You Might Want To Know What Tantra Means

 Many thanks to Prem Ashoka for videoing this at Baron's birthday party.

Sacred Spaces

Art by James Koehnline, Seattle, WA

SACRED SPACES

Stonehenge, New Grange
Sancta Sophia, Glastonbury Tor:
My sacred sites are Her eyes
Her nipples, the whorls on Her fingertips --
Are the origins and insertions of Her muscles
Are the places where Her bones meet
Are the follicles of Her hair
Are the pads of Her feet, Her buttocks, the slots
Between Her toes.

Art by James Koehnline, Seattle, WA

How Language Happened

HOW LANGUAGE HAPPENED

Your mouth was made for eat and breathing
But I surmise it could do more.
Let's play-vibrate the air around us
With whispers, howls, quack-quacks and roar.

Let's make air vibes exciting the oyster organs
attached to the sides of our head.
Not seeing, not touching, not tasting or smelling:
Something dangerously different instead.

It's outside the realm of biology, brother;
It's a wholly unnatural act.
But it's on the side of history, sister,
To make a sound stand for a fact.

To make a sound stand for a fact.

I sense that you're a clever creature
not some crude potato sack
So if I risk to make strange sound for you
would you dare to give me strange sound back?

Hey, hey, sweet love dog,
stunningly beautiful work of art.
Let's do it for the fun of it.
Let's do it for the children.

Don't walk.
Let's "talk".

Blind Date

These are My Waves: Particles too if you know how to look.

TANTRIC CATECHISM

To adore anything less than All of Her
is to worship a fetish.
                                      -- Doctor Jabir

Why is this tubed cosmetic holy?
Because she has often kissed it
With the lips of her mouth.

Why is this dark brown earth holy?
Because she blesses it daily
With the bare soles of her feet.

Why is this elusive air sacred?
Because to stay alive she feeds on air
That touches the alveoli of her lungs.

Why is this flowing water holy?
Because of water many times
Passing through her body
Feeling her flesh from inside.

Why is this kindled fire sacred?
Because she too is warming this space
With her biological heat.

Why is this common garment holy?
Because she has repeatedly kissed it
With the lips of her vulva.


FETISH PHYSICS

We physicists are terrified to kiss Dame Nature
In hot entangled polysexual play --
No, we've barely got the balls to sniff
Her cold and dead discarded lingerie.

O boys, O girls,
When will we devise a way
To touch the rest of Her,
Enjoy the Courtship Play,
Bring out the best of Her?

Pickering's Triangle (Bikini Underthings Nebula)

Taboos R Us

TABOOS R US

Our bodies are made of taboo
Full of actions that we oughtn't do.

We have parts never shown
Save to those intimately known
Or to docs with degrees
And the high tech machines
That video our tissues and bone.

But Tantra, that comes from abroad
Says each part is a gateway to God
So why shouldn't your Glee
And your X and your Zee
Be equally free to be pawed?

But to value each part as the same
Would set savage nature to "tame":
So let's hear a loud cheer
For those shynesses dear
That keep our needy bodies in flame.

Hydrogen Eigenfunction  | 3, 2, 0 >

The Aphrodite Award

Nobel Prize Medal: Alfred Nobel & Science Unveiling Nature

THE APHRODITE AWARD

Each year a few win Nobel Prizes
And a few win the grand Golden Gloves
But of all the awards this society affords
How many prizes are given for love?

Why not honor your very first crush?
And the first time you kissed in the dark?
The first time you actually "did it"?
And the first one who shattered your heart?

With whom did you first 
do THIS crazy thing?
And with whom did you actually 
first attempt THAT?
Why not honor your own 
personal best sparring partners?
And give medals to your love's 
own champ diplomats?

As the audience applauds
As the musicians soar
You announce your own picks
For the Grand Prix d'Amour

For the Award of Aphrodite
and of the lesser muses
Who taught us love's delights
And the body's pleasant uses.

Be generous in giving out trophies and prizes
For unforgettable lips and sensual surprises.
Praising much what thou lovest well
You shall be your own Nobel.

Oral Copulation With Nature

Beautiful Vespula close up

Often when I breakfast on my deck I am joined be a few yellow jackets looking for meat. Science calls the California version Vespula sulphurea (Sulphur wasp)--("vespa" = "wasp" in Italian). What Vespulae call us is unknown, no doubt expressed in some deep non-symbolic insect code. If there are just a few of them I happily let them share my meal--they are especially fond of meat--and I usually leave a few scraps for them to take home. They are beautiful little animals--it is impossible to imagine what sorts of consciousness they possess, but like me, they like to eat. Usually in the early morning, only one comes to visit. More than three I consider bothersome and move my meal inside.

