You are not so separate from the source
that any connection must do.
All start as bricks and mortar
but some become burning buildings that bury you.
This incarnation is a circular room
with an infinite number of doors;
stop paying attention to the pretty patterns on the walls
and place your damn fingers on a handle.
Practice the gripping
then practice the letting go,
then place a foot through the frame
into all the versions of you
this world is yet to know.
It becomes part of a spiritual practice
to take one’s shoes off,
leave life’s dirt at the door
and find grounding for the body
through soles of the feet
meeting cold, hard floor.
The glue that binds us to the present
whilst infinity shows up to greet my soul.
The source of the indeterminate.
It’s a universal concert
and I’ve got a standing ticket.
The place I go to be everywhere at once
by going nowhere at all.
Some say men are from Mars
and women from Venus
but to me
a whole solar system
marks the distance between us,
or a parallel universe
where you are an alien species
and love means symbolic gestures
that I do not understand,
so I take your hand,
extend our fingers
and say ‘E.T. Go home’,
we were made
for alternate realities
and in space,
I time travel alone.