Ask a child to point to it. Ask a Zen master to point to it. Ask an indigenous shaman to point to the heart. They will all point... to the heart.
This bloody fruit at the center of the body, just this, no new-age hip-hop chakra jazz.
We who thirst for life know that heart means heart. It’s beauty lies in physiology, not metaphysics.
My heart a meaty twin-chambered cabbage of duality: diastole and systole, arterial in, venous out, bright scarlet to deep purple, glowing green.
My heart a rough shuddering blast site of anxiety and yearning, rage and unspeakable sorrow, well of tears in love’s desolation.
My heart a cosmos of atoms in the darkest cavern of Adam's ribs, infra-red magnetic resonance with the lion in the jungle and the prisoner on death row.
My heart the reggae vibration of a field outdistancing its cruciform, yet deeply embodied in sacred mass.
My heart a hologram where all hearts conspire to be mine, locus among bones, mingling rays of inter-galactic information.
A black hole in each beat generating stars, alien races longing to become human in my pulse.
Heart the sinew of sound in “Let there be Light"; "Ya Hi Or” a portal to the first Word, the embryonic Son, floating in wombs of sea lymph and mountain marrow.
Organ of mere blood, the rainbow spectrum of whose power is rooted in gravity, yet widens to the white empyrean, beyond the elements.
Ringing with the quintessential music of the unstruck bell, chiming each proton out of its star.
This hungering love, this open wound, this sacrament, my heart…