In every town
the same building sits
on usually a quiet street,
usually single storied
(or else a dark and creaky second story),
painted on the outside and in
with bright colors
that would not fit any other building,
rusty bathroom faucet,
tidy stack of blankets,
box of Kleenex,
poor ventilation,
the stranger,
sore and confused by travel
(needing so little after all),
to find quiet,
a kind of prayer in itself,
to find breath,
another prayer,
to find communion,
the holiest prayer of all —
and thereby
to recreate
the universe.
Om shanti.


Traveling and landing in Atlanta today.  I had the great good fortune, one, to find a sweet little yoga studio to put my head back on straight (Mystic Lotus Yoga) and two, to find a bar called BQE — with an open mic tonight for the spoken word.  Total blast!  Totally unexpected.