UNCONSCIOUS VIOLATION BENEDICTION  

Night falls on the ghost imago of my soul.

Near the transforming fire an alien voice begins to sing.

It’s the sound of my mother the instant before I was conceived.  

An ache convulses in her temple of splendor.

A penetration will oppose and exalt itself over

everything called love or is worshiped.

It sets itself firmly in her tabernacle, exalted in completion.

I waver and feel prophecy revealed in my instantiating pain.

It’s the escape of fetid vapors from the rise in energy of my instinctual dirt.

The mystery of iniquity smiles in the shadows, assuring me, 

like Paul, I must embrace the evil in God’s universe,

accepting the one conceived within me who precedes 

the second coming of my wholeness.

No ecstasy of union compares to the potential of a promised first breath.

The greedy thrust of creation’s unconscious violation

imprints in psychic energy as the perfect benediction of my suffering.

No one falls so low unless he has a great depth.

And there will be a life to fall within, endlessly, tumbling to a complexing depth.

There are things one needs not from desire but from one’s most pure nature,

things that give life and sustain, bring meaning and purpose,

things as necessary for life as breath itself. But they are not to be.

The blissful song of Mamacita fills the starless sky and sinks my hopes

for release from the revelation of dualistic fate.

The fire dances to her song, the night air pulses 

with her pleasure contractions into the moist darkness.

There are things that you avoid, that torture your soul and torment you in daily life, 

that sap energy and vitality, things as loathsome and despairing as hell itself.

These are unavoidable if one wants to claim the return to Garden route.

My Self convulses on a sudden indwelling of time and space.

My mother and the one who precedes the second coming of my wholeness

make a fragile sanctuary for me, that I may dwell in their midst.

Reduced from the numinosum to become a vessel of iniquity,

my soul shudders with the womb’s violation of my imago’s goldenness.

I surrender to the rushed infusing medicine of human existence

as the starless skies remind me with hypnotizing clarity --

Real liberation comes not from glossing over or repressing painful states of feeling,

but only from experiencing them to the full, even if I’ll never control their extent.

It’s an original sin to buy relics so I won’t pray to pay for deliverance.

I must await my day of reckoning, the dire splendor of my redeeming grace,

the moment of becoming a person, forever damned to be saved.