American Book of the Dead


Poem by Prem Geet

Eulogy for a Friend in Bardo State

The wind blew extra hard
The night before you died
shattering the moon.

You speed across star fields
For 40 of our days
As rumored by ancient
Esoteric scriptures,
To the faint rise of our songs
and tears and finally,
reach a threshold
of pure light.

Threshold pure light

It feels like
you already
Us, with so much new
In front of your eyes. Did you?

Death is a new country,
That’s all. You are
Drinking space, copious amounts
Of space.
Quick that bond
Of love held fierce
In gravity, your attention fixed to
Amazing new vistas meant only for you.

The moon too, unreliable, only
a delicate glass plate, breakable,
table for one,
shattering projections of
Lasting love and fullness. I am so pissed
Off. The moon
is suddenly not
an ancient ball of
Wisdom hiding Jain gods
Or souls or dusty footprints
Of heroes.

And by the way, No, No, No, Jim Morrison did not
Skip town after being abducted and have plastic
Surgery, becoming
Barry Manilow or Barry’s lookalike
to keep his Vegas show alive
As Italian news gossiped
To people who could barely hear this
Frequency above the roaring visceral pleasures of
espresso. It was a slow news day.
Too slow to
Just Say
he died. So dance
with Jim Morrison
And all past poets and songsters and gypsies
And smirking philosophers using
Language like a cat’s cradle.

Dance across star fields,
Singing, to hell masks (do not be afraid)
Left and right,
Flirting with far-out spiritual beauties left and right,
(stay focused on the clearest
white light of discernment)
You are moving
To the end of things known,
Following a dark rainbow.

Oh mother of existence
how can you
like this, born
into a hairy world of diesel
fumes and melting ice cream, and dirty
maybe death is just
insatiable curiosity

I went for years where not one fortune cookie came true

My friend, I am so sorry.
I can escort you
Only this far,
To the end of the end.

I still live down here on this twirling ball of stone.
Forgive my short attention span,
I love you infinitely in my imperfect way,
With room now only for daily dread and constant
minor miracles
Like birds hopping near the dumpster, and a tipping coffee
that should have spilled but didn’t,
A so-so sunset.

Did you reach
that doorway
where we ignite,
a flashpoint of
And cross
out of time?

Poem by Prem Geet

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