Some Spiritual Guides Don’t Value Calm

Some spiritual guides don’t value calm. They prefer

unstructured settlements of strain and anxiousness –

which prod (no help from God) the unexamined life

to register – to feel – the awkward mess it can’t not be,

to understand the heart must harbor darkness, and attend

the echoes of the banshee wail between its beats,

to grasp the morbid insignificance of sweetly reasoned

argument,  with all its falsely noble testaments to peace.

Mainly, though, this spiritual guide foments, condenses

out of stress, alluring jeweled transgressive hues which

mix and flow across the top of his appurtenance of cranium –

to show how fraught vicinities of thought stain colors

of the night into the mind – into the aeronautical geometries

which grace the wing-like slices on this mentor’s bony

pate: and that the more beset by terrible upset this

spiritual paragon becomes, the more his winged

appurtenance of crown succumbs to the disruptive glows

of ruby, amethyst, black pearl – and if he is what whirls

around and follows you, it won’t be long before

he swallows you – and you acquire the vivid sense,

which few can claim, that hell and heaven are the same.

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