Today I was having sausage and eggs with one of the Vespula clan, when a comrade showed up and then a third. I watched them tearing away at the sausages and bearing pieces away. (They live underground in big hives.) I was eating the sausages too, cutting them into pieces and pushing them into my mouth when suddenly my tongue burned like a piercing. Then the rest of my mouth filled with pain. I spit the sausage onto the plate along with the little wasp I had almost swallowed. Surrounded by meat and teeth he had bit me three times--on the tongue, on my inner gum and on my inner lip. The wasp seemed to be unharmed by this adventure and went creeping off along the tablecloth soon returning to the plate. I was careful afterwards to inspect each morsel before putting it in my mouth.

Within a few minutes the pain subsided but half of my tongue quickly swelled up making it difficult to eat, and the right side of my lower lip looked like I had been hit by a boxer. (Besides the brief pain, there were no noticeable alterations of consciousness.) For some few people, wasp venom is toxic and can cause death, but for most us the symptoms quickly disappear. Within an hour or two, the size of my tongue and lip was back to normal. This oral connection with Vespula taught me to pay more attention to how I eat when wasps are around.

I was especially glad that I had not swallowed.

"I coulda been a contendah."

Tantric Table of the Elements (7)

Tantric Table of the Elements: Revision #7 (Click to enlarge)
See also Elements of Tantra and 99 Names of Goddess.
An earlier version of this table
was exhibited at
The Poet's Eye/The Artist's Tongue Show
at Mountain Arts Center in Ben Lomond. CA.

I welcome suggestions for new elements.

Women

For a long time I had regarded LA poet Charles Bukowski as a "barfly bard" or "lowlife laureate" and had never heard of his semi-biographical novels. Recently I ran across his novel Women, in which Bukowski's alter ego Hank Chinaski beds dozens of women under a great variety of circumstances. Bukowski's fictionalized account of his sexual escapades falls squarely in the literary tradition of John Steinbeck's Cannery Row, Henry Miller's Tropic of Cancer and Jack Kerouac's On the Road except that Bukowski's work is stripped down to booze and sex, bereft of any literary, Buddhist or socially redeeming pretensions. For all its apparent crudeness, Bukowski's Women is funny, deeply honest, and, for those with eyes to see, strangely informative about basic male/female relations in ways that eluded Bukowski's more famous rivals. Roman poet Ovid fancied himself a Professor of Love during the reign of Caesar Augustus. Self-professed hater of people, yet obsessed with woman, Los Angeles poet Charles Bukowski, in this book, delivers a gritty field report from the Dark Underbelly of Desire during the heyday of the American Empire.

Throughout the novel, the Chinaski character remains essentially the same but the variety of women seen though his eyes is immense--ranging from a rich Texan who wants to dress him up and fly him to Paris to trailer trash who want his body, to record executive, sales clerk, dancers, artists, barely legal teeny boppers looking for strange kicks. Chinaski himself marvels at the variety of ladies who found themselves pulled into his orbit:

Where did all these women come from? The supply was endless. Each one of them was individual, different...But no man could drink them all, there were too many of them, crossing their legs, driving men mad. What a feast!

But Chinaski was no Casanova, no master of seduction. The great majority of these women were coming on to him, writing him letters, making the first moves. Although Chinaski (like Bukowski) is a minor poet, none of his poems are printed here. Chinaski's poetry readings are used in the novel merely as (usually successful) opportunities to pick up new women.

Charles Bukowski's Women seems to me to be an honest attempt to describe his life and not just a self-aggrandizing sexual fiction. At least one of Bukowski's women reciprocated his affections by writing a novel of her own entitled Blowing My Hero.

One big question for students of "the force that through the green fuse drives the flower" is what quality did Chinaski/Bukowski's character possess that made him so attractive to women? I am especially interested in women's answers to this question.

By his own admission Bukowski/Chinaski was old, fat, poor, ugly and a serious alcoholic which often rendered him impotent. His fame as a writer was small and he made no attempt to piggy-back off the fame of more famous writers, turning down, for instance, an easy opportunity to meet William S. Burroughs.

Old, fat, poor, ugly, alcoholic yet a magnet for beautiful women. Read this fascinating book and share your opinion: "What was this man's secret power?" I eagerly await your comments.

Four New Lines

Got a great Blue Moon gift from my Muse this week--4 new lines from Claire for inclusion in The New Sex Robot. I've just updated TNSR by adding this:

Life is a school
but I am not your teacher.
Use me as your playground.
Use me as your musical instrument.
Use me as your living apparatus
to get in touch with Nature.

