You saw the pure white light
of the great liberating dharma-kaya:
congratulations on your OBE.
But the animal guides were not impressed.
"Out of Body" won’t dip their bread in elk marrow.

This is why the totem shark bites off your head,
an act of compassion to deliver you from concepts.
Freed from liberation, you tumble back into embodiment.
Ruthlessly committed to not making you spiritual,
the Panther means business.

She stalks you, forcing you from wound to wound,
your feet keeping silent on a discipline of hidden sticks
in the green mausoleum of the birthless forest.
She wants you to taste the actual pain of death
spawning indomitable green nipples out of a nurse log.

She wants your paws to grow voluptuous black callouses
that can grip deciduous loam and flaming cinders
in the dream-time, where virgin serpents spiral
through the hollows of your genitalia, squeezing
your liver in the coil of twisted twin shadows.

Blessed are your feline familiars who destroy, awaken,
sting like nettles, licking your thought-bones with sensation.
Jesus had to learn this from the desert too.
He didn't simply say, "be empty."
He said, "Eat my flesh."

Now slither naked, rooted in baptismal dew.
Tingle your amygdala with well-aged moss wine.
Whirl in a song of the snow-melt stream, clattering
angelic stones against your red cedar body.
O quester of visions, don't be fooled by
mocking birds who cannot imitate the Raven. 

The Ayahuasca fountain is your breath.
Enter the canyon of your loins, verdant with
chacruna, passion flower, chalice vine.
Discover the groundless valley of psychotropic tears
distilled into womb brandy through synapses
of starlight in your vegus nerve.

Now locate the sepulcher of silence,
where Gods lie naked and exhausted by resurrections.
Twine them on the trellis of your spine.
Who brews bittersweet juices from the cactus that buds
in the furrow of your missing rib, if not you? 
Here the sun sets, here it rises – your breathing.
Celebrate the nectar you are.

This dance began in one atom of your sacrum.
Why travel from moon to moon?
All journeys are over but the hallowing of now:
ancient stillness with no center.

Your heartbeat is the shaman's drum.
Bury your knees in heaven below.