Friction Of Breath

A friction of breath on breath
ignites the fire of the Beloved in your body.
If you need a reason to be born, this is good enough.

A Goddess of inconceivable beauty longs to nurse you
with braided streams of wild starlight.
There has never been a more perfect time than this to breathe.

Because you have lost the way to the palace of your thalamus,
your pineal minaret, the cavern where your pituitary hangs
like a luminous spider in a web of moonbeams,
you must live in a world of blood-stained shadows.

But when grace overflows your soul,
taking the form of gristle and bone,
the corpse of God turns back into bread and rosé.
There’s a reason why pain has shaped you into a dark chalice.

Repose in the silent kiss of inhalation and sighing,
the touch of So’ham inside your chest.
This is the sound of returning, again and again, to your Self.
When the dream of the cloud evaporates in love's sky,
the double vision of inner and outer disappears.

Your spirit reposes in your body like a hand
slapping a newborn infant.
Your flesh becomes diaphanous, blown sand
caramelized in the furnace of heaven.
You sheathe a warrior’s blade
in the softest rise and fall of your belly.

What you called your soul is a dark blue yoni
inside the silver flame of your backbone,
this smokeless wick of yearning where
earth dangles from the sun by a nerve of lightning.

Exhale, expel a phalanx of demons.
Inhale, welcome hosts of angels
under the lintel of your missing rib.
You are just a doorkeeper; why did you think you were here?

Your willingness to surrender and do nothing,
even for a moment in this royal house of dust,
heals oceans and forests, loam and stone
for a thousand feet down, ancestors and the unborn
for seven generations, future and past. 

 

You have no business understanding this.
Just practice Being in your body.
With the sun and moon in your eyes,
turn every stranger's wounded gaze into a cave of diamonds.

Yet if your intellect must crunch numbers, chaw on this.
In the beginning, Zero was empty.
Then earth and her creatures multiplied Zero by 10 trillion.
Of course, 0 x 10⁷ = 0.
But now, Zero is full.



Photo by Aile Shebar