Saturday, October 10, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Denying the known and defying the unknown
accorder
We agreed that your people should talk with my people- we met and agreed that we do not exist!
enough is sometimes enough
Some times it feels like I have to invoke a lot of no(s) to my no(s) before I can say hello.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
peeling the paint and there you ain't
If my inquiry races outside of my assumed self, all that I see is really not being seen! I can only connive and conceive but alas never perceive! This is the crux of the situation, I believe absolutely that I am of the Absolute, but the Absolute is I AM- not me. This believing is mucking up the possibility of receiving! These outward inquiries are the foul winds of an inquisition officer drunk on the deeds of relishing out justice. Somebody has to pay for these sins! Somebody must pay for these terrible crimes! Oh, heart wherefore art thee?
me and me more or less
It is hard to give it up when it seems so right! My private euphoric property, I have been holding the deed for a very long time. Under ‘overwhelming’ stress, there was always my little piece of heaven- which made my 'me' manageable and bearable. Reading the deed I see the seeds of my illusion, which has sustained me on this tour.
There was the belief presence was paradise, and when (I)paradise did not pan out, I bailed from the engagement. I then became a world maker, where land and laws were superimposed upon the real, I became what I am. The world I manufactured was compact and it was mine, but was lacking in luminosity! I went to the remotest part of my world and drilled a small hole to let some of the luminosity leaks in. It is this little hole that makes me survive in spite of the great divorce from that what is.
Now the world that defined me is being seen more as a prison rather than a home, and my attempts to quell the rebellion is a lost cause. The world I manufactured is being seen in the lack of light that was and is! I the many are wavering as this world is pulsing and the fabrics of matter are tearing at the seams.
Please have mercy, look at all these conflicting I(s) claiming to be C.E.O. me!
There was the belief presence was paradise, and when (I)paradise did not pan out, I bailed from the engagement. I then became a world maker, where land and laws were superimposed upon the real, I became what I am. The world I manufactured was compact and it was mine, but was lacking in luminosity! I went to the remotest part of my world and drilled a small hole to let some of the luminosity leaks in. It is this little hole that makes me survive in spite of the great divorce from that what is.
Now the world that defined me is being seen more as a prison rather than a home, and my attempts to quell the rebellion is a lost cause. The world I manufactured is being seen in the lack of light that was and is! I the many are wavering as this world is pulsing and the fabrics of matter are tearing at the seams.
Please have mercy, look at all these conflicting I(s) claiming to be C.E.O. me!
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
FOR YOUR EDDIES
A front follows a front follows a front, as the vain beats the vain beats the vain!
Habiting on the frontier of a front- is an affront to the Beloved, if the Beloved could be affronted.
Here with Her – Quantum!
Maybe the memes demand one,
but not your one!
The more you let go of more the more of Space you can hold.
Holding space, you travel far, 'cause you are holding nothing and nothing is holding.
Psyche the virus of loneliness, and Cosmos is the Alone.
The Cosmos the endless sea of signs, when we fabricate our significance we are thrust out of SPACE and try to cope with the loss through Psyche-ologism.
Habiting on the frontier of a front- is an affront to the Beloved, if the Beloved could be affronted.
Here with Her – Quantum!
Maybe the memes demand one,
but not your one!
The more you let go of more the more of Space you can hold.
Holding space, you travel far, 'cause you are holding nothing and nothing is holding.
Psyche the virus of loneliness, and Cosmos is the Alone.
The Cosmos the endless sea of signs, when we fabricate our significance we are thrust out of SPACE and try to cope with the loss through Psyche-ologism.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Sea of Hazard
A whisper from the chest, then a gulp, a shock, and sensations swoosh towards the broken crown.
It is hazardous sailing in the backwash where I a legion.
Smashing associations, crashing appropriations, and the wagging tongues of floaters who are wailing to let them come aboard.
Once touched and cherished, the whisper from the chest that flowed clearly in the current, has become something other.
Sailing through this gray matter I headily attempt to play a man in control, so as not to appear to be seen as another drunken sailor.
The wave I was riding curved but I could not – shipwrecked again!
It is hazardous sailing in the backwash where I a legion.
Smashing associations, crashing appropriations, and the wagging tongues of floaters who are wailing to let them come aboard.
Once touched and cherished, the whisper from the chest that flowed clearly in the current, has become something other.
Sailing through this gray matter I headily attempt to play a man in control, so as not to appear to be seen as another drunken sailor.
