If your happiness
needs a reason
you're out of luck
on this planet.
If your joy must
be earned
you'll never notice
weeds blossoming
from cracks.
Perfection is a waste
of time, because it already
happened, scattering
its chaos of silken chances
into the dark wind.
Every mistake is a crystal
that makes angels
want to visit this place,
to sharpen their eyesight
on jagged edges,
shattered tears.
Like them, we sift through
shards of heaven,
half-remembered dreams,
and use them as kindling
to build a flesh-fire,
burning up pain
in deeper pain.
Only here, in this moment,
can you ever arrive
and find the berry bush
in the forest where
your beloved's bones
have been picked clean,
then weep without a choice.
You've been trying too hard
to stay sober, friend.
Just watch the galaxies
spin and dance inside
your belly button.
Witness moon-rise
in your forehead,
the glittering night
behind your eyes.
The lens through which
you see is what
you're looking for,
the mirror of the cosmos
in a grief drop.
This search for awakening
will only make you sleepy.
Just cry “Kali Kali Ma!”
Then drink the milk
you've been drowning in
since your first breath.
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