When you look deep enough, you begin to see the connections between the mysteries: that everything is true and nothing is true. From Kether to Malkuth, Mooladhara to Sahasrara, Kundalini climbs the tree and descends with the fruit of divine inspiration. As above, so below.

Love is the Law, Love under Will.
To the Man Who Shouted “I Like Pork Fried Rice” at Me on the Street by Franny Choi : Poetry Magazine

you want to eat me

out. right. 

what does it taste like you want to eat me right out of these jeans & into something a little cheaper. more digestible. more bite-sized. more thank you
come: i am greasy for you. i slick my hair with msg every morning. i’m bad for you. got some red-light district between your teeth. what does it taste like: a takeout box between my legs. plastic bag lady. flimsy white fork to snap in half. dispose of me.
taste like dried squid. lips puffy with salt. lips brimming with foreign so call me pork. curly-tailed obscenity been playing in the mud. dirty meat. worms in your stomach. give you
a fever. dead meat. butchered girl chopped up & cradled in styrofoam. you candid cannibal. you want me bite-sized no eyes clogging your throat.
but i’ve been watching from the slaughterhouse. ever since you named me edible. tossed in a cookie at the end. lucky man. go & take what’s yours. name yourself archaeologist     but
listen carefully to the squelches in your teeth & hear my sow squeal scream murder between molars. watch salt awaken writhe, synapse. watch me kick back to life. watch me tentacles & teeth. watch me resurrected electric.
what does it                                     taste like: revenge squirming alive in your mouth strangling you quiet from the inside out.