I. INTRODUCTION

When the buddybardo MOMO PRAJÑAPUTA
was coursing through the mystical mires of Mephistophelia,
by chance, mysteriously by chance, he came upon
a curious-looking vivid green florescence
called: THE LOTUS OF JOYOUS DESTRUCTION.
Being a connoisseur of rare stamens
and an admirer of exquisite pistils,
the Momo was aware of what the flower was;
he had heard legends and fantastic tales
from the equanimously salivating mouths
of the ancient wise Niemandichters,
describing its magical properties.

Thus spoke the sages of transcendental masturbation:
“Oh, MOMO PRAJÑAPUTA, devotee of the orbs,
inhabitor of gilded wastelands, seeker
of serpentine paths in the sky that lead
into the cholesterol-stiffened heart of hoary history—
You are a virus in the cancerous flesh of humanity,
a generous infection, an errant sperm
in the violated vagina of the void.
Oh Prajñaputa, you are not human . . .
You are the flushed skin of a question,
the space beyond an ellipsis.
That is why you must know about
THE LOTUS OF JOYOUS DESTRUCTION.

“Before this civilization, when the heavens rained
a natural death, it was cultivated by the
long-eared ones as a cure for the illness of the universe.
It is Truth which is not Truth, a Way
which is Wayless, Light beyond Light.
Oh Prajñaputa, Time is not Time
and Poetry is not Poetry!
THE LOTUS OF SMILING MORTALITY, it is also called.
Its petals are kisses of disaster,
and it grew in the anonymous garden of the mind
before we were born.

“But alas, all is forgotten. . . .
What’s left are mere words, disconnected
strange beckonings, dark promises in the ruins
of time-wrecked articulations. It is said
that in the center of the flower there is a GLAD ABYSS.
Oh Prajñaputa, you must touch the center!
You must become a mortal among ghosts
and a ghost among machines.

“We do not know if the Lotus still exists.
(Surely, it does not exist.) But hear:
DO NOT SEEK THE LOTUS IN WORDS, Oh Puta!
Go THROUGH significance.
Open your eyes to NOTHINGNESS.
And should you find the lovely green blossom,
should you plunge into the Glad Abyss,
kiss it for us—with tongue.”



II. MOMO IN THE (UN-)REALMS OF INFINITE SUFFERING

The Momo was overjoyed. There before him,
dripping a nectar of luscious ontology, shone the Lotus.
In its presence, all the categories of perception seemed
to liquefy: space and time, cause and effect were mingling
with the gentle music of sitars and lutes in the sky.
Hummingbirds and butterflies circled Momo’s head with a halo
of living wings. In his chest, there was an ocean of awe
and waves of numinous tranquility. The Lotus pulsated
angelically, its aura warm and loving as a summer morning’s sun.

Suddenly, a thought occurred: You are that.
It struck softly at first—a mere whisper—and like temple bells
grew louder and more astonishing.
You are that . . . That is you . . . YOU ARE THAT.
And as Momo stared into the center of the flower,
his world began spinning and he felt sick; a swirling vortex
opened behind his eyes; the undulating petals formed
a multi-dimensional, symmetrically transmuting, kaleidoscopic
display, consuming his being, blossoming as him—
The Lotus was everywhere, the Universe alive, the Mind
exploding ineffable mysteries—all plunging into an infinite hole.
But the last thing Momo saw, as his body gave way
to the all-penetrating light, was a Worm.

When the Momo awoke, something had changed.
He was no longer in the ecstatic dimension, but surrounded
by a landscape of grotesque and shadowy forms.
They looked human-like, but warped and deranged,
moving slowly and aimlessly, oozing thick black blood
from open wounds, and mumbling a language so slurred
that it appeared to seep from their mouths and drip to the
ground in slimy clumps. Some of the forms were having sex
in troughs of mud, hellishly grunting and moaning; others were
bashing each other with merciless fists, till one lay unconscious
and twitching in the dirt. Momo was seized by Terror.

When the monsters scented his fear, they began approaching.
What was he to do? Momo looked to the Sky, where
only moments before an innocent blue serenely smiled.
Now a torpid sea of putrefied flesh scowled. He looked
to the Earth, where the Lotus had been—now a charred and
mangled stalk lay wasted. What had happened?
Questions raced through Momo’s mind. He wanted to run
but his legs were withered. He took a deep breath, but the air
was pervaded by violent vibrations and he coughed up
a mouthful of blood. He closed his eyes and felt his
heart thundering. His hands were trembling. He begged
desperately, “What should I do? What should I do?”
Meanwhile, the forms were getting closer.