The wave I was riding curved but I could not – shipwrecked again!
Friday, July 3, 2009
sine, wave, i, dot
Anti-matter refugee!
Weekend mystic!
Stop slumming in alpha lala land –
your house is a burning!
Bravo, you ceased pitching rocks and dung – but now you are full
of shit and stoned!
Climb back down those flimsy stairs with eyes wide open and rendezvous with those rejected beta boulevards and note why alpha seems awry.
Trek down those very familiar yet not noted avenues and scoop up your tagged
refuse and feed the garden.
Climb back up those shining stairs into the luminous alpha and see that it was barely explored and though delightful just another limitation. You gratefully listen to the choir, but have not been able to share the chorus.
Oh those smashing waves and sine upon waves and sine, so much more to surrender
Weekend mystic!
Stop slumming in alpha lala land –
your house is a burning!
Bravo, you ceased pitching rocks and dung – but now you are full
of shit and stoned!
Climb back down those flimsy stairs with eyes wide open and rendezvous with those rejected beta boulevards and note why alpha seems awry.
Trek down those very familiar yet not noted avenues and scoop up your tagged
refuse and feed the garden.
Climb back up those shining stairs into the luminous alpha and see that it was barely explored and though delightful just another limitation. You gratefully listen to the choir, but have not been able to share the chorus.
Oh those smashing waves and sine upon waves and sine, so much more to surrender
Thursday, July 2, 2009
i wanna a spiritual franchise!!!!
i want some spoon fed spirituality!
how much would it cost to be somebody special under your marquee?
how many scripts do i need to learn by rote before i can get my own franchise?
do i get a peice of the merchandising?
why are you selling alpha shanty spaces when it is the blocks in the beta that supports the separation from the Beloved? You may be, but I ain't!
how much would it cost to be somebody special under your marquee?
how many scripts do i need to learn by rote before i can get my own franchise?
do i get a peice of the merchandising?
why are you selling alpha shanty spaces when it is the blocks in the beta that supports the separation from the Beloved? You may be, but I ain't!
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
that forgotten, becomes again
Yes my love I see what you see and it is extraordinary, yet my love what we see together is ordinary here. Why do you forget and become surprised all over again? Yes my love it is ordinary here but do not beat your drum here, we are not separate-we, this , us – a summoning of Presence.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Open Circuit Closed Circuit
Two couples different responses! One expands, the other contracts - it is all in the looking!
In the Devil card he looks at her, and she looks at us, neither of them see the power that controls them. In the love card he looks at her and she looks above and acknowledge the presence above.
Sans the sacrement of the above no love!
In the Devil card he looks at her, and she looks at us, neither of them see the power that controls them. In the love card he looks at her and she looks above and acknowledge the presence above.
Sans the sacrement of the above no love!
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Time is the Item
LIKEWISE
God twiddling thumbs for eternity
proclaims something better than nothing!
now a revolving once upon a time,
data, data, data the end.
now a revolving once upon a time,
data, data, data the end.
now a revolving once upon a time,
data, data, data the end.
ditto
ditto
ditto
emit time after time
recurring item.
emit time after time
recurring item.
emit time after time
recurring item.
time is all though
specifically received.
tictoc bearable
tictoc unbearable
tictoc unmanageable
God twiddling thumbs for eternity
proclaims something better than nothing
-except when nothing is something…
- except when…
Hello whom may you be?
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
i * 3 (immersed in immensity)
The Pauper Prince popped out of the Pub- he received his fill and gave it all away.
One for the Mother, one for the Daughter and one for the Holy Spirit!
He paraded down the Main singing - none of that was his own, none of this is his own, and none of that shall be his own.
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Intoxicated but not drunk he gave it all away, because none of it was his own.
One for the Mother, one for the Daughter and one for the Holy Spirit!
He paraded down the Main singing - none of that was his own, none of this is his own, and none of that shall be his own.
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Hallelujah!
Intoxicated but not drunk he gave it all away, because none of it was his own.
Jamming With Vastness
i hello the vast voice
what is what is
veils between it and i
slip off-
the myth unravels-
the being unfolds.
alien pastures
what is what is
space sans and
what is what is
native homeland
what is what is
realm sans end
what is what is
this kind death
what is what is
farewell regrets
i pawned this crumbling
dwelling for a song and a dance.
hello the vast i voice
what is what is
Thursday, May 28, 2009
LUSH LIFE
A RUMI RIFF
Moon bound,
the Chronics
in their stupor fear
the police.! Hazy in the viewing they
forgot that the cops are equally pissed drunk!
