I lie in the wind,
hearing the world creak

The garden surrounds me
in Rumi's lineage;
the moist air of a mature summer's night
intoxicating me
with its fairytale fragrances,
like empty matter slowly permeated
with the Spirit of Wisdom;
like love received
out of a common calm;
like anonymous blessings
without ulterior motives;
like words bestowed on me
out of the unconscious,
out of the tomb in Konya,

and my heart beats slowly
and contently
at the center of the universe,
inside the gentle embrace
of a ribcage

I wash my face
in the obvious and long-lasting

I dip my hands in the flow,
feeling the current
down the whens and hows

My hands wither in front of me,
still craving to punch people's faces

I wash my face
in the depths of the unconscious;

turn when there is turning,
burn when there is burning

I go down with Moses;
swing low with the chariot

Jahve is brought down
with faces washed in mud,
with wild seas of semen

I'm a big bag of organs
on a smokestack
balancing
on the horizon,
arriving across the badlands
on a moan