My Life: Believe it or Not

Meetings on Earth v

Words. Caves. Make it snow.

I have loved words before; not like this. It’s you, my love. You’ve put the passion of simple words back into my life. I search for the meaning of “between” and “steam” versus “smoke”.

I wish I was a drinker. I wish I could slam down the tequila, the vodka, light the absinthe on fire and write down a life of poetry for you. I remember you.

It’s armageddon. Everything is flowing at once. My period, my bladder, my bowels, passion and hunger. I’m not sure what to do. You tell me to follow you into the shower. My mind is not clear. I cannot enjoy your presence. I cover my eyes.

I imagine there must be a temple where such ailments can be managed with grace. There was. Did we meet there or did we manage the place? It was another time. People were not so backward, so damn conservative.

I think I was a Priest. I think we took turns. The human frame needs so much maintenance.

A room carved into a cave. An arched wall-to-wall opening at the end of an empty room. A cliff for us to dangle our feet, to jump. I have seen this cave transform. I speak of the time when it was a religious place, not a sacred space; the sacred was in the heart. That was our work — to prepare the heart.

Salamba Shirshasana. I remember headstands. My 20th-century mind immediately goes to the nasty. I try to stop myself. It wasn’t the nasty. I laugh but mostly I’m nervous. I scold myself for having a 20th-century mind. It’s too small.

I need your help. Stretch this. Pull me that way, and elongate my spine. Wring me. Beat the rain from my hair. Blow some stars into my ears; I need more than the milky way to fathom the magnanimous quality of you. Make it snow.