Ask a
child to point to the heart. Ask a Zen master to point to the heart. Ask an
indigenous shaman to point to the heart. They will point... to the
heart.
This
bloody fruit at the center of the body: they will point to this! For those thirst
for life, heart means heart. The heart’s beauty lies in its physiology, not
in its metaphysics.
Your heart
a red pump, meaty twin-chambered dualist muscle of diastole, systole, in, out,
rough shuddering blast site of anxiety and yearning, rage and unspeakable
sorrow, well of tears in the desolation of love.
Heart a
cosmos of atoms in the darkest cavern of your sobbing ribs, crimson
resonance of electro-magnetism, syncopated vibration of very Matter, a
field outdistancing its cruciform, yet deeply embodied in your sacred
weight.
Heart a
locus where all other hearts conspire to be your heart, a hologram among
your bones, mingling rays of inter-planetary information through the vacuum in each
pulse.
Heart
the sinew and neurology of Light, portal to the first Word, embryonic Sun,
floating in sea womb of lymph and marrow.
Organ
of mere blood, the rainbow spectrum of whose power is rooted in gravity, yet
widens into the white empyrean, beyond the elements, ringing as music in a
quintessential unstruck bell, chiming every proton out of its star.
This
sacrament, this hungering love, this opening wound, your heart…