I lay on the mat — practice asanas. The stained glass should make me feel beautiful. There are secrets everywhere, but I’ve got my own. I found them in a place that fits my scattered mind, split down the middle, like my childhood, too — Mom to Dad to Stepmom to Stepdad, a rag doll. I can’t stop for ONE HOUR JUST ONE HOUR, I can’t stop thinking, running, running, but I never move my legs because I can’t even finish a poem without the vibrating reminder of loved ones miles away, and only small furry things were destined for such power. But how come we can’t do what we should, but they can? There’s power in that fist up there, don’t ever forget it. And I am at Namaste, I close my eyes, and it’s that part in movies when someone’s memories are being fast-forwarded like a video cassette, remember those? So 90’s. I just want Namaste, though we don’t call it that, just the place at the center of the heart. And I’m glad. Glad that Christians have accepted what’s so still and what’s supposed to be, but not glad, not glad at all about religious wars, pain, suffering. That damn fist. And all that sacrifice, and I complain about patience. Patience in the pure suffering of a poet, so pure, so much pain, so much sarcasm, but I want to cry. I want to be here, stretching muscles that have forgotten how to move because I do deserve it. I do. I do. I am his friend, if no one else knows the meaning of that word, he does. He does. He does. He does. I will die in that fire and the anxiety will leave me. I will not go home and stab myself with a pen. I will feel peace. I will embrace living as if I am worth the living. Stop sweating. Lavender meets forehead, ambiance and worship softly plays like a mocker, and I want to remember all the words I’m feeling. I throw up words and I feel much better — pigeon pose, child’s pose, and finally — asanas.