These brittle hinges loosening
coiled serpent spine, I hold pen like
a black-blooded sword, straddling
the pale blue line
of the blank white mat
mind. Turn on my youth
full wasted page and reach
across legged ideas; breathe
a second, and the third. I
am centered on this
papery mantra, all thumb, and for
finger curled for all man. You script
a rush of epiphanies,
typing Isis, let’s rest in the click
whisps of ages and Indian gods
tightening at the root. The meaning of inner
rhyme.     The chakra     cracked alphabet
               of
          consciousness; flexing
                                          and
                                                            stretching

                                          illuminated
bands
          of
                     letters
                                 dreaming


                     breath.