Merely two different aspects of the same state-
lushers!
Moon bound,
the Chronics
in their stupor fear
the police.! Hazy in the viewing they
forgot that the cops are equally pissed drunk!
Merely two different aspects of the same state-
lushers!
a dreamer's dreams of drinking a drinking song
this is the verse…
i want some more
and then some!
once again, it is
always the same.
this is the chorus…
i want some more
and then some!
once again, it is
always the same.
pucker pout
pamper pomp
you are pluck
out of déjà vu.
i want some more
and then some!
once again, it is
always the same.
that was the verse…
i want some more
and then some!
once again, it
always the same.
that was the chorus…
and all that transcribed
toodle-oo farewell….
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Zero requires no hero
To merge with nothing,
to clash with nothing,
to move with nothing,
to crash with nothing
-this is the way of nothing.
Nothing,
wounds and mends,
catalyses,terminates,
adores and abhors
the way is to embrace nothing.
Regard your reflection
and nothing reflects you.
Proclaim your doctrine
and nothing carries the sound.
Attend to me and I and thou
and together we render nothing.
For nothing is everything
while essentially nothing.
Nothing was dying and nothing
showed up for nothings last breath.
Nothing was born and nothing
showed up for nothings first breath.
Alas, nothing was nothing.
Hail, nothing is nothing.
Amen, nothing on nothing.
I shall pay no homage to any deity,
or submit to any me other than Thee
for the ultimate reality is nothing.
When you are marooned in time
quicksand space, without an ace
to play, reason and rhyme fled
remember nothing is the matter.
When you forgot that you forgot,
and revel to reject, completely drunk
slurring you no longer fucking care,
remember nothing was the imbibed spirit.
Nothing sows, nothing reaps,
and states –all that just passed
a mere lusting for significance.
Bon voyage my sometimes friend
see what you are not
and the more we can be.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
General Semantics part. 3
One of my best attributes is the lack of desire to broadcast or not.
What it may 'be' is definitely not me.
One of my worse attributes is the rush of desire to broadcast or not.
What it may be is definitively me.
What it may 'be' is definitely not me.
One of my worse attributes is the rush of desire to broadcast or not.
What it may be is definitively me.
General Semantics pt. 2
Were you that was?
Are you aware of the whereabouts of was?
It seems very sticky here.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
John C. Lilly said-
In the province of the mind what one believes to be true,
either is true or becomes true within certain limits.
These limits are to be found experimentally and experientially.
When so found these limits turn out to be further beliefs to be transcended.
In the province of the mind there are no limits. However, in the province of the body there are definite limits not to be transcended.
either is true or becomes true within certain limits.
These limits are to be found experimentally and experientially.
When so found these limits turn out to be further beliefs to be transcended.
In the province of the mind there are no limits. However, in the province of the body there are definite limits not to be transcended.
Harry Hector frets - a nettle melody
Perplexing- no fuck that!
It is vexing this ego speak!
It is all about my lying and knowing
of my lying and lying about my knowing
of my lying.
ergo ego parley shit
What is the voice behind the embedded scripts?
It is vexing this ego speak!
It is all about my lying and knowing
of my lying and lying about my knowing
of my lying.
ergo ego parley shit
What is the voice behind the embedded scripts?
Friday, May 15, 2009
Tommy and Mary Mag
I remember…
We were his friends, his students, his followers and together we broke bread with him.
We were his friends, his students, his followers and together we drank wine with him.
Some sensed what he shared and offered their interpretation of the encounter.
Others touched by what he seemed to emote, provided their interpretation of their encounter. And others comprehended what was said and constructed their interpretation of the encounter.
I and the twin saw what he saw, felt what he felt, and sensed what he sensed. From this shared attention we knew it was not even him! He alone could do nothing, but by embracing the nothing he could receive and relay.
The twin and I drank deeply and became one with Him, and in our waning, we too could receive and relay.
He said many things and each individual in their own identification were victims of their interpretation of all that passed.
They wanted something to understand, but not to understand understanding. Their time with him was collected into ‘sacred’ narratives and by doing so estranged themselves from the Presence that he served. They had not the ears to hear, nor the eyes to see- that the words were pointing, not positioning!
Now he is gone and they call me the Whore and the Twin the doubter.
I am a whore, Amen!
I am a whore of God, Amen!