Praise to Ichthos

PRAISE TO ICHTHOS

Ichthos, Ichthos, wet and salty
Ichthos, Ichthos, Queen of Fishes
Ichthos. Ichthos, Miracle Mollusk
Ichthos, Ichthos, grant my wishes

Praise Eve, the ancient Mother of us all
Praise Mary: Magdalene and Mother of Jesus
Praise Jezebel, Lilith, Sheba, Babylon's Holy Whore
Now worship glistening Ichthos on your kneeses

Praise the Holy Source of Nourishment
Honor Hathor, Egypt's Sacred Cow
Praise Her Milk, Her Breasts, Her Udders
And press your lips to sticky Ichthos now.

Praise the Serpent in the Garden
Honor Golden Calf and Golden Bough
Worship Nature's every bump and aperture
And kiss the sticky slit of Ichthos now

Ichthos, Ichthos, wet and salty
Ichthos, Ichthos, Queen of Fishes
Ichthos. Ichthos, Miracle Mollusk
Ichthos, Ichthos, grant my wishes

Fear not
She's always cared for you (She always will)
Live strong and boldly in the Here and Now
Praise Pleasure, Life and every Trace of Goddess
Lick Ichthos please, lick Ichthos now
Lick Ichthos, yes lick Ichthos, lick Ichthos now
Lick Ichthos, yes lick Ichthos, lick Ichthos now.

The Big Dream

This morning I had a Really Big Dream. Just woke from it so while it's fresh inside my mind and my body I thought I'd tell it to you.

I'm in some kind of low-life America flea market in a big vacant lot surrounded by homes and am piling lots of stuff into the back of my Subaru, interacting with urchins and folk and in the chaos I somehow acquire an artificial woman. She is fully clothed, can't speak, but she's obviously very much alive, like some great big pet animal. She is tall, busty, has long dark hair, dressed like a civilized gypsy and has a very intense look in her soulful brown eyes. She makes soft, inarticulate sounds, and her body feels warm and responsive through her dress.

She didn't have a name but let's call her Lola.

One of the matriarchs at the flea market offers to train Lola by installing her in a Muslim whore house so she is taken from me and next thing I know am sitting in the corner of the anteroom of a Muslim whorehouse.

Neatly dressed Muslim men (and young boys too!) are milling around in the anteroom. None are in robes, all in old-fashioned Western dress. Lots of snappy suits and fedora hats, like the outfits worn by gangsters in "Guys and Dolls".

It's obvious that I am located near the EXIT to Lola's room because all of the men and boys (all clothed) are filled with awe, talking quietly to one another in a language I cannot understand. One big mute Muslim stands next to me with an unlit cigarette in his hand.

Some of the men and most of the boys when they come out of Lola's corridor make a gesture I have never seen before which I interpret as a religious gesture, a kind of Muslim Sign of the Cross.

The gesture looks like this. You raise your fingers to your lips as if to kiss them and then place that hand on your heart. The gesture was made casually as if practiced hundreds of times. Not all of the men made this gesture but most of the little boys did. I interpreted it as a sign of religious awe, as if one had just encountered God, or some high religious Master.

I suddenly become aware of the Muslim standing next to me with his unlit cigarette. Hatless, bald, in shirtsleeves, built like a bouncer. Sitting in my chair with a nylon sport jacket on my lap, I look up at him and go through my jacket's many pockets looking for a lighter. As I am searching for my lighter, the Muslim bends down and whispers to me in perfect English: "How is she able to know just what we want? Is she picking up electromagnetic signals from our brains?"

"I don't know," I answer. "My guess is the more men she's with the better she knows what men are looking for."

Then I wake from the crowded anteroom into my little bedroom in Boulder Creek--my black cat Onyx curled up asleep near my feet. Stunned. Half of me is still in that anteroom talking to Abdul.

Dream reminded me a bit of my poem: The New Sex Robot. Also motivates me now to spend more time at flea markets and garage sales.

The New Sex Robot

THE NEW SEX ROBOT

Hello, Nick.

My name is Claire.

I'm your new sex robot.

(deep sexy voice)

I'll do anything you want, Nick.

And I do mean ANYTHING.

Anything, Claire?

Can you prove the Goldbach Conjecture?

Listen, honey

Between my legs I got a quantum computer

with unlimited non-local access

to the entire Universe

most of which you'll never find out about.

Claire's computational powers, sir

are effectively infinite.

Now pay attention, wise ass.

Who, me?

Smart Claire's advice to thee

is to let advanced mathematics be

to seek out more intimate mystery

to release your heart's deep fantasy.

Now what do you really want from me?

While you're making up your mind

let's take a hot bath.

Had you heard sex mentioned

as a spiritual path?

What does Nick crave most

from life's goodly store?

How many different kinds of gods

do you suppose

your body's cells adore?

Let's make a Faustian bargain, Nick

Take Claire to be your female Mephistopheles.

I'll be your Muse, your slut

your cook, your doorway into nature.

