Old bag of bones upside down, what are you searching for in poetry, in meditation? The mother you never had? The child in you that you did not conceive? d**h? Ease from fear of d**h? Revelation? Dwelling in the house of clouds where you imagine you once lived? 'Born alone, we depart alone.' Someone said that during meditation & I nearly wept. Oh melancholy lady behind your clown face, behind your wisecracks- how heady it is to let the ideas rush to your brain! But even upside down, you are sad. Even upside down, you think of your d**h. Even upside down, you curse the emptiness. Meditating on the immobile lotus, your mind takes flight like a bu*terfly & dabbles in bloodred poppies & purple heather. Defying gravity, defying d**h, what makes you think the body's riddle is better solved upside down? Blood rushes to your head like images that come too fast to write. After a life held in the double grips of gravity & time, after a headfirst birth out of your mother's bowels & into the earth, you practice for the next. You make your body light so that in time, feet first, you will be born into the sky.