Clouds Over the Block Opposite

I can’t make the compass needle move through concentration.
I tried. I can’t do it.
I can’t channel a playing card’s image. I tried.
I wanted to levitate and concentrated for half an hour
and I felt insane, lying on my back in an unmade bed, in a sweat.
I tried to make a woman look at me on the metro,
of course, she didn’t look.
Lord, I am not your chosen one!

The world doesn’t change for my mind.
I don’t love enough, don’t have enough faith.
I don’t have an aura around my head
and you haven’t shown yourself to me, haven’t given a sign.

I hold the tablecloth between my fingers:
not giving in, not rising in red steam.
I touch my little girl’s hair, the curls:
dark, golden, soft.
Nothing confounds my senses. There’s no illusion.
My mind is a smooth mirror of the world.

Smooth and flat.
There’s no scratch.
There’s no past life, no ectoplasmic creature.
There’s no Agartha, no Shambala
there’s no Maya, what comes in dreams
is only the maquillage of nothing.

I stare into the flame on the stove, hypnotized,
knowing I came in a uterus,
knowing I will go in a coffin or sully the earth with my blood.
It will not be me who finds the crack.
It will not be me with my head turned in the group photo.