enso
“We only have what we give.”
A Five Letter Word for Center.
This book of poetry muses over the Soul’s origin. Heart, head, or belly—humans have similar cells and groups of neurons in all three places in the body.
What organ lusts and thrusts one into action?
I’m trained to think it’s a formulative process, though the pang in my guts suggests a different story. I recall devotion as a series of abstractions; the sensation counterposes the imagery. Phosphenes, finches larking at twilight, my hand in his pocket, frittata sizzling at the stove, prostration namaskars; my heart clashing with the gong into the wooden floor, petrichor in the desert sands, dark hair spilling into my hands, the contralto voice of the tragically deceased chanteuse, rising at dusk to dine on cold pasta in an oily sauce—our bodies musky with passion, ripe and red as the stuffed peppers we hold in a palm to feel the oil drip to each wrist.
searching ∙ thoroughly scrutinizing ∙ Latin circare ‘go round.’
seeking ∙ attempt to find/go to (a place) ∙ Latin sagire ‘perceive by scent.’
Observation requires all the senses. I comply with my body—to know, I must feel it first.
Searching is a masculine process, whereas seeking is feminine. One is of the mind and the other is through the body. The intent behind action must be observed.
Complexities arise when I get close to the source. Before immersive contact, it’s all hearsay. Fiction is for the bold. I live in a ripe world of fantasy. The possibilities are endless—hope billows like a wedding gown in the ocean. I would drown for passion. I want to scream bubbles with the fish, feel salt on my face and wonder if it’s tears or tide. I’ll marry if the invitation erupts from the sea. I prefer its depths that hide garbage. I look where many refuse.
Contact gives context. To receive and perceive are not synonymous. Reception is the seeker, embodied. Perception is the process of understanding; it’s the entry point. I am aware of particulars, yet until action, it’s just an idea.
The idea and the execution: one is fiction, one is fact.
My residence relies upon the constant engagement with humanity. The seeker attempts while the searcher scrutinizes. I must thrust to insert myself in the melee of synonyms and stories.
Do not blame me for my foibles! Do not condemn me for my feelings! The thrust swims up from the womb. If I act on something, it’s not for you! It’s for me; it’s devotion to a source that splashes inside and outside my skin.
The ocean is my bridegroom. I need to evolve like the element that absolves my tears—fear snorkels like a shark. I’ll feed the flesh-eating fish my heart to maintain the circle of substance. I long to belong in the body of a huntress.
I am tempted by blood, unfading and sweet.
Photo source.
