How I know when I'm in alignment with the universe:

I tend to picture the universe (a la Leibniz) as a collection of "monads" that interact with and affect one another much like ball bearings. One tends to spin in the same direction as one's surroundings, and if one is out of sync with the people in his or her vicinity, or with the universe as a whole, the result is friction. This is, of course, a very crude and imperfect model, but it serves to illustrate my current perception, namely that I am spinning in the right direction, and a sort of resonant harmony, a music of the spheres, if you will, is the result. When I am in this state, which is, like most growth states, scary and uncomfortable, one interesting side effect is the appearance of poetry in my consciousness. It may sound bizarre, but when I am in alignment, poems burst, like Athena, from my cranium fully formed. All that is required is transcription, and I cannot rest until I have recorded whatever mental vignette has occurred to me. I share this with you, treasured reader, because one occurred to me last night. I sat bolt upright in bed and channelled the following from my smarter, deeper recesses:

* * *
Boxes

On the south wall of my room tonight
Is a closet. It's dark
In my room, so the closet looks
Like a black square with hinged jaws.

On the west wall is a window.
The moon makes the blinds glow faintly
And resemble a Rothko painting
With a dark line through the middle.

On the east wall is a picture of my Mother's,
An antique, of a woman she's never met.
Pointless, blurry, and equivalent
To the man that came with a frame.

On the north wall is a mirror.
I want someone to see my heart,
Charred, poisonous fishhooks,
And love me violently.

* * *
Anyway, shortly thereafter, I wrote this:

* * *
I have a significantly other.
Sometimes I imagine as I lie in bed
That he appears and stands over me
With a big, ornate knife
And cuts me into rings.
The green pulp spills out
From the slices of rind,
But suddenly he's not there,
And I am, alone.

It's nice to be loved.

* * *
Both of these little epiphanies are a bit creepy, but they sprang from somewhere within me, so, for what it's worth, there they are. I take some consolation in believing that everyone is just a bit twisted, including you.