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In the far Far East,
a few strange Hindu temples are intricately carved,
& are most pornographically exuberant,
everywhere there are wrathful-playful-sexual-
vengeful-gesturing-carousing-beckon  -ing -
ascending-descending-riding-weeping  - flying -
alluring - humping - bumping- twerking -
singing, or just dancing around being the epitome
of gods and
godlings.

Even in hotel America
there is the heady scent of
a rowdy sacredness
as rooms are congested with hyped-up
reveling deities.

The enlightened ones, ride luggage carts
in the dead of night,
sing drunkenly, slam doors,
or watch HBO with the volume way up.
All is a sacred sloppiness.

I was wearing,
Day-Glo speedos in the elevator
while ogling a page
from the Kama Sutra,
doors opened, revealing a giggling goddess,
who seemed to be pointing
to the infante silliness
of everything partly or wholly human.

That was in Muncie Indiana
(a motel space I shared with a rumba dancing Kali
and a bottle of Jim Beam).
The vibe in that room
was almost the same as in those temples.

In the mind-hazed morning,
(skull still aching from Kali's tender affections),
the Tallahassee chapter of the honorable order
of Harley riders
regale me at breakfast
with their juiced-up joie de vivre.

Again the dancing Gods look down upon us;
jovially they beg us
to partake of their abandoned frivolity;
meditating on this
I rise slowly to the seventh floor of hotel Nirvana,
where at last
I meet my omnipresent self.

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