At Vulture Peak
Andreas, we met at the Burmese Vihara
in Bodhgaya, and it was like a burst of
forked lightning across the dry Serengeti.
Growing up absurd in communist Germany
until 1989, when the unbelievable happened,
the Wall fell like Jericho, and the world
outside became a possibility, and you set
out for India, flower power's last hideout
on a planet filled with poison and noise.
We meditated under a rising moon in front
of the Bodhi Tree, ate plates of momo's
at the Tibetan dining tents, smoked bidi's
and drank endless cups of chai, and I
told you all the stories I could remember
from the Haight Ashbury, stuff I hadn't
thought about in years, growing excited
to watch you getting so excited, and you
explained sex and rock 'n roll under socialism.
Then we took the bus together to Rajgir,
got a room with one big bed at the Tourist
Bungalow, clattered off on a donkey cart
to see the stone ruins of Nalanda, and
climbed next morning up to Vulture Peak,
Gridhkuta, where Buddha gave the first
Mahayana teachings to several thousands
of bodhisattvas and arhats, the Four
Deva Kings, and a vast assembly of gods,
dragons, yakshas, asuras, and gandharvas:
we found a secluded place to sit and
meditate on the windy peak overlooking
a forested plain, until the sun went down
and we got run off by a scolding Indian
cop, clearly a non-meditator, who warned
of thieves and murderers in the night.
And the next morning I woke beside you
in our translucent bed as India's sunlight
streamed through the mosquito net upon
our naked bodies, my hand on your little
Saxon bottom forever.