The instructor is a ribbon of light
inhaling
the ether without cumbersome ego
while
tying itself into Nirvana
and
spinning like a gyroscope.
Long
black hair below her bottom
swings
like rope that prisoners yearn for,
and
she is all pitch and yaw,
shoulders
and hips swiveling
east
and west in counterpoint rhythm,
and
oh, how in the world can she do that?
And
then she is upon me,
this
supernova of liquid love
swallowing
the planet that is me,
going
under my leg and over my arm
until
there is involuntary ecstasy,
convulsive
spasms of hatha
om
mani padme hum and then some.
And
then all is still.
I
see a fountain of water laughing,
and
the afternoon sun is flying
through
prism drops, and I am spent,
a
nickel at the five and dime of love.
I
wake from a lucid dream
only to find that I am falling asleep
and
everything is illusion,
a
series of positions and exultations,
exercises
to teach us the down below
and
the teacher who is breathing,
breathing
life always from far above.
~William Hammett
