Become your own valentine.
Carve your initials
in the soft yielding bark
of your rooted hidden self,
dwell there, with choice tenderness
swelling the boundaries of your troubadour heart.
Become true to your own basking,
to the wonder-wheeling molecular bond
between you and the Universe.
Pay good, gracious attention,
and know that Love’s undimming proof
cannot be boxed, quartered, dissected, or defaced—
in essence, it is traceless in its vim and smolder.
Become your own valentine,
and come to feelize the truth
that you are not even “you,”
that is a shining sham and beggared illusion.
You are a part and magnetic extension
of the everythingness that shapes and forms
what might you call the universal lore of attraction.
And, if you so desire, you can fight it off
with a hundred clubs or thousand sticks
in a million different ways,
but that will not change the fact
that you are wedded to an energetic orgy of togetherness,
a liminal bubblebath that includes everyone and everything.
It is What IS. Dig?
The Universe, as a Valentine’s torch song
of cosmic proportions,
throbs and hums and thrums and palpitates,
which gives you a chance to tune in, Now,
to a self-Love Supreme,
and become your own gospel
to what dreams may come.