Angels of Asia

I.
The starburst shimmers above you,
and so it is below, & all around you.
This is your shroud, your aura of golden flies
in fury flight above you
blinking exoskeletal spirits
amidst the backdrop of gloomy swamplights;
and still your profuse and excess blessings circling,
perfect circles,
six tiny halos dancing above your crown.

These beings make order out of the chaos of death
like moderns dripping paint haphazardly onto canvas top,
we are this grand mistake raised to the 9th-power.

They investigate and enter the body,
pierce your chakras, penetrate your pores,
& rub oils and spicy balms on palms and feet (bottoms)
leading you west over the Ocean of Ecstasy.

You are happy and there is no cure.


II.
They appear Pacific,
wearing misty Japanese grins
and words slip out, glibly delivered
from tongue and palette both
yin and yang exemplified.

And India, the jewel of the East, all littered
with bizarre bizaars & nasal flutes
in pentatonic vaultings
over sitar drones & curried groans
of buyers' pleas mixing with sellers' shouts.

Alone, at last, adrift toward islands and ocean waves,
you slip into peanut coves and
coconut groves that sweeten your every breath away.

Now, there are tender Indians in native America
staunch derivatives hunched over horses with bows
and buffaloes swimming through the Great Plains.

"This isn't heaven, it's Earth,"
they say as they stroke your hair with gentle fingers.
Then they nourish our bodies,
and yet we hunger for something more.

"We are the lightsource of your shadows.
We are born everytime the pins prick our feet."