No need for a pilgrimage
to Machu Picchu or Katmandu.
Become empty, grow full.
You are the path.
You will not find the Goddess
at the source of the Amazon
or on a snow peak lost in clouds,
nor will you gaze on the Lord
of Mount Meru by traveling
Eastward toward sunrise.
You need to follow more intimate rivers,
the current of this inhalation
deep into the virgin wilderness
of your alveoli,
where the Mother of waters
dwells in a hidden valley
between your nipples.
Cancel your plans for the journey.
Stay Om, sink inward.
Your marrow is quicksand
covering lost gold.
Explore the secret corridors
in the vine-tangled palace of your bones.
Let this exhalation carry you
to earth's highest summit,
six inches over the soft spot on your skull
where Shiva reposes, ever awake,
his diamond eye swirling the stars
with a glance of stillness.
Light a thousand candles on
the crystal chandelier of your pituitary
hanging over the ruined ballroom
in your ancient brain.
You are the jungle that swallows
every attempt to civilize
the wild glory of the Serpent Queen.
You flower in reptilian splendor
with every poison and every medicine.
Now ripen in the sunbeam
of your own presence.
Let the stalk of your spine be clustered
with Wasai root, Tawari bark, breath
upon breath of Chacruna leaf, galaxy
upon galaxy of crushed begonia.
Spiral down the staircase of your vertebrae.
A green and beautiful world
will undulate to meet the kiss
of your descending footsteps.
Do you need a teacher?
Follow the one who is already here.
The furry one with the rippling pelt,
chestnut, roan, or the color
of moonlit wine, glistening
in the track of the snail
across the vast Caladium.
Grow full, become empty,
You are the path.