The Collected Works of Chögyam Trungpa: Volume Seven (57 page)

But on the other hand she is somewhat perturbed;

Not knowing whether she is glamorous or ugly,

Begging for confirmations right and left,

Still listening to the distant flute of her past present future.

Is she wretched?

Is she fabulous?

Thundering heartbeat in her chest,

Riding the horse of jealousy at a million miles a minute—

Could someone fall in love with her?

Could she be the world’s monumental femininity?

Is she the possible hag

Who eats living chrysanthemums or dead bees?

Winding highway to the Continental Divide,

Snake coiling for its own purpose,

Tortoise carrying heavy-duty shell with meaningful walk,

Red silk rustled,

Hearty blue-blood aristocracy

With its blue ribbon blown in the wind

From the palace window—

Is this such a woman as deserves a coronation ceremony attended by the galaxies, the stars, and the world of yes and no?

Is she such a woman as is never hampered by a dirty, greasy bullfighter, a manslaughtering, unworthy man?

I wonder whether she has tasted her blood

Or her nectar.

Glory be to our Queen!

Lust is for everybody, by the gallons;

Envy is for one, who picks and chooses

Like a woodpecker digging after one worm.

However, everybody’s a lover—

Let’s celebrate in love!

March 7, 1975

Dying Laughing

It is ironic that the pigeon got run over by a car.

It is sad that the M.C.P. people got insulted.

What’s wrong with you is that you talk too much—

Or, for that matter, think.

Yesterday was a glorious day

Today is reasonable but a bit chilly.

Boomslangs never made friends with man,

But boa constrictors swallowed a church

And assumed its shape.

Joshua Zim appreciates highlights,

Or for that matter deep throat.

Flip a coin!

Take a chance!

What is the worth of all these thoughts?

A mustache is not worth it

If there is no mustacher.

On the whole, it’s a gigantic black hole

Where things come and go in and out,

Sometimes cheap sometimes extravagant.

The world is a big mind

Which reacts to all conclusions.

Scattered thoughts are the best you can do.

Let the mercury jump on a drummer’s drum

Breaking and gathering—

What’s wrong with you is

You think too much,

Talk;

So don’t talk

Or think;

Or, not talk first,

Then don’t think;

Or, don’t think first,

Then talk.

But finally we find non-talker, thinker;

Non-thinker, talker.

Let’s forget about it all—

O
M SHANTI

Shhh

But don’t . . .

Do it all anyway!

Let’s do it completely!

That the whole universe could be exasperated

And die laughing!

March 7, 1975

Künga Garma

Jalapeños are good to eat

Antelope has slanted eyes

There comes a rocket

Alice is magnificent

She’s courageous

Fun-fair

Jalapeños seem to be good

In the midst of your surroundings

Biting

Hot

Tongue subjugator

Throat warmer

Alligatorial bite

Crocodilean nastiness

Oh Jalapeño

Montezuma’s revenge

Lips of rectum may suffer from too much jalapeño

The next day.

A peacock has feathers

A tortoise has a shell

David Rome has a mustache

Gem business

How ironical the whole thing

The Star of David shines

In the midst of Mermelstein parental warmth

Action speaks louder than word.

Jade rock resides majestically

With a silk scarf of misty cloud wrapped around its neck,

Overhung by haunted pine trees

Pretending they are old hags

Welcoming guests who appreciate the view.

Acting as sages,

Wise frogs leap about in the atmosphere of humid rainy misty dim stove burning with an inner glow

While the ethnic mothers cook their porridge

With rustic smile.

Turtles walk slowly but surely in the midst of dimples of footprints

Which turn into puddles.

Tibetan sad-happy flute plays in the distance

While the roaring engines of jets resound overhead.

In the grove of maple trees

Where the bees cannot exist Primrose, sagebrush, tamarisk hedges are growing magnificently,

Utterly competing with arrogant pampas grass shoots.

Who cares?

How cares?—

In the midst of jalapeño dumpling

Bitten by Alice’s white teeth,

Which are lubricated with feminine saliva

And gentle touch.

The swelling of her femininity,

Acting as fabulous flexible rock,

Could be swayed by wind as if a tree.

No one has seen a dancing rock,

Powerful tree,

Punctuated by occasional freckles

On her old-aged motherly face

Which still remains magnificently youthful as a teenager.

Cuckoos and cockroaches speak different languages,

As Alice does.

Kung fu masters are subjugated by the beauty of Holiday Inn

In its magnificent funky service.

America has grown old

But still is getting younger,

Thanks to the presidential resignation of Nixon’s scream

And hush hush that goes with it.

Another Star of David is jalapeño.

In midst of donkey’s dung pussy cat is killed

Because of its Ginsberg resentment

To the Rockefellerian manipulation.

Arabs produce good coffee

With a dash of oil in it—

But nobody is comparable to the Alice in Wonderland’s jalapeño trip.

Glory be to the would-be last monarch,

Prince Charles,

Who has no idea of jalapeño

Or our Alice.

