obum.'

They are very powerful.

Now, 'an attraction script'

released by an immature dakini, or a checkered naga,

is not such a big deal; though

it can disturb the lives of billions of people, say,

across a whole star cluster. But they recover

after several generations. I like a freshening of view.

You must also, Kirsna?

How are the new slippers I sent you?

Like any self-respecting, bread winning oracle

I must go out now and wander in the mist

to be seen if possible, and to scream like a horse

so the children will have a perfect sleep. Love. Mum.

P.S.: Yes, I believe your uncle was poisoned

by Jane Talbout. She sat, there in the rocky Scotias,

resenting her son and your uncle.

But, of course, he must have known. It was

his exit, of that you can be certain.

The old leachings of morning-glory for strychnine?

Probably? Though

all of her sons are poets or chemists. Odd, isn't it?

                       II.

(.1/.1 fibes.)

Dear Kirsna: Aunt Laura has sent the white pine

pencilbox that you wanted for your geometry studies.

Now, you are too curious about these

scripts:

                    there are the Obums: the field scripts

like LXT: and, yes, then there is a very localized stinger

that visited your uncle at space station WGYN —

it's as if

it originated with a cupid! Most 'potions'

are not interesting, are just ornate foldings in karma.

Yet, of course, K., all karma is infallible

and streams geometrically from chaos!

Its signature

seems human, but isn't. Chaos

is the daughter who has no father, but

desires one. Order

is the son who has a mother

but desires another, and

another . . .

This is all the akashic Assayist's nightmare.

Let us forget it.

There are nesting doves out

by the kerosene, below my window —

I'm very excited about them. Yesterday

was the anniversary of my death. And

I swear, more of those yetis left wildflowers

at my door again. Finally, I was quite happy about it.

I should be pleased with their attention.

It's just, Kirsna, if it continues, and they become

more populous in the meadow above my shack,

I'll soon have to deal

with those loathsome Italian journalists.

All their lucent cubes and clamoring.

I'd shoot them —

or put a henbane hash in their gas tanks.

Oh, Kirsna, your mother's just been blistering all day

having confused, not willfully, my Hevajra totem

this morning. Second and fifth cakras!

I do believe I'm aging, like your uncle. That sad

wonderful Ekajati.

Love. The Madame of Achi.

Post Script:

I know you worry about death — anger is the shifting

birth of fear. Let go of it. Your uncle

said that the Bardo just waits for us

like a lit pinball machine,

all rubber flibber and rose bank,

attracting the mirthing bone of the pelvis. Just

what did he mean by that? Oh, I suppose

the Bardo's collusions of color, skull mala,

fangs, red lariat

or the great mace? Just say your prayers, Kirsna,

to Black Coat —

ask for emptiness and a centering peace.

III.

It was a gift from his older brother.

Samuel and I, and later Todd,

visited Theodore when he was opening

this box. It contained

the nest of a sparrow-hawk that had been blown and lacquered;

almost fossilized on the bottom

of it was the fetus of an albino rabbit,

and beside that was an aluminum foil wrap

of a fresh chocolate hashish. We went out to the barns

and each of us smoked a little of it. I think, mother,

it liberated Theodore

who described his aunt landing her pink magnum-Cessna

on the stormy North Sea. How he peed his pants

while it was happening. He laughed

and laughed. Finally I became quiet and sad.

I went into the orchards

and watched the sun set. Over the river

these white vapors gathered into the shape of a man

who I recognized as the Septaguant.

He came physically forward to meet me

and made a speech about his young ward

who is, surprisingly,

my friend Samuel. He said we must do our very best work

in the dreaded middle sciences, or

we would find ourselves dead in a foreign war —

furthermore, in a mustard field, mother,

surrounded by a dozen white tigers in harness

who are also dead or dying.

There were two suns on the horizon

and the Septaguant

became sad, saying he was already lost

in the recent Glancing Excursion on Jupiter. That

there would be no cables.

Mother, all of this has left me quite frightened

and I've mentioned it to no one for two weeks.

But you must tell me what to do.

Samuel doesn't even know

that his father's involved with a Jupiter mission.

Perhaps he isn't. I didn't like this drug.

It gave me gas, and my heart raced for hours.

Love. Kirsna.

P.S.:

Listening to Lord Septaguant 's speech

I realized he was once, in some way, a friend

to our uncle Ekajati. And yet,

I don't believe that's possible? Do they have Karma Pakshi

in common?

The slippers you sent me are primitive

but soft. Such a wonderful blue. Love, and thank you.

                       IV.

— in dual spledum.

Kirsna: I dislike your dead white tigers even more

than I dislike your chatting

with the great High Lord Septaguant.

Of course I don't know what this means.

I could put on a rotten rack of elk in velvet,

absolutely lousy with life and the collective

insomnias of a dozen hill shamans. I could

dance around in this little space

and strike my knee or take a splinter in my foot

and escort the mountain spirit, Elai,

into my flower garden . . . Kirsna,

I could drop paraffin into a bowl of water

and mime the importance of your vision.

But I'm in white ovum. And a job's a job.

You'd better listen to your mother Khandro.

Stay clear of drugs, and focus on those middle sciences.

Never volunteer for anything. Refuse all conscriptions.

