Cambodia breathes.
The
jungle is dark green and hot,
thin
yellow prison bars falling
through
the canopy of Strangler Figs,
Mai-Sak,
palms, Silk-Cottons.
The
monsoons are a month away,
and
the stone Buddha spikes a fever.
Ferns
and bamboo choke the temple,
prana
and kundalini strangled
below
the crumbling sandstone and bricks.
A
hundred yards away,
a
fighter jet screaming Vietnam
hangs
in the trees, a metal skeleton
with
broken and rusted chakras
sacrificed
to Charlie, G. I. Joe, the Cong.
Macaques
climb the vines
twisting
around the filigreed chedis,
clamber
over the Buddha,
eyes
closed as he ponders in peace
the
fact that his left ear is gone
from
rot or riotous cluster bombs.
The
monkeys are inquisitive, demanding.
Who
is the sandstone god?
Who
is the prophet, the maker of worlds
consumed
by artillery and missile strikes?
Where
are the avatars dressed in olive drab,
in
cone hats and black pajamas?
What
is the mystery of the shrine
tended
only by the python and cobra king?
The
blue marble breathes.
The
ad men on Madison Avenue pitch their tags.
They
fornicate and ride the shafts to Shangri-La
while
their wives bake and smoke
and
make love to the cabana boys out back.
Priests
and whores clamber over rocks,
pavement,
and pews to worship the sun and the moon.
Who
is the sandstone god?
Who
is the prophet, the maker of worlds?
Monkeys
swing from New York to L.A.,
smoking
ganja in tweed and conical hats,
inquisitive
and demanding as they try
and
try again to decipher hieroglyphics
from
a race of apes in swaddling clothes
and
black pajamas and wooly mammoth skins.
What
is the mystery of the shrine?
It
is a primitive world missing the Buddha’s ear
that
pirouettes in space and spins, spins, spins.
~William Hammett
Copyright 2025 William Hammett
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