March 1975

Gyal jö (Victory Cry).

1111 Pearl Street

VICTORY CHATTER

As an old soldier watching the territory—

Flags go up and down where the soldiers gather;

Hearing distant archery contests—

Horses are unsaddled in the meadow—

Flute of a soldier who is in love;

Listening to the creacking of the cannon swayed in the wind.

The sound of the flute fades away;

The banner of victory is fluttered by the breeze;

Rustling of armor takes place constantly.

Occasional smell of horse dung,

Occasional cheerful chatter of the armed force—

I bide in the tent, the general,

Listening to the occasional grasshopper’s leap:

How grateful to be a soldier.

Ah! storm rises,

Gold black cloud in the southern quarter—

I can hear the flag fluttered violently by the wind.

A thought occurs to me:

“Somebody’s getting out of the administration.”

And another:

The memory of a whistling arrow on the battlefield

And the high-pitched echo of swift swordsmanship.

A thought occurs to me:

“Somebody’s getting into business,”

As the horses begin to neigh—

They are ready for tomorrow’s battle:

“Somebody’s going to teach philosophy tomorrow And get out of the administration at the end of the week.”

The cloud from the south moves close to the center of the sky,

Dark with wrath.

We hear resounding deep thunder.

The warriors’ fight must go on—

Vigor and bravery

Sharp sword

Well-cared-for bows and rustling armor

Are our only resources.

Frontier warfare is sad and happy,

It is romantic and treacherous.

Oh! How I feel that I am a good soldier,

A good general,

Listening to the rustling of armor

Where the white tents are blown by the wind.

We are sharpening our swords and our arrowheads.

How romantic to be fighters

Conquering the American plains!

Good luck to Boulder

Rock

The Rocky Mountains

The pine trees—

Full of fantastic battlegrounds.

The kingdom rests at eleven and eleven.

It is good to fight,

It is good to know that victory is,

It is good that I alone can wage this particular warfare.

Sharpened sword

Arrowheads:

I fight in the old fashion.

July 2, 1975

Boulder, Colo.

Wait and Think

Wounded son—

How sad.

Never expected this.

Oily seagulls

Crippled jackal

Complaining flower—

Very sad.

Is it?

Is it?

Is it?

Maybe a couple of doughnuts might cure

Or, for that matter, wine that is turning into vinegar.

Little flowers

Snow drops

Early bird—

Hopefully gentle breeze will turn into hurricane.

That might be somebody’s wild guess.

William Burroughs’ rhetoric

Single-minded

Street dogs

Thieving dogs—

Oh how fantastic this world.

Julius Caesar never made it.

Suns and moons have their problems,

The galaxies of stars have their problems among them.

Mysterious world sad and happy:

The problem is that we are too serious.

Gurdjieffian literal thinking

Theosophical secrecy

Maroon car

Defective door

Glorious in the name of one-upmanship.

Does His Holiness sneeze?

Does His Holiness cough?

If he does,

Who doesn’t?

If he doesn’t,

Who does?

Truth of the matter is

We are a gigantic spider

Constantly weaving webs

But never giving birth.

Who is not brave enough to swallow the sun

Eat the earth

Bathe with the galaxies?

Let us join this feast

Free from orgy and ritual.

Hallelujah!

July 4, 1975

Missing the Point

Brain hemorrhage

Sick pigeon

Trust in the heart

Good soldier

Neat girl in the cosmic whorehouse—

Our minds becoming bigger and smaller

As if they were Lynn’s mustache

Which gets bigger and smaller as he talks.

Stalagmite stalactite

Mutual love affair—

Today I rose relatively early.

My thoughts are constant

Like a leak in an old castle

Plop plop plop ploo plop.

Things go on—

Suddenly a nasty thought,

Deep sigh;

Pleasant thought,

Longing sigh.

The chatters of Hasprays continue like subconscious gossip.

Does mind speak?

Does mind walk?

Sometimes walk speak,

Speak walk.

Who is instigating all this?

Maybe the uranium that makes atom bombs

Shooting star

Allegorical presentation of the dharma

Historical confirmation of the antidisestablishmentarian sophistication of the seemingly sane society of the past.

July Fourth

Flash of fireworks—

At the same time,

Lingering thought tells me

My private secretary is really drunk.

Nitpicking

Farfetched—

This rock is problematic:

If it were arranged,

It could complain to the artist;

But since it is not,

No one to sue.

Expectation of the future is too much.

Glory be to somebody’s cow dung—

It is too lucid to blame.

There goes everything

Down the drain.

July 4, 1975

RMDC, Route 1, Livermore

In the blue sky with no clouds,

The sun of unchanging mind-essence arises;

In the jungle of pine trees swayed by winds,

The birds of chattering thoughts abide;

Among the boulders of immovable dignity,

The insects of subconscious scheming roam;

In the meditation hall many practice dhyana,

Giving birth to realization free of hope and fear.

Through devotion to the only father guru