the spirit of the crowd is the crowd of
the spirit.
the individual is polarized, made plural,
even as a singular entity.
a swami might suggest there’s an enemy in
the mirror. going deeper, one might agree, the rivers are never the same flow.
it’s curiosity to know why most are
serious, especially, during hours of travel, or moments isolated, or when found
by a palm.
one might look in his mirror and ask, “Who
are you?”
a faux pas carries fragments of shame,
else, it’d be a mere oversight.
it seems shame is American shame, cultural
shame, Universal shame; pitted inside, glancing at a mirror, grabbing a glass
of water, eating a morsel of wheat … to tiptoe over an abyss, sunk low for
reasons, scheduled for another baptism—as a trope, mulling over
transgression—its connection to art.
ambrosia must be healing. gods would
fight. most of life is a mirror.
near a chateau, across a lake, openness is
vulnerability; undressed skies, naked wilderness, a phoenix to samsara. maybe
a destination, much undue weather, by a snake and firebird.
into a silent nightsong, beneath a candle
lit moonlight, something salient and honest, something serene and careful.
savoring sunlight, wrangling with
darkness, upon a pendulum with mind …
