Mud Two: Death of El Niño
Buffy Aakaash

The words I hear
From those eternal cosmic paramours --
Spirits of my beginnings, middles and ends --
Are like mountains before sunsets
At seven thousand feet,
So disarmingly distinct yet soft-edged,
I question the experience.

Mountains are not made of muddy waters, afterall.
And, some days, mountains dissolve
Under buckets of words dropped from the Sky,
Speaking endlessly of uncertain origins
Until I'm ankle-deep in vague questions
With Spirits answering in bolts of lightning,
Unleashing dams within me --
Sleet, snow, thunder, hail --
Leaving me barefoot,
In a mud puddle of my own piss upon the Earth.

My sacred piss,
Like the deluge of rain
Makes the simplest paths
Permanent markers of history,
Deep grooves of happy trails
From the souls of our desires,
Muddy mires of Ecstasy,
In which I now play, alone,
My wailing playmate dissolved
In the arrival of spring
And the hormonal hum
Of my libidinous loins.