If you hear a drum and flute, flee to the basement,

live with the potatoes. By god,

you've written me with this frightening story

on my darkest moon. Kirsna, I love you dearly.

And what are they doing on their raised platform?

They're offering to the sun

your uncle's Dza Obum, which Klincton King

has just ripped from his mother's chest. They will

paint the bismuth rail with it. In the end, somehow,

it's a volcanic cinder.

Kirsna, you see my point. We have these gifts

for seeing things that aren't there.

And if we credit them all

we'll end up suffering

the insomnias of New Philadelphia . . . just have fun,

Child.

These great premonitions quickly return

to the unconscious, and gather battery there

and then much later are returned to us as stark reality,

la pomme d'terre. Many blessings. The Khandro.

V.

Dear Mother: I understand that you want

me not to be fearful. It's like uncle Ekajati said —

'in full lotus, the cannon breach spawning calla lilies,

with the crown ejection bringing that autumnal

morning light — yes, then I'm unafraid.'

But later after the bowl of carrot stew,

in my bed listening to the wind and rain —

well, that is different. 'Someday, Urze-la,

you'll just walk around in the Mahamudra.'

I hope so, mother. I do love

the way he talked to you.

This girl I met from Norway, who's called Kaya,

is teaching me the cycles

of the I-Ching. It is bewildering.

She can be weird,

and then suddenly very pleasant again.

Her mother says she runs hot to cold. Like most everyone.

We walk out by the river and watch

the blue herons assault the fresh water mussels.

She's a second year cadet

and pretty much without friends.

I enjoy her stories. She says her grandmother

is a time-lord

of a red star fjörd . . .

that she has given birth to two daughters, one long poem,

and a vast, superior matrix of snow?

Kaya's grandmother salutes you, Khandro!

I will be happier soon, I know. And yes,

you may insist that I be brave . . . but here

in loathing for the victory banners. Love. Kirsna.

                       VI.

— harvest moon, & spledum.

Dear Kirsna: it's past the time when I should have

responded fully to your questions

about Lord Septaguant and the Karma Pakshi shint.

Because karma can fold infinitely, two events

that should be separated by thousands of years

can become, suddenly, contiguous

like New York and New Jersey. Ha.

Or two consequences of a single karmic action

may ripen distantly epochal from one another

simply because of their common origin? Ugh.

The vibratory signatures of karma

are stacked, 'inclusive and appositional.'

So a firestorm can cross a city

and leave three people living, and

for two of these three people, their survival

might be the worst luck. The remaining one

may be Jehovah himself. If

you put your mind to problems like this

it can be very dangerous. So mostly you must trust

your heart and stomach. And your gifts.

Karma Pakshi does figure

into the greatest federation that exists in the Kosmos.

It is the least discussed here on earth.

The Kamtshang federation had in the thirteenth century

the most remarkable emissary to earth

who was the second Karmapa, or Karma Pakshi,

He possessed miraculous powers

and succeeded in carrying the buddhadharma

deep into China, to the very court of the barbarian

Kublai Khan.

Today he is sometimes referred to

as the Mongka teacher. Uncle's old guru

was an aspect of the Mongka Shintling.

Now, the great Shint is too intense at the moment

to be very much present in our world.

Lord Septaguant was thinking of this

when he crossed the river to you.

But I can't speak of it further. And you

may not speak of it at all. So,

the K.P.S. does not have a secret handshake,

bake sales, or three-state lotteries. It is a lineage

of caring, whispering and possession.

For your purposes you can understand it

through recognition of the lives of those saints

that we associate with Karma Kagyu

Buddhism in Tibet,

but you've already guessed

that you and Samuel and Kaya

are suffering an acquaintance

which is, perhaps, not accidental. It is indeed

auspicious. And there is some danger.

But if you want my two cents on this, the

lord 'tin-pageant' expressed his fears to you

prematurely. God knows it is in his nature.

Perhaps it just reflects his affection for Samuel,

and so we pardon him.

If we're going to further discuss the impossible, Kirsna,

I would say that when we die,

we enter the Bardo.

We carry, for or against ourselves,

the akashic script of our past behavior

from this last life. We experience its full record — all the joy

and all the suffering we've caused ourselves and others —

with dreadful interest. Yes,

it's a little like a surveillance tape

but one that opens in five dimensions

within the cataract of a great body of falling water.

There is a kind of daylight.

This lamp of projection

is very sudden and very strong. Reconciled,

all this experience then signs itself

in a single vibration

which is added to, or subtracted from,

the signing vibration

of all your previous lifetimes. This new value,

or vibratory character, ends up defining

the attractions you suffer

in locating your next mother and father.

This is how it is on the wheel

without the teachings of an enlightened master

like the Christ or Lord Buddha. Though,

it is taught that with the benefit of an enlightened one

you may, while approaching the Bardo, accept refuge

in the paradise of a great bodhiset.

Now I say, let's play craps with the Shintling

and return to the wheel,

for the benefit of all sentient beings. Oh,

Kirsna, this talk gives me a headache.

But I guess it's sweet that you think of such things. And no,

I'm sorry to report that the yetis have all vanished.

Maybe we will hear of them again

after the winter. Love. L'urze.