Ah, Dissolve

A poem for Sherwin Bitsui, the imaginal revolution, and the quiet practice of becoming a blessed blesser.

Intro to “Ah, Dissolve”

This poem is a quiet tribute—both to my mentor, Sherwin Bitsui, and to the deeper currents of research flowing through my PhD work. Sherwin’s presence has been something like an imaginal compass, pointing not toward answers, but toward dissolutions—toward the soft spaces where the poem folds inward and becomes something other than speech. His influence lingers here in the way the world implodes and reforms on the page, and in the subtle logic of dreams, memory, and prayer.

The poem is also a field note from the world I’m building through my doctoral research: a world where creativity is not merely mental, but sensory, relational, and telepathic. Where writing is not a performance but a transmission. Where to create is to bless.

Starting in July, I’ll be offering a monthly workshop series called Self-Sensory Creativity—a space where Kundalini Yoga, subtle body practice, and poetic intuition meet. These are creative writing workshops, but they’re also transmissions. They’re open to writers, artists, and anyone wanting to apply intuition to their life’s work.

You can join the full series by selecting the Signature Tier at ubukundalini.yoga, or drop in to any single class for $35.

I hope this poem finds you where you are and opens a small doorway inward.

Ah, Dissolve
This morning I think of calling Sherwin.
I’ve been reading Corbin
and putting the book down often.
Some ideas are better left in the imaginal.
The page is difficult to swallow
with a full mouth.
My thoughts move backward—
from teeth to tongue,
through throat,
pushing through flesh
to the soft spot
at the top of my skull.
Yeats wrote beautiful poetry.
I wonder—if he were alive today,
would his wife be called his conspirator?
Maybe they'd start a cult following
on Instagram.
I imagine him
anti-establishment—
but not the liberal kind.
I let my mind return to the mountain.
It is not for me to say its name,
but I remember:
standing atop it,
smelling the Pacific,
watching the clouds roll in from the west.
Later, Greasewood.
Steamed corn.
Sand in the air like pollen from the sea.
Who would have thought
I’d start a business teaching Kundalini?
I mean—who would have thought
I’d do any of this?
Someone wants to put me in a box.
It’s me.
I want to be known easily.
I want the page to read easily.
I want to open the box and press play,
for someone else
to tell me what to think,
what to say.
My imagination is purely visual.
Listening to ambient music in the café,
the page is on a screen.
The music appears
as if on a screen in my mind.
Tej told me not to learn the method of Raymond—
a screen form of meditation.
Why didn’t you stay
in The Clairvoyant Letters?
Two years later
he said there would be
a great revolution.
Is it happening now?
I open Instagram.
Iran.
Israel.
A real anti-liberal icon.
How many of them
in the woo-woo world
I partly follow for levity
have become the Real?
The establishment has gone
so far into chaos
there isn’t a way out.
On Sunday,
sitting with my father,
the clouds were vast
across the prairie.
Be this vast, I think,
with words
on the floor of my bedroom.
Beyond words,
I go beyond the clouds.
Later, I write online:
         Become a blessed blesser.
         A while ago I started praying every day
         for the insects, birds, cats, people,
         water, grass around my home.
         I work on doing the same
         for people with stink faces
         and aggressive tendencies.
         I let it flow.
         I notice when I forget
         and start again.
         I try, often failing,
         to bless instead of judge.
         How often do we walk out
         and not even notice
         the bees, the wasps, the worms,
         the powerful swaying of the tree,
         the sound of the sun in the wind?
         No matter what is happening,
         the essence of the ultimate consciousness
         is alive and communicating.
         This is the real telepathy.
         Become a blessed blesser.
The page comes together
on a screen—
and falls apart again.
Like the gif Matt sent:
a head dissolving into itself.
Somewhere between
a head
and the place that implodes,
I speak with an angel.
Ah, dissolve—
Sherwin,
your lament.
The poem that means
what it says.