Smiling we know is a form of meditation.
Weeping is also prayer.
Worry is
beseeching, “Let the Whirler of All
bring me the things I don't want.”
To practice the purest tantra, digest despair
like bacon in your belly, without naming it “despair,”
or “bacon.”
When the fire of outrage burns a hole through your forehead,
this is profound samadhi. Now be the hole.
Fall through it,
all the way down to your rectum.
This is yoga.
There are ten thousand ways to pray.
Lying here awake
at 3 A.M. is one of them.
Glittering constellations conspire to
sabotage clear thinking.
Big-breasted crone moon throbs, making everyone crazy,
then veils herself in raven feathers.
Rejoice in the darkness where all your planets are ajar.
This could be freedom.
Your horoscope is
the web of a spider who fell
into a Starbuck's Frappuccino and got hammered on caffeine.
Rebel empaths invent their own Qigong. Get out of bed.
Wrestle with a mud-spattered doodle of dubious pedigree,
your
frolicking shamanic totem for the God of Uncertainty.
Use holy violence to defend hen’s eggs from a Norway rat.
Better than reading the Psalms,
breathe the people you hate
in and out of your solar plexus, until you distil them into Kahlua.
Notice thrown-out alter flowers
on a rainy Monday morning sidewalk.
Don’t look away from the porcelain silence on your mother's face
just after she takes her last breath.
Hug the hot mess of alternate
destinies,
the
all-forgiving curve of time.
Bend toward, but never quite complete, that Zero.
Wake down. Compost your curses and tears.
Plummet into your belly button
tenderly grieving, sighing, murmuring
"Yes"
to the night.
LINK to hear this poem aloud.
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