I remember….
We were his friends, his students, his followers and together we broke bread with him.
We were his friends, his students, his followers and together we drank wine with him.
Some sensed what he shared and offered their interpretation of the encounter.
Others touched by what he seemed to emote, provided their interpretation of their encounter. And others comprehended what was said and constructed their interpretation of the encounter.
I and the twin saw what he saw, felt what he felt, and sensed what he sensed. From this shared attention we knew it was not even him! He alone could do nothing, but by embracing the nothing he could receive and relay.
The twin and I drank deeply and became one with Him, and in our waning, we too could receive and relay.
He said many things and each individual in their own identification were victims of their interpretation of all that passed.
They wanted something to understand, but not to understand understanding. Their time with him was collected into ‘sacred’ narratives and by doing so estranged themselves from the Presence that he served. They had not the ears to hear, nor the eyes to see- that the words were pointing, not positioning!
Now he is gone and they call me the Whore and the Twin the doubter.
I am a whore, Amen!
I am a whore of God, Amen!
I remember….
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
RUMINATION
Strength provided is provisional and not my own.
The entrance becomes accessible only when I attend
impersonally to my personal signatures.
I de-mythologizing now receiving.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Attending in the moment the vastness
not manageable yet you/it response able.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alien postures of the form could be natural
but were ostracized by personal ideology.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Art- making disagreements if not delicious at least digestible.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What are your turn ons?
I f you feast on my disagreements
and I feast on your disagreements
the birth of a friendship.
What are your turns offs?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seeing at first may be astonishing but when that fanfare
is out of air you may become severely annoyed.
If the annoyance radiation is considered too much
the inquiry ends.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Obedience is the url to listening, take back ‘obey’
from the policy enforcers and hear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If the pathway is denied I am alone in my disobedience.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SHE is always here, myself drunk and forgetful note not that I scorn her.
This one love betrayed, all other loves become abstractions.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In our time of look at me but do not see me
words like mercy, grace and clarity
are spoken but not evoked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The motto of a Self Promoter.
Look at me but do not see me.
Hear what I say and take it as gospel.
Take my spin or you are not my friend.
The entrance becomes accessible only when I attend
impersonally to my personal signatures.
I de-mythologizing now receiving.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Attending in the moment the vastness
not manageable yet you/it response able.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Alien postures of the form could be natural
but were ostracized by personal ideology.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Art- making disagreements if not delicious at least digestible.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What are your turn ons?
I f you feast on my disagreements
and I feast on your disagreements
the birth of a friendship.
What are your turns offs?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seeing at first may be astonishing but when that fanfare
is out of air you may become severely annoyed.
If the annoyance radiation is considered too much
the inquiry ends.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Obedience is the url to listening, take back ‘obey’
from the policy enforcers and hear.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
If the pathway is denied I am alone in my disobedience.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
SHE is always here, myself drunk and forgetful note not that I scorn her.
This one love betrayed, all other loves become abstractions.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In our time of look at me but do not see me
words like mercy, grace and clarity
are spoken but not evoked.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The motto of a Self Promoter.
Look at me but do not see me.
Hear what I say and take it as gospel.
Take my spin or you are not my friend.
Friday, May 8, 2009
IMBIBE
Time is money, money is time
Following that line
Time is energy, energy is time
Following that line
Energy is food, food is energy
Following that line
Food is love, love is food
Following that line
Love is divine, divine is love
In all of those exchanges
Where may I be?
Am I THAT?
bOuNcInG part 2
A while ago, I was sharing food and ale with like minded people, which of course led to the word exchanges. I have no problem with chatting, it is quite natural to me, and actually calms me at times. Unfortunately in that case the exchanges bothered me, perhaps because I just finished dancing and some times ushering words after a moving melody is awkward for me.
I really wanted to be there, it was not as if I was coaxed to join the mix- I was there on my own volition. I was not behind enemy lines- I was with beautiful eloquent friends. The irritation on my part began when the affairs of the state turned to an us-and-them reference, the minimal hairs on my body prickled up. I wanted to leave, but paying six plus bucks for the pint, required me to stay- I was committed to drinking my money. I sullenly nursed my beer and listened, and softly shook.
I, note daily I pass hundreds of people whom I do not know and they know not me! They also have their like minded friends, and in their course of word exchange they also refer to an us-and- them. Billions of people on this shared globe, a whole fragmented and fragmented and fragmented and fragmented….
