Don't Tell Me How To Whirl

Moons and planets, don't tell me how to whirl.

You have your dance, I have mine.

If everyone would just stop trying to live in harmony

we could stumble like drunken pilgrims,

laughing and lifting each other up,

every friend a fallen stranger.

I'm not you, you're not me.

Love laughs at non-duality.

Its because we have nothing in common

that we taste some erotic fiery juice

pressed from wingless bodies

clinging like magnets, bosom to bosom.

Now can you hear the two-syllable name

in your heartbeat?

Shiva, Jesus, Allah, Yahweh.

They all have the same Mother,

this breath, fragrance of emptiness,

who dallied with the Almighty,

conceiving the world in the belly of darkness,

God's untainted harlot.

Here's a riddle from the kingdom of Loss:

The Father is silence, the Spirit ululation.

Wave and stillness give birth to the Child.

You drip from the wounded anvil,

the crushed crimson cluster,

the murderous wringing fingers of the midwife.

The Goddess who cannot remember

whether she is a man

bears children who cannot remember

the golden machinery of bones.

Painting by Tino Rodriguez