A poem is coming; I feel it first as a subtle tectonic shift beneath my heels. A tremor where my feet root to the earth, at the earthward pointing pinnacle of my root chakra (the singing bowl of my pelvis spreads the aerial wings of the triumvirate), travels through the conduits of my long bones. Contact.
And now it rises and spreads, an expanding bubble of energy, sexjoyviolencedespairtranscendence all at once, the human condition and the expression of life, here, now. It is, so far, wordless. Not comfortable. Essential as air. It flees up the chain of chakric points like a bullet at a carnival booth, pinging each spinning wheel dead center, igniting them. Stomach clenches, lungs tighten, the body says move, dance, roll on the grass. Throat opens, and the words coalesce out of primal force. Third eye opens, and, oh god, sees. It looks and looks, deeper, further. It is painful. It is glorious. I am a torch, burning, burning, and the poem bursts from the lotus of my crown chakra, into the world. I am strung like a bead on this sizzling loop of power, the divine at both ends, trying to say something through my inadequate medium. Trying to tell it true. I write. I weeplaughshout.
It is mangled. Never whole or perfect. But at times it is closer to its real form than others. The poem, my darling. I lovehate it; I am compelled to share it, deformities and all. Now I shape it with a cool mind. I use the tools of craft upon it. I shore it up, or trim it down, name it.
I give it what it needs to walk, and let it go.