“the Love that loves to love the Love that loves to love…” Van Morrison


I love Rama the husband of Sita.

If not for Sita I would come with my white hands in the night
to part the green leaves of his breath.
I would kneel by Rama’s bed and whisper

“Let me be Sita tonight.”

If I were Sita
my breasts  would be round, white, full of soma.
At the source of my rivers
there would be a thatched hut of rough hair
built for Rama at  the entrance to a hermit’s cave.

If I were Sita
Rama would come to me from above
from below, from the left side, from the right
and I would never sleep.


Jesus puts his arm around my waist and says

“Be wise. Be gentle. Be a man.”

But I say to him
“I am always a woman with my God.
Make me a healer
and I will put my tongue in your deep wounds to heal them.”

But he doesn’t answer.

He knows that I would fall through the holes
in his hands
that this world can never fill the void in his left side.

He knows that when they lift him off the cedar tree
I won’t be there.
Jesus  says

“I have a crown you can’t  wear. Where I go
you can’t.”

When I was a boy I wanted his crown.
I wanted my blood to run down red New Mexican hills
to the roots of bitter trees.

But I couldn’t climb high enough into the tree.
I couldn’t get up on the cross by myself!

So the Lord himself came to help me
came floating in a laughing ball of light to tell me

“This is not for you.
Follow me where blood becomes  water
falling into itself forever.”

Now I say to my Jesus

“Let me serve you.
Let me sleep by your kind side in the Garden of Gethsemane
and I will wash your feet with my laughter.”


I am in love with Mary, the Virgin of Guadalupe
who flies on a curved black sword of moon
and wears a sky of stars across her shoulder blades.

I come to her at dawn and whisper
“Let me be the first man in America to know you.”

But she knows I love this world as much as I do her
that I would lie down in soil
black as an Ethiopian  woman
and try to pull the sky down over us!

And I know there is another one before me
whose beauty I can’t touch
who would break open my chest like a prison wall
to let me out
who calls my name in a forest
and makes the coarse hair over my heart stand up
like pine trees on fire!

I want to serve that One.
I say to him

“Let me be your son.

Let my two hands be cymbals and my long throat a trumpet
to praise you with.



Shivabalayogi Maharaj 1935-1994

Shivabalayogi Maharaj 1935-1994

In this world
we have to do our best
to keep our core humanity alive.
If we can see light
we must see it.
If we can catch sight of joy, we must see it
point to it.
Yes it is dark. This is undeniable.
Everyone feels that darkness
but not everyone can feel the joy
see the light rising and moving along the tree line.
That is my duty now.
I will do my best not to be fooled
by ideas
my own or any other persons’.
Just to feel, see, taste, touch, if I can, the life itself
what we are.




…I brought him to my Mother’s house
to the bedchamber of the one who conceived me.

Song of Soloman 3:4


Leave the flesh waving behind
as you would an acre of maize.
Float out to Her
your voice like a morning glory opening
in the throat
a name forming on your tongue
one thousand syllables of falling water
drawn from our Mother’s well
fed by Her spring
hidden until sung for
in the folds of Her.



for Carol

There is a wound green as the Gulf
phosphorus coiling and uncoiling
on the surfaces of waves.
Thirty years I heard it chanting my name as a curse.

You were walking the river
full moon unmoving in its current.
I saw your voice taking shape as rain
and was healed.

When a woman is in love, her body is a river.
Her scent is taken up as breath into magnolia trees.
Radha is in love with Krishna.
From a hundred miles away she feels
his right eye open.