Who are we? What am I? I have my people and my people have me- SEE! There are legions upon legions which I/we have no relationship with, they are not our chosen, they are our others!
On that night of noted discontent in which I participated the shared affirmations provided me with no solace. I was left with me, and weak of bravado my self affirmations provided me with no solace. Seeing me, I saw a man alone and hungry for connections beyond my ken and being unable to access the unknown, I was grappling.
I am You, You are I, We are They, They are Us… I do not understand…
I really wanted to be there, it was not as if I was coaxed to join the mix- I was there on my own volition. I was not behind enemy lines- I was with beautiful eloquent friends. The irritation on my part began when the affairs of the state turned to an us-and-them reference, the minimal hairs on my body prickled up. I wanted to leave, but paying six plus bucks for the pint, required me to stay- I was committed to drinking my money. I sullenly nursed my beer and listened, and softly shook.
I, note daily I pass hundreds of people whom I do not know and they know not me! They also have their like minded friends, and in their course of word exchange they also refer to an us-and- them. Billions of people on this shared globe, a whole fragmented and fragmented and fragmented and fragmented….
Who are we? What am I? I have my people and my people have me- SEE! There are legions upon legions which I/we have no relationship with, they are not our chosen, they are our others!
On that night of noted discontent in which I participated the shared affirmations provided me with no solace. I was left with me, and weak of bravado my self affirmations provided me with no solace. Seeing me, I saw a man alone and hungry for connections beyond my ken and being unable to access the unknown, I was grappling.
I am You, You are I, We are They, They are Us… I do not understand…
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
BoUnCiNg
I recall the procession of my incarnation attempts to remake the self.
Hosting the past in the present I see significant spacetimes where peak panic points shook my definition of what is me. I see the attempts to manufacture a semblance of wholeness by covering the uncertainty with a reloaded incarnation.
As the Preacher said it was all vanity upon vanity, the remaking of the incarnation were desperate deflections from reality and the recognition of mortality.
Life I accept! Love I accept!
Seeing my significance loosens the past loop energy blockage that reinforced the past existence. Attending to my breath as I engage in the locked energy of the past I begin to awaken.
In tempo to the awakening a counter beat pulses reasons to escape from the engaging. To speak of these deeply embedded circuits catalyzes distractions to deflect the pilgrimage to Sublime.
“For god’s sake,” Pride shouts- “there is nothing wrong with us! Are we not made in the Maker’s image? Stop, this incessant looking everything is fine.”
If I listen and do not interrupt the sale pitch I hear the shaky voice, the dissonant breath, the sweating forehead and see that Pride is terrified!
Ah fear! That fear!
Ah that fear of fear!
THE END
Monday, May 4, 2009
not today buddy!
A clear blue field above,
the warming cool day
beckons hello!
In the park a few strides
from my front door a man
is yankering for some saving.
He looks like a Hollywood Rebel,
intensely whispering
to any victim who will pay heed
that nothing is what it seems!
Saw that film.
Played that role.
Parroting a man of knowledge,
is not a man of knowing
merely pimping of a trite posture.
Thank WOW
for the blue above, the greening below,
the barking dogs, and back doors!
the warming cool day
beckons hello!
In the park a few strides
from my front door a man
is yankering for some saving.
He looks like a Hollywood Rebel,
intensely whispering
to any victim who will pay heed
that nothing is what it seems!
Saw that film.
Played that role.
Parroting a man of knowledge,
is not a man of knowing
merely pimping of a trite posture.
Thank WOW
for the blue above, the greening below,
the barking dogs, and back doors!
Thursday, April 30, 2009
KUMBAYA (Creole for 'come by here')
SHE does not require your beliefs.
SHE calls to be seen.
Look and you shall be astonished,
And so shall SHE.
Look longer-
you will be overwhelmed with
remorse and so shall SHE.
Look to long,
all bars blaze – SHE, you,
naked drunk passionately
indifferent to who is who ?
And whom
would be so wretched
in luminous presence
to dare to utter
who is who ?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Art, the Sublime and ...
In the State, in languages, in Art, and in morality, the most settled laws give way in the long run to nature; all actions slope downward towards freedom.
A man must acquire freedom, emotionally, intellectually and personally; but when free, he is only half-way to wisdom; he must now learn suffering and humiliation. And this signifies that he must renounce a great part of the freedom he has won.
For anyone without creative intellect, true culture is impossible; the reason is that he must by his inability to think for himself, defer to the authority of some other man, thereby shutting himself off from numerous other sides of thought.
