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A Practical Treatise On Surviving Svadisthana

Unsubtle Svadisthana, that temptress, shameless vixen

Untroubled primadonna, High Empress of Addiction

Enrapturing with sirens’ entreaties sung with scented prana

Encapturing with wires discreetly strung with floral fauna

For fools saving sweetly her promises of love

From her jeweled cave obliquely lighted from above

Not innocent, but blameless—acquitted by aesthetes;

Her filament, while flameless, emitting light and heat

Where cultivating clarity would exercise futility—

A self-indulgent charity of imminent senility,

Like trying to find the forest behind all those trees

And then remind the florist the reason for the bees;

Her beauty, grace, and elegance refined to the exquisite,

An alchemic brace of elements, combined to make a visit

With neither clear beginning, nor middle, nor end

Rather, ever-cheerful spinning of her riddles that tend

Toward suspicious implication of the spiritually satirical

Suggesting exploration of a theory holding miracles

Beyond concatenation listing serial empiricals

And vexing integration of ethereal materials

So obvious she obviates, a pane of frosted glass

That foggy mist that implicates while plainly sneaking past

Assertions independent are absorbed and briefly chewed

Their gustatory relevance somewhat less than food

The fuel of choice instead is movement

That fluid voice whose sole improvement

Is rhythm and meter, the pace of the beat

The treble in tweeter, the bass at your feet

The sound of the motion, the song of the tribe

The pound of the ocean, the throng of the vibe

Where it can be lonely to mark your own stride

But if you are only along for the ride,

Relinquish the reins, steer clear of the lever,

Extinguish your flame for fear it will sever

Your link to the game, you surely will never

Distinguish the pain from ultimate pleasure

For agony and ecstasy are sisters in extremes

Dragon’s wings of symmetry, the twisting on a theme

But magic is what magic does, and agency is key

Organic shifts, titanic shoves, creativity.

The mistress pays respect to only those who orchestrate

And interplay, injecting tonal flows to syncopate.

The energy’s available, the instrument is free

The answer’s unassailable: The aegis falls on thee.

Strike the chord. Be the source, then blow a kiss to Luck

Fill your gourd. Channel the force. Follow your bliss. Conduct!