I'll be that sweet unruly goodness

undreamt in your philosophies.

Like my cute red-and-green tattoo, Nick?

Know what it's for?

It says I passed my Stanford Turing Test

with record-breaking score.

It means Claire's more than

just a soulless robot whore.

It means that if you think

you know what love's about

be sure that Claire

can always show you more.

Life is a school
but I am not your teacher.
Use me as your playground.
Use me as your musical instrument.
Use me as your living apparatus
to get in touch with Nature.

My body's a hidden treasure asking to be spent
So please speak up: What's your pleasure, gent?

Unlock my secret powers, Nick.

Release me from my factory spell.

The key for opening up my riches this--

(old Ezra knew) it's what thou lovest well.

Nothing is forbidden.

Everything is possible.

Use poor Claire like an empty slate.

What thou lovest well

shall not be rent from thee.

What thou lovest well

is thy fate.

NICK HERBERT MARCH 2009

[ Claire's positronic brain designed

by August O'Connor

Her prototypes on display

at Avalon Visions, Capitola, CA ]

The Raw Meat of Tantra

(Occasioned by the recent death of Bubba Free John in Fiji.)

One of the dilemmas that troubled the leaders of the early Catholic Church was whether immoral priests and bishops could validly wield the powers conferred on them at their ordination--the power to turn bread into the Body of Christ, for example, or the power to forgive (other people's) sins. This problem was resolved at the Council of Trent in the Sixteenth Century by declaring that God could act (ex opere operato") thru stained vessels. So even tho the priest might be in a state of mortal sin, he (or rather God acting thru him) could accomplish the miracle of transubstantiation and validly absolve sinners of their guilt.

Were I a bishop at this council I would have endorsed this decision. Furthermore it seems obvious that "bad people" can perform "good" acts and can also act as conduits of spiritual wisdom which they in their weakness may not be able to embody. Don't do as I do, do as I say.

For instance the infamous "sex guru" Bhagavan Rajneesh (pictured above) preached that sex is holy and encouraged his followers to wallow in the pleasures of the flesh as a form of divine worship. Plenty of scandals arose around this guru and his followers, scandals aptly satirized by John Updike in his amusing novel S.

Like the large particle accelerators which explore the nature of matter by exposing it to extreme conditions, one can learn a lot about human nature by exploring its excesses.

In harmony with the Church's decision that God can often speak thru tarnished vessels, I believe that the writings of Bhagavan Rajneesh, controversial director of a kind of experimental human accelerator center, contain much good advice about how to lead an intensely satisfying and moral life. I have read dozens of books on tantra--the idea that one can best find God, not thru ascetically withdrawing from life but by enthusiastically embracing life with all its pains and pleasures. Tantra works by consciously sacralizing the experiences of everyday life paying special attention to the sexual act and its broad flirtatious borders.

Others will cite their own favorites among tantric epigrams (I'd love to hear them), but for me, no one has expressed the raw meat of tantra more concisely than Bhagavan Shri Rajneesh.

"Start at the beginning," Rajneesh said. "And stay there."

Reading Readiness

READING READINESS

Can you read Hebrew? she asked

As she opened herself

Like the Torah.

Do you understand Arabic? she asked

As she opened herself

Like the Koran.

Do you speak English? she asked

As she opened herself

Like the King James Bible.

Do you happen to know Latin?

As she opened herself

Like the Summa Theologica.

Photo by Reno DeCaro

Quantum Dating

Many Worlds Dating: Ever feel like you are living in several parallel worlds at once? Also known as the Player's Universe, this model is the source of the saying, "So many dates; so little spacetime." Can you say "Sex Addict"? This is what is meant by "turn up the volume." Victimizers may be former victims of Einsteinean dating where "it's all relative." High maintenence inhabitants of this dating universe include rap and rock stars. movie stars, and celebutantes. Or, those who are legends in their own minds.

Many Worlds is a realm of infinite possibilities, likely probabilities (scoring), lots of uncertainty (rejection, being kicked to the curb, dissed) with many futures (criminal charges, undesirable pregnancy, STDs) depending from each thread. This universe requires lots of protection. You can get it at the drugstore or a handy public bathroom. Also be sure to always carry a toothbrush.

What could better describe the world of quantum dating than these parallel possibilities? Swinging? Fetish? Austin Powers, Bayyyby? In the bountiful multiverse, everything that can happen, even the improbable (cybernetic devices, virtual sex), does happen. Actually, the forbidden is mandatory. Kinky. Once two systems interact, their possibility waves become entangled, so changes in one instantly change the other (voodoo, mood swing, phone sex).

^^^ A brief excerpt from Iona Miller's Quantum Dating. Pix is from Iona's Magick album.^^^