No Pilgrimage

No need for a pilgrimage to Machu Picchu,
or a hike on your knees to the Black Virgin

of Rocomador.

Just become empty and grow full.

You are the path.

You will not find Her at the source
of the Amazon, or a snow peak lost

in clouds on Mount Meru.

Traveling Eastward toward the dawn

will get you no closer to the sun.

You need to float
down more intimate rivers,

the current of this inhalation

deep into the ancient forest of your alveoli,

where the Mother of waters dwells
in a hidden valley between your nipples.

Cancel your plans for the journey.

Stay Om and sink into your marrow,
that quicksand full of lost gold.

Explore 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 in his cavern of crystal harps

singing with no sound,

that one still sleepless diamond eye
swirling with all the stars.

Light a thousand candles on

the 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,

your pollen cup swollen
with every poison, every medicine.

Now ripen in the sunbeam of Presence
that shines neither outward nor inward,
but swirls with namelessness
in the stillness of your unborn heart.

Let the stalk of your spine be clustered

with Wasai root, Tawari bark,
breath upon breath of Chacruna leaf,
galaxy of galaxies of crushed begonia.

If you have the courage to let go,

spiraling waylessly down
the staircase of your vertebrae,
a green and terrible world of
ineffable beauty will undulate up

to meet the kiss of your descending

footsteps. Do you need a teacher?

Follow the one who has already fallen.

Follow the glistening track of the snail

across the vast Caladium,
Her body is the color of moonlit wine.

Grow full, become empty,

You are the path.