Tiny Samadhi

To wind the 

prolific vomitorium of consciousness

around an invisible spindle--

the best strategy for tricking it 

      into resembling 

a cocoon. What species of worm

is digesting its own segments

there, unaided by loud light? 

      
        Better yet,

what will it look like, transformed, 

when it tears free of its 

straitjacket, a mutant Houdini 

five times larger than its size?

 

If it ever changes 

and ever breaks out, 

innocent and alert

    as it will be, 

wouldn't it be the last to know?

The patterns and colors of its 

wings at rest or in motion--

beautiful enough to deceive 

predators and suspend it

several arms-lengths above its own shadow. 

Another One About Salt and Light

           I heard a story

the other day about

a Sage, some salt, a cup

of water, and a lake.

The salt was all the bitter-

ness of life. The lake

was the lesson.

What we get from the sea

will, once again, be

the sea. If we

can just let it.

I am changing.

And it does not taste good.

So be the lake,

and let it.

(When we stay so small,

it is always too much

to bear

in such an ill-

equipped vessel.)

If anyone has a flash-

light or another

story, now would be

a good time to

shine it.

What we get from what we see

will always be seen. If

our eyes are

the temple.

We don't kill our people.

Our people kill our people,

and salt is their only

weapon.

Now it is bright. We are all

changing, and it tastes

like nothing--

if we let it.

.

Silence comes without instructions

and without a perfect face. 

At one time it might have been 

a relative of yours. 

People you've met on the surface

bring it with them, and where you touch

it makes you real. One day 

to know the difference

because you'll have crossed it

hundreds of times. One man

and one woman, in a room, 

with nothing to steal.

How We Are Part of It

My love, you've lit me up like a landscape.

Like where all roads meet the sky

without edge.

I've taken down the Christmas tree, and

the lights have wound 
around themselves.

All night, we are burning salt. It keeps us

warm and tired.

All night, we dream of mountains

burning from the inside.

The peak is the last to go.

All morning, we squint to keep the day out.

And to keep the ridge ash in.

Outside, the trees are fluorescent with-

out their leaves.

Everyone can see them.

Without this light, I am only smoke.

In this room, our words become us.

I've replaced all the light bulbs with

silence. My love,

you are a candle.

Like a landscape.

Everywhere, we are small.

Here in the Himalayas

Am I a phantom?

           Have you seen me

here? I can sit rock still,

or I can follow

            anyone. Has

this day yet broken
open and
         shown you?

It will, but we won't always

          listen. Sometimes, we

                  swallow the song

             The trick is to stop telling

             stories and
             quit wishing.

I'll keep walking.

Take off my shoes and keep going.

Follow you, six foot seven, with

           those eyes that show

           the knowing. Very,

very high. Everywhere I pressed,

you were.

           I'd be at my temple and open

all the private places. It was interesting.

I was afraid to do anything

but just sit. Whatever this is,

           it's not nothing.

             I touched the glass,

and the glass disappeared.

Like I had finished. Every now

           and then, he twinkles

           at me.

We are getting very close,

            but the nights are long,

            and these are not

                        my stars.

http://www.wave3.com/story/15785819/nearby-residents-spot-possible-ufo