Some Temples

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.