Short-shorts

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Harry never understood himself. Doubly confused, his intangible actions led to questions, too many concerns. But he was different, and that was okay by us.

Small, stout, stubborn in the haunches, he was hairy (ironic?) with a stubbed tail from the result of a virus. On all fours, Harry trotted, or more skipped, wherever he went. He licked his chops like a spoon of Jif and never gave kisses. Guests were surprised, and disappointed, this kiss-less greeting, but we were grateful especially when we’d gawk out our kitchen window, watching cute little ‘ol Harry do his business, turn around, and gobble back up those scoops of peanut butter.





The streets crowded; hot, humid, an air and the sponge of Brahma wrung above it. And there, naked, besmeared in ash, was I, bathing in Thy celestial pool of Light. I was gray. I was naked. Never happier. Ananda, oh this bliss! Shiva, oh my Lord!

A Gorakhnathis; call me a Gorakhnathi. And my Lord Shiva himself, he too, the outsider. Naked of desire, naked of necessity, and only filled with the ecstasy of ritual and devotion, I am naked. Oh ananda! Oh bliss!

My practices incorporate an intensely personal creed of Shiva chitta. My Lord’s consciousness is an interaction with the intimate and absolute look into the penance of worship. You would not understand my Tantra. Passionate? Yes. Devoid of any and all excess? Yes. Complete? Yes.

My Lord Shiva, this detachment pure, with the mudra yoga, and your coiled serpent, I sit naked in Thy celestial pool of Light. Life full, hot and humid—the vigor—I am poised in ash as nothing. Creator, Destroyer. Lord Shiva.





They call him Howie, red as Christian blood. His mail not worthy of protection, a heart too large, too strong, its rhythmic beat undulating metals throughout the blacksmith’s quarters. Archery found that pulse, his chest thumping, albeit calm and steady, yet pumping to horses’ hooves. Struck midnight, the hour upon a crisp deathbed, Howie sunk from his steed. The Inquisition found a crusader. The man hot. The man red, amber flames of a beating heart. I last saw of him, a drawn line, my eye forming projections, calculations and deductions, measurements accounted for. His face wore a mold of an old hermit with years of introversion influenced by the whispers from Her foliage and the creatures of Her grounds. My tension caught a breath, and I knew such a man, such red hands—his passion—already made his lashings, not with rope or man’s protective creed, but through words, the power of tongue—red. And through my own sting of recognition, Howie’s unflinching power, fingers slipped, my right arm relaxing, sending a projection mapping a predestined course. I last saw Howie. He was poised, my arrow piercing an armory of Soul. His red hands over me. Upon me. A red smile, the equipoise, the dawn of this last eve’s sunset. My arrow stuck from his chest like a white flag, the quiver tall. Howie grasped my hair and raised the head high like conquerors of fear. Finally, face-muscles relaxed. My jaw slumped. I was him, I was he; I thought. Blood ran down spilling onto Howie. My Christian blood! My Christian blood! He held my head high, and I saw nothing more, hearing only the cries of his name fading to a distant dream.

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Photos

Harrison
The breath of Harry often interminably unbearable.

Comments

[Mom]

really great!