Ex

Exhalation, ejaculation, excretion.
These are the sacred doors
to the temple of Loss.
No one overflows who is not empty.
Pump the harmonium
to get the music.
No out, no in.
Prepare the oracle broth
of a trillion sisters, menstrual mead.
The air in the drum of non-duality
cannot be breathed.
To catch the ocean
of silence in your net,
just let the waves break into song.
Only plankton get through,
yet they feed everything.
Become small and intensely
green now, because that's what
will happen to you anyway.
What vessel can you cling to?
The grail won't take you over
this sea of wine.
The ghee lamp won't contain
your last prayer.
No need for anointed kings:
everyone has a throne in the bathroom.
Enlightenment without catastrophe
is the twinkling of garbage
in a clogged sink.
Who shattered the crystal cup
and threw it in with husks
of garlic and purple onion?
How many spiritual techniques
can you thread on one breath?
The seed gets burnt up
in the flower.
Flames of love annihilate
your eyes, your tongue, your
nipples and fingertips.
Where there are vital organs,
there are holes.
Unplugging drains is soul work.
Flush light through.
Even your crown is an anus.
The bottoms of your feet are mouths.
Each pore of skin ejaculates the sap
of what manure becomes
when it smolders into ashes
of grace.
You are neither the oil can
nor the spark,
neither hollow stem nor
risen juice.
Be glad you're covered in compost.
Become the combustion,
the whole disaster
flinging her petals at the moon.
You are the snake who leaves
her crinkled skin on a black stone,
libation for an April sunbeam.
You are the purest fire of Gehenna,
not an incinerated bone
of Jesus' body.
You are the misfortune
of whatever has a name.
You are the comedy of silence.
Don't mean anything.
Just become food.