If there were a Devil, of his inventions ennui might be the one on which he would chiefly pride himself.
Man must unite himself to something. In solitude, to the unseen world, resulting in the Sublime; in society, to his fellow-men, resulting in the vulgar. Tolstoy's touchstone of Art therefore proves to be diametrically opposite to the fact. The use of Art lies not in its power of uniting men, but in its efforts to disunite them. The noblest art will produce in us disgust at the presence of our fellow-creatures; and the best artists are those who love solitude.
Just as complementary colours joined together form white light, so by the prism of individuality, the Sublime is split into Pleasure and Pain. This is why any strong emotional feeling includes both exaltation and grief. It also renders Schopenhauer's question unnecessary, which is positive and negative, of pleasure and pain. Pain must not be regarded as expiation, education, or anything of the sort, but as the indivisible companion of pleasure; just as after staring intently at red, we then see green. And in experiencing sublime feelings, we discover both elements, because both must be present.
Emotions belong to Individuality. The Sublime is an undivided complex; this feeling is most perceptible in the higher grades of music. We do not then feel single emotions but a swelling Whole, which we cannot analyse for ourselves. The Sublime is thus like Light, the emotions like colours.
The individualising principle is not the cause of the anti-sublime, but the attempt to escape from the anti-sublime towards freedom. This attempt is known biologically as variety.
Unity is chaos. Things separate in their nature are forced to live and act together. A resulting existence is secured, but this existence is false and painful; and to escape from it, the component parts seek wrong openings.
From the preceding paragraph, it will be seen that a true ethical system will endeavour to promulgate variety of life; activity, objectivity, and intelligence, as opposed to soul-deadening tradition, formalism and meek stupidity.
The Sublime is not a theory, but a terrible fact, which stands above and behind the world, and governs all its manifestations.
To those who realise the Sublime, a beautiful person is only a living corpse; for an individual is only a branch lopped off from the Eternal, and is already dying.
So-called morbid ideas - death, ghosts, the spirit-world, etc. - correspond to nothing real. It is the Sublime life calling us, which our individualistic nature mistranslates in this fashion.
Harmony, symmetry, rhythm, and numbers, imply internal relationship. When this relationship is rudely interrupted by a force from outside, reality itself.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Shameful Behaviour
How can I disidentify if I know not what I appear to be?
When arrogant see it!
When bitter taste it!
When angry feel it!
These wretched attributes are active members of my self expression.
Perhaps I should manufacture some distance from the affairs of my state and usher vanity to the mix?
Nothing is happening here.
Spin, spin, spin boldly I go from the night and feign beyondness from these base moods.
NO, they are still here!
Perhaps I should mine these base moods and refine them into some abstract thought, or some higher emotion?
NO, they will still be here!
The search for the holy is not caulking of the unwanted holes in my psyche, these holes are members of my psyche. I and them are not separate.
The attending to them and they attending to me catalyzes an awareness of seeing.
When arrogant see it!
When bitter taste it!
When angry feel it!
These wretched attributes are active members of my self expression.
Perhaps I should manufacture some distance from the affairs of my state and usher vanity to the mix?
Nothing is happening here.
Spin, spin, spin boldly I go from the night and feign beyondness from these base moods.
NO, they are still here!
Perhaps I should mine these base moods and refine them into some abstract thought, or some higher emotion?
NO, they will still be here!
The search for the holy is not caulking of the unwanted holes in my psyche, these holes are members of my psyche. I and them are not separate.
The attending to them and they attending to me catalyzes an awareness of seeing.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
ALL RELIGIONS r 1
The Voice of one crying in the Wilderness
The Argument As the true method of knowledge is experiment
the true faculty of knowing must be the faculty which
experiences. This faculty I treat of.
PRINCIPLE 1st That the Poetic Genius is the true Man. and that
the body or outward form of Man is derived from the Poetic
Genius. Likewise that the forms of all things are derived from
their Genius. which by the Ancients was call'd an Angel & Spirit
& Demon.
PRINCIPLE 2d As all men are alike in outward form, So (and
with the same infinite variety) all are alike in the Poetic
Genius
PRINCIPLE 3d No man can think write or speak from his heart,
but he must intend truth. Thus all sects of Philosophy are from
the Poetic Genius adapted to the weaknesses of every
individual
PRINCIPLE 4. As none by traveling over known lands can find out
the unknown. So from already acquired knowledge Man could not
acquire more. therefore an universal Poetic Genius exists
PRINCIPLE. 5. The Religions of all Nations are derived from
each Nations different reception of the Poetic Genius which is
every where call'd the Spirit of Prophecy.
