Celestial Cattlecall Cowboy Yogi Poems by Lee Harris





According to Sutras, Sufi

mystics and The Farmer’s Almanac

everything is going south

during this Degenerate Age

this Sid Viciousness, this

Kali Yuga...in front of me

on Dirt Street between the

Great Stupas of Swayambhu

and Boudanath—a stunted rice

diet Nepali kid suddenly squats

squirts out an ocher cow pile

and smiles quizzically into my

fat Yankee face, a flashlight

tells all, at 40 he will be

skeletal with stretched parchment

for skin, rotten betel nut teeth

lilac stained lips hacking up

bloody gobs of TB into a spit

cup...and perhaps in dreams

still wondering about that one

magic night...Tibetan monk robes

fluttering like prayer flags

over Mickey Mouse, the face

of a cheap Japanese watch






Cowboy monks don’t dance

because they’ve never been

to Cuba, yet up in the

Tiger’s Nest an old Lama

used to mambo with Lion

Headed Dakini, long before

it burnt down—a hot spot

for unspoken words.  When

I hear the guitars of the

Gandharvas, robes fly,

even my wheelchair reels

and through the eyes of my

black-eyed peas I see

shangshang birds who tango

like tumbleweeds crying out

“no-self, no death”

to the endless clang clang

clang of their bold cymbals