With every breath, I abandon my vow
to refrain from astonishment.
Calling your name unravels my most
subtly woven robes, I spill
into the space between planets and suns.
I feel a passion to undress all my bodies
until I am formless.
Transparency becomes us, my love.
Churned to honey, darkness drips down
from the flowering brainstem
and curls our toes with delight.
The taste of it is stronger than birth.
Even a little makes us immortal,
but only for this moment, makes us
pour everything we ever attained
into the crescent moon of the heart,
this cup where breathing dissolves
like sugar in wine.
Offer me lemons now, yarrow and ginger.
I'll warm them in my secret bowl
of prayer and yearning.
Our fragrance inebriates the stars.
They spin, we blush, each of us
a rose in the other's cheek.


Carry someone,
even the smallest creature.
This will make you happy.
This will make you feel
moving like a cloud pierced
with gentle raindrops
of scalding love.
Why do you feel so light?
Because carrying another
reminds you
that you too are carried
by rainbow wings
so melodious
they cannot be heard,
so resplendent
you cannot see them.

More Than One

To prove that there is more than One,
I polished both edges of love's dagger with my breath
And plunged it into my body.

Ask Theresa whether this pain is sweetness.
Ask the Bridegroom if this longing is stronger than death. 

Perish into your nakedness, zesty as a tear.
Let the intimate moon-kiss of your impermanence vex
My nape with the moisture of your vanishing dew,

Your deft hand of diamond emptiness
Severing my crown to let the silver stars escape.

What suspended me is broken.
Gravity be my only prayer; I am but mass,
Offering ashes to the mother of skies.

Now watch this pomegranate heart burst free,
A crimson spill of ten thousand ancestral eyes.

Taste them one by one, turn blood back into wine.
Drink, imbibe disaster, consult the planetary pull,
Then ask why joy and sorrow intertwine.

Tell me, famished wanderer, are there not
More lovers on earth than your lips can bear?

Shaman Song

"I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh; and your sons 
and your daughters shall prophesy." ~Joel 2:28

Old men, tipsy on the wine and cocoa leaves
of your authority, we thank you:
your work is done.

Your sons and daughters will prophesy now.
No more priests, no more intermediaries.
Grandchild, be shaman to your own shadow, 

heal your patch of earth,
slow dance your ritual of Presence.
Priestess to the deer, herb grower, 

bee honey guided, wave cloud hands
in sun moon mudras to make seeds grow.
Find Goddess-given birth rhythm,

celebrate spontaneous ceremony
of this magical body, occupy your flesh.
Rattle throat gourd with song, beat heart drum.

Blow lung deep digeridoo.
Let elk wander marshlands of your alveoli
bugling ujjaya breath.

Invite cougars of wrath to lounge
on the branch of your carotid artery.
Be still and let the great horned owl 

roost in your hypothalamus
hooting mantras Bhum, Hum, Phat!
Pour pranayam libations into Gaia's furrowed vulva.

Ejaculate stars, gestate wombfulls of poems.
Wander through neurons of old growth
serotonin hemlock, picking norepinephrine berries.

Discover secret portal to the cavern
of your ancestor’s bones.
Down here where moss is thick and barely lit 

by pituitary lanterns of reptilian wonder,
paint your true Name in bison runes
on the walls of your amygdala.

Never let that baby’s soft spot heal
into a church's dome: Praise open sky.
Inhale the swirling chaos of galactic night.