PRINCIPLE 6 The Jewish & Christian Testaments are An original
derivation from the Poetic Genius. this is necessary from the
confined nature of bodily sensation
PRINCIPLE 7th As all men are alike (tho' infinitely various) So
all Religions & as all similars have one source
The true Man is the source he being the Poetic Genius
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Yearning and Listening
Physical death is not a metaphor but a sobering reality. Immortality is not a metaphor but a sobering reality. Yearning is the fuel of ‘immortality’! I host IT, you host IT, we all host IT!
I may in my broken tone express IT different from your own. You and I may not even understand one another in our invocations, yet we both yearn! We are all smitten by presence while at the same time manipulative managing our relationship with immensity.
We are unworthy, we are passionately indifferent, we are occupied- so this IT is filtered, dispersed and projected. We channel IT to some thing, to some one, to some body, to some organization! Applied yearning diffuses the immensity of yearning - tethering the traveller.
Listening to music, I hear the intention, the organization of the exposition it seems so compact, so digestible, and makes complete sense. Yet, if I listen not merely to the notation but the spaces between the notation, an unbridled yearning!
The listening of the listening!
Listening I hear the composition and feel the vibrations, I note the psychological and aesthetic constructs. Listening while listening I fade and hearing becomes yearning to yearning, only yearning…
The wind know this, from age to age, the wind has carried the calls of yearning and kept them in the present for all who yearn to recall.
Half Cut
Regarding- engaged sans filter, I would see and be seen.
That world was my personal spin.
This world is not mine - nothing to refine
-world is world and I in now a death of a clown.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Justifications
All of this was justified, in the minds of men who were not totally vicious or fanatical, by the atrocities which the Irish Catholics had committed in their several rebellions, and by the hundreds of years of religious wars throughout Europe in which ferocity was the rule and massacres on both sides left each sect convinced the other was barbaric and inhuman.
Jonathon Swift, who had been part of the Protestant ruling class in Ireland in the worse of the Penal era, wrote once that the English Protestants might as well eat the babies of the Irish Catholics, since they already devoured rest of the country. This led people to say, later, that Swift was mad, or embittered, or something like that.
Swift also said, “We have enough religion to hate each other, but not enough to love each other.” That led people to say he was a cynic.
Most of the Irish in 1771 could read neither their own language nor the English of the conquerors. They were not only illiterate and impoverished but dirty, smelly, ignorant and superstitious. The Penal Law accomplished that much.
When humanitarians like Swift or Burke or such types would argue in relieving the Irish from the Penal Laws, common-sense people therefore had an answer to this sentimental liberalism. The answer was that the Irish could not be helped because they were obviously an illiterate, ignorant, dirty and smelly people.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Drunk
Drunk again
-believing I am
someone,
somebody,
something
defined!
She shouts sober up!
I euphorically squeal
to nobody
in particular -
She spoke to me!
Did you see?
-believing I am
someone,
somebody,
something
defined!
She shouts sober up!
I euphorically squeal
to nobody
in particular -
She spoke to me!
Did you see?
Self Interest
If I am partially engaged in self interest I would see glimpses of my self interest.
If I am fully engaged in self interests I would observe my self interest and would regard my self interest and note how I broadcast in posture and gesture.
Now, if I merely mouth self interest as a quaint heroic ideology-I would be in constant war. I would pose as a crusader attempting to manufacture my preferred experiences over my manufactured disagreements.
If I am completely devoid of observational ability my exercising of self interest would become me as my preferences and my disagreements become placed on the big bad world.
I travel in all these spaces, and still no closer to knowing what self or space may be. This situation could be worst- I could believe I know what I do not know.
There is an opening I in immediatism but what I?
If I am fully engaged in self interests I would observe my self interest and would regard my self interest and note how I broadcast in posture and gesture.
Now, if I merely mouth self interest as a quaint heroic ideology-I would be in constant war. I would pose as a crusader attempting to manufacture my preferred experiences over my manufactured disagreements.
If I am completely devoid of observational ability my exercising of self interest would become me as my preferences and my disagreements become placed on the big bad world.
I travel in all these spaces, and still no closer to knowing what self or space may be. This situation could be worst- I could believe I know what I do not know.
