Indra’s Holigram #2

I sit cross legged.
Hair hanging loose.
Winter solistice.
Injested goods
Percolate inchoate.
Heat rises  from the spine’s base,
Upward shooting
To the brain.
A slow buckeling  of
The walls,
Blown away,
Free to rocket
Explode
Self, yet not self.
Everything  interconnected
Bohm!
Everything
Joined, separate, and knot.
Never the same.

-- Richard Tornello