Eat the Forbidden.
Seek the Sacred Harlot.
Wisdom is too hot for the philosopher.
He spits Hochmah from his lips.
Darkness is the husk of a spicier fruit
that has no name.

Cleanse yourself of gods and goddesses.
Jagged crystals charge the air.
You breathe them and they grit your blood,
ringing like stolen bowls to keep you awake
with subliminal ancestral cries of childbirth.
Transparency is a mosaic of hideous and beautiful faces.
You will never become whole

by separating the pure from the impure.
There is no substitute for sugar.
There is no sweetness in pain.
There are no vegans on Mount Meru.

What you call "believing" the demons behold
as last night's lukewarm stew.

Feed your mind to the crows.
I went down into a cave at night with only the lantern
of my breath and emerged on the highest snowy peak
barefoot, blinded by erogenous sunbeams.
Just so, boil your flesh in its own nakedness.
Perform those miracles that scatter your thoughts
like bones across the ocean of silence.
Calling in sick to gaze at a morning glory.
Borrowing a dime from the eye of an overdosing addict.
Fermenting your tears.
Devouring night.
Putting back every carrot and kale you ever ate.
Restoring the original garden with the compost and manure
of all your steaming opinions about what was ever wrong.

Painting: Miguel Cabrera, Virgin of the Apocalypse