Into whatever dreams the Santana wind blows,
relative existence combusts into absolutes, extremes.

While one sleeps, the nostril hairs singe,
and singed, the nostrils,
cleansed of the ordinary odors of the ordinary day,
the sage, the eucalyptus, the still salt air,
smells a bit of that first day,
when the winds of existence
blew once across the vacuum
that had been sweet paradise
and created a wave.

Imagine you have been invited to the Mount
to hear the Beggar speak,

or you have been asked to walk upon the water
by a beckoning, seemingly mad, man.

Here, too, as the crisp clean tops of the next wave
blow backwards
unfolding another wave of refracting wind-drops,

conversion becomes simple.

All ones soul is instantaneously offered.

Yesterday vanishes.
And though the skies burn,
and the sage reduces to ash,
you float on the surface of the eternity,
you feel the earth beneath you spin,
and above you hear the sky’s song
and know it has always been there
shouting and shouting and shouting…

And your pilgrimage begins.

Bare feet padding lightly down dirt roads,
across sand beaches.
Toes digging, pushing to water’s wet sand edge,

Where the next swell rises,
round and sensuous out of the blue deep,
framed by the summer sandbar,
south swell kicked up,
offered to a quick pull,
a goofy-footed hop, and
turning to the top,
rushing and sliding down around the pushing forward green blue
to the top meeting together blown back stinging drops
dancing on a pure glass surface
like electrified clear present
shattered into closed out white water
and laughing multitudes air born kick out
and crawl back, crawl, crawl, crawl. Back. Crawl. Crawl

where undiminished the next swell rises…