There is an opening I in immediatism but what I?
Saturday, March 14, 2009
A MONOLOGUE
Monologues my drug!
On stage a monologue can reveal more of a character in one deft blah blah, but with me nah! My monologue is like a dissonant chorus! It is not like on stage where the chorus provides conscience and information to the hero/victim- in my head no way! In my head the chorus seems like competing hawkers pawning choices in an overcrowded mall, the are all trying to make the close by appealing to my preferences, or by promises of erasing a disagreement.
My head, my head what is this?
Each hawker in their pitch are speaking to different parts of my body some to my shoulders, others to my knees, others to my gut, others to my genital, and some to the head.
Wait there may be a way out of this!
I am being provided spins that appeal to different aspects of my body, and after the war of attrition expends enough energy one will be the temporary king. Why be dazzled by the hawkers when I can place my attention on the different aspects of my body? Hearing each request and then cunningly inform my parts of the other parts requests which can contextualize this desire body. Hearing- the parts create a buzz and the parts attending are now sharing attention and the various demands are diminished. If this accord can endure I may even be able to dance in a wide open field!
No field now, I speculated and the monologue wants more space to fill! ‘Monos’ is the Latin word for one, and the medieval Christian’s consider it a divine name. Today every solo rant in our common parlance is called a monologue. Does this make us God like? Or is it an attempt to run from God? Obey in Latin means to listen-am I obeying God?
On stage a monologue can reveal more of a character in one deft blah blah, but with me nah! My monologue is like a dissonant chorus! It is not like on stage where the chorus provides conscience and information to the hero/victim- in my head no way! In my head the chorus seems like competing hawkers pawning choices in an overcrowded mall, the are all trying to make the close by appealing to my preferences, or by promises of erasing a disagreement.
My head, my head what is this?
Each hawker in their pitch are speaking to different parts of my body some to my shoulders, others to my knees, others to my gut, others to my genital, and some to the head.
Wait there may be a way out of this!
I am being provided spins that appeal to different aspects of my body, and after the war of attrition expends enough energy one will be the temporary king. Why be dazzled by the hawkers when I can place my attention on the different aspects of my body? Hearing each request and then cunningly inform my parts of the other parts requests which can contextualize this desire body. Hearing- the parts create a buzz and the parts attending are now sharing attention and the various demands are diminished. If this accord can endure I may even be able to dance in a wide open field!
No field now, I speculated and the monologue wants more space to fill! ‘Monos’ is the Latin word for one, and the medieval Christian’s consider it a divine name. Today every solo rant in our common parlance is called a monologue. Does this make us God like? Or is it an attempt to run from God? Obey in Latin means to listen-am I obeying God?
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Mind Paradox
A mind paradox!
Mind is inherent culture, it is all that that I subscribe to whether by acceptance or by rejection. All that I have subscribed to is filed through out my physical form, different books of my personal mythology nestled in my muscular system. Every emotion that I have attended to or not emits from regions of my body, If I want to know my mind then I have to attend to my form, feelings and thoughts in real time. This is the mind that I attend to, seeing with a naked gaze, so many blemishes. Not getting enthused or appalled in the gaze, at times an arousing of thought manifests, and something that is not one of my own responds! Is this another mind! If that was mind and that was mind, what mind would mind not be? Or perhaps that first mind is the gate of the labyrinth that appears to be a labyrinth- but is not! Only after I start to see in the present without references I see what I was seeing was not what I was seeing or seemingly so!
Mind is inherent culture, it is all that that I subscribe to whether by acceptance or by rejection. All that I have subscribed to is filed through out my physical form, different books of my personal mythology nestled in my muscular system. Every emotion that I have attended to or not emits from regions of my body, If I want to know my mind then I have to attend to my form, feelings and thoughts in real time. This is the mind that I attend to, seeing with a naked gaze, so many blemishes. Not getting enthused or appalled in the gaze, at times an arousing of thought manifests, and something that is not one of my own responds! Is this another mind! If that was mind and that was mind, what mind would mind not be? Or perhaps that first mind is the gate of the labyrinth that appears to be a labyrinth- but is not! Only after I start to see in the present without references I see what I was seeing was not what I was seeing or seemingly so!
Please remind -what is mind?
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Rope Memory
I am forced to be in accord with this discord! To be Ruth in spite of the fact it is neither my birth name, middle name nor my surname- I am perplexed, perturbed whatever word is more vertigo suitