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  • Unspeakable Beauty in the Midst of Untrue Fear

    I put my hands on you tonight.
    These, I aver, are the hands of a healer.
    They have been attuned.
    Wisdom of the ages comes down through me
    And my hands,
    My Hands,
    They vibrate!
    Still, the unknown things...

    In the black morning before the sun,
    The ocean breathes far off with its buoy
    As you breathe here on my other side.

    Keep. Breathing.

    I set my hands so, and know.

    The animals breathe by the door.
    These incantations.

    I have heard that prayer is effective,
    Yet many years ago I abandoned prayer.
    Through study and reliable hearsay
    I have begun to live a better code:
    I believe I have control of something.

    In the dark, my hands receiving and sending,
    I notice sometimes I revert to the old way:
    Please, God, please

    When the huge truck rumbles by
    Collecting pulled weeds,
    It shakes the street
    And my hands’ vibration
    From their finesse.
    With its stiff, robotic arm,
    It lifts the great brown containers
    In a high arc. The tumbling greenery
    disappears loudly into its great maw;
    Your breath is caught
    and we
    twist away from the strange dream.

    I say, No; you cannot ask god for anything
    Or tell HIM IT HER what to do in that way.
    No good to plead, suggest, demand, make deals;
    Only this one: Let me see the truth.
    Which we already know but find it hard – that
    Only perfection can be created by Perfection.
    Therefore nothing exists but perfection,
    And everything that seems imperfect
    Is an error of my thinking.
    Correct the thought and correct the circumstance.
    Again, you see, I have some control. I am in control.

    But of course one must watch
    the tendency to self-blame here,
    The slippage of thought could have been the cause.
    One must watch it,
    As that is not supposed to be the point.
    Try to understand.
    The point:
    Nothing actually exists but perfection
    And everything that seems imperfect
    Is merely an error of thought.

    The truck has rumbled down the street
    but I can still hear it in the silent dawn.

    The thing that brought you to this
    –This error–
    I disavow it!

    My Reiki hands. You, valiant.

    Radiant Health.

    You have been through the normal cure now,
    The poison needles dripping, the nuked tattoos,
    All the while holding the anaconda and the eagle.
    The animals breathe.
    The normal cure so primitive, hurtful, much more so
    than incantation and drumming but
    They say it works better.

    You have gone the normal miasma of no-knowledge.
    The cure that kills you first then lets you live on,
    Why now, after so very much pain,
    Why again?
    The lurking other? The question.
    No! Not again. Not.
    This whole time we have not given in.
    We have been chipper.

    And you, turning next to me in the dark spring morning,
    I turn too.
    You, breathing.
    My hands on you.
    The ocean breathing.
    The animals by the door.
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