Momo could not withstand the spiraling pain of his visions.
He wanted to die—fast. But amidst the confusion,
a saving power was welling up in his inner ear.
It sounded first like a low, deep, droning,
incomprehensible chant, trailing off with an eerie groan.
Then a voice resounded: LOOK AT YOUR MIND!
It boomed through his brain and bounced off the insides
of Momo’s skull. This is only your mind, the voice continued,
and with a shock of recognition, Momo realized whose
voice it was. It was the Niemandichter, Goenkaverga,
communicating from the Immanent-Beyond.

In a flash of insight, Momo opened his eyes.
The forms were now upon him, their bodies even more hideous
up close. With razor-sharp fingernails, the crazed figures
began clawing at Momo’s limbs. They tore into his skin and
Momo screeched in horror as a scrap of muscle fell from
one of his legs. This is only my mind—Momo mantrified urgently,
in his own voice this time. Another demon slashed
at Momo’s throat and he felt the blood spurt from his neck.
A wave of anger surged in his chest and Momo was about to
strike back, when he noticed, with utter bewilderment,
that all the forms were weeping.



III. THE SUPREME LOTUS-HEART TRANSFIGURATION

Momo fell to the ground, a heap of sorrow,
while the demons scraped away at his flesh, their trickling
tears sizzling on skin. But the Momo had just entered
another space. Or rather, he became a space. Or perhaps
he had been that space all along. In any case, the Momo,
verily the Prajñaputa, let go, and with perfect awareness
and equipoise, watched as the forms completed their carnage.
It was pure agony, madly excruciating, to witness
the disintegration of his body, piece by piece.
But in the soft, clear glow of flowing awareness, the Momo
was peacefully whole.

In the silvery precision of awareness, Momo had actualized
the state known as rumikalpa samadhi—so named
because in the hyperbolic bliss of this transcendence,
the Self is transfigured into a whirling, rhyming, mocking,
smiling body of poetic luminosity. And so it transpired
with Momo—for as he gazed upon the tormented forms,
at first with a doleful then an empty eye, he glimpsed,
in their lachrymose lenses, the glimmering reflections
of an Infinite Love, and his heart was flickering
with that same Fire.

And then, as Momo’s ribcage was being ruthlessly dismantled,
a wondrous event took place. From the pile of splintered bones
and shredded guts and spilt hemoglobin, a sliver of light
broke forth. And then another . . . And another . . .
And the flourishing beams lasered through the foggy forms,
splitting open the heavens, racing upwards and vanishing in the
brilliantly naked space. The radiant rays vaporized
the very notion of separate existence; in their wake, all the forms
were revealed as but manifestations of an Illimitable One.
And their source, in Momo’s chest, was none other than
the Lotus itself—the Lotus of Indestructible Poetry.

The divinely mad Momo had yet another vision:
When the luminous Lotus was fully blossomed in his heart,
it began waxing and rising, unfurling more sensuous petals,
and saturating the firmament with the sweet fragrance of
loving-kindness. It became the Sun of the world, drenching
the Earth with a golden warmth. Into its soft heat, the eternal
tears of the forms evaporated, molecularizing in mists above,
then condensing in rains of compassionate joy, in endless cycles.
(Later, Momo would observe, comically, that rain or shine, some
forms were in the habit of always carrying an umbrella.)

When the rains hit one particular spot,
the same where Momo had been ecstatically mutilated,
a new lotus sprouted up from the ground and bloomed.
Momo materialized in a shaft of light, his body restored.
He gazed thoughtfully upon the bizarre botanical phenomenon.
A subtle gust of wind brushed his cheek. Momo took a deep
breath, letting the humble grandeur of the moment soak in.
Then he understood it was time to go, and with artless
acquiescence, he closed his eyes and sank into the void.
A moment later, he resurfaced, folded his hands in silent prayer
and smiled. . . . The Lotus, beautiful as ever, let a single petal
fall quietly to the earth, as Momo turned and ambled away.



Despite living in the outdoor athlete's paradise that is Boulder, 28-year-old Marco Morelli spends all day in meditation or working on his computer. Sometimes he even gets to sleep.