King Cobra

No longer is my poetry an end
as if it really ever was before.
It only is a means, how I attract,
that she allows my words to enter in.
No longer words are all she wants inside.
Persuasion to a wider audience.
I keep them bound in volumes in my head.
The pen I hold, archaic instrument.
All spiral bound, the notebooks where I write.
The spiral coil’d just like a jungle snake.
King Cobra, hooded, standing six feet tall.
Come eye-to-eye with darting tongue as well.
Last instance right before she strikes your face.
She knows to puncture closest to your cheek,
the softest place. Your skull, her fangs may break.

The Infinite Is What I Hunger For

The spell I scrawled upon a used receipt
and stuffed into the pocket of my jeans.
Each day to hell is where I will descend.
The entertainment that distracts my heart
exceeds the joy from heaven where you dwell.
Each day the words to speak ‘lest I forget.
The magick that transports me back to you.
One day, to fire, will burn my saving note.
The only link from this world to the next.
Between the worlds the passage that I make.
Dimensions that each day I will transcend.
Please tell me why I should come back to you?
The final trip much like the one I’m on.
The trip I take, expansion of my mind.
To fit the box, just started to explore.
I realize that this box is all there is.
If outside is the place that I seek out.
Another box within which I am bound.
I look into my heart to find the space.
My heart, the seat of my divinity
The infinite is what I hunger for.
I close my eyes, to universe expand.

The Super Moon

Insomnia tormented me last night.
The super moon was calling out to me.
Her distance from the earth, its shortening
was like a magnet to my lonely heart.

The words she spoke, into my spirit pierced:

“Why do you lie in bed there wide awake?
What time you waste to spend your waking there?
Come dance beneath my shining rays so bright.
Beneath the light that I reflect at night.

“At first wear clothes that warm against the chill.
You know your body warms with dancing act.
The warming of your body, temp’rature.
Must shed your clothes, dance naked ‘neath my face.”

Instead engaged in this alternative,
alone in bed amidst electric night:
I thought of you whom I have not possessed.
I thought of you, that other cure I sought.
The cure I visit by my fantasy.
That other cure for night-time wakefulness.
I thought of you, specific memory.
I thought of you, of you, I thought, of you.

Bhagavad Gita: subject of this verse.
My only privilege: work, that I engage.
I plant a tree, not certain it will grow.
Not knowing it will ever bear its fruit.
The fruit is not what motivates my acts.
To outcomes, my attachments, I release.
I’m ceaseless in my planting industry.
The Lord, unto his name, perform my work.
Desires with selfishness, abandon here.
I harvest bushels, or my saplings die.
Results are what the universe decides.
Not failure nor success — let affect wane.
This equipoise is Yoga, Karma named.