all praise is due to the Guardian,
from whom this body emanates, is brought into life by the hoo of ALLAH-hoo… the
breath of ALLAH…secret science…
the Guardian protects the secret
science, reveals to those who bow so low…dissolution…
…the science is powerful…overwhelming
to many…scary and repulsive when they learn there are arabic words attached to
it…and yet packaged by others who seek to stew pot spirituality into their new
age soup to recreate, to be a founder, to be somehow more than ancient mathematics…
…the Guardian has passed down this
knowledge to live by, to get through this ephemeral flight through the life and
times of guru’s whose biographies are in the hearts of those who know…
…peace to one of my guardians, my
brother, One-Who-Knows-ALLAH…from your Quiet example orally traditioned in the
path of the prophet, by the slight of hand that does in mute… so modest, so
colorful… saturn…
…head on earth, in the sparse
forest of astoria park, of indian country, before the east river and the gateway
to the 10 prison buildings that make up rikers island, i bow to the Guardian
and shed a tear of joy for my friends and family and you, and you who inspire
me to go lower to get higher…
…all praise is due to the Guardian
for you in this brief moment we co-habitate, where our spirits have been
blessed to intersect before the candle is out into Always…
…the guardians of truth walk
amongst us…hold truths so deep their presence will absorb you like iridescent
eyes, more than bedroom talk and game, lead you to a time before time before
time…i’ve met a few…know a couple…
…they walk in Quiet, in the strut
of yogi’s whose status as yogis are permanently lost to those with titles…
…Real yogi’s move in quiet…sit next
to you in the 6 train where you pace, rush to make the subway move faster, to
make the yoga class taught by your favorite yogi who teaches yoga at the top
studios, does energy work, lets you know how other yoga teachers ain’t ish…
“can’t wait to see my yogi!” you
say aloud.
the yogi next to you ceased using
the title a long time ago, keeps her head bowed, wears modesty behind the
covers of hijab and the prayer beads that sit in her pocket that she counts 99
times, as the guy across from her wears his 100 colorful malas over his white
shirt, below his indigenous tattoos, and gets into a conversation with the
impressed-chick going to a class on crystal healing at the open center…
…peace to all the seekers…all of us
who search for meaning through displacement like 9-year old plastic scavengers
on heaps of 3rd world
dump in Bangladesh…
peace to all. peace to everyone
doing what they have to to eat to make sense of the insensible. minimize the
harm if you can. ask the Guardian for guidance. trust in the Guardian to
protect and Guide.
if you are reading these words, and
processing information, then you are as privileged as i am to have eyes to see
with, a mind to analyze, synthesize. the Guardian has brought you this far,
through all your trials, through moments of ready to die’s. you are here.
call the coroner, bring boquets for
the dead, for the body you tatted with titles, status, race, class, nationhood,
stories you believed, with material that became your signature.
bury the stage and the
self-rationalized, decontextual tattoos and piercings and certificates and
degrees and cool.
burn. stand at the funeral pyre,
and watch this body ascend into transparence with the air, with the sky above
you, until there is no distinction between you and You…
i enjoy sharing the practice... and always receive blessings through practice of my own doing and by receiving from others....
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