… the fever we feel, so lowly made
on high, it’s hard to rest; like convergent spirits, a rare moment, a most
appealing insight; running water, into a basin, I’ll wash your feet—only if you
let me; I’ll cure your ills, I’ll unchain your leprosy, I’ll die for your salvation
…. women with kids know this feeling. men with souls feel this sentiment. so
far into knowing you, like inside of you, making a space for you. if to touch
the hem, I’ll be healed, by your faith it has come to pass; by your belief to
move a mountain—by your courage to have uprooted definition—by your heart to
have come into my chambers. life is rough for the public. life is mental for
the isolated. pain is universal for them both. I wonder what monks undergo, as
underground creatures, living unveiled in caves. the flight of the soul,
gunshot by ghosts, traumatized unto salvation. many know secrets—of how to
unlock you—where a good person will monitor what she has released. shamans are
ethnic. anything touching might be ethnic. history doesn’t unveil all the
shamans, sages, while we read the Vedas. many gunas, many pains, much
yelling to awaken you—more silence to touch, as a space in guts, a ladder one
must climb: many gargoyles, many dark forces, as higher becomes addiction.
nevertheless, sweet wines, many candles, it’s not repetition; it’s a state of
mind, a place to gain entrance, a space made esoteric. I’ll tell a secret, I run
a risk, each can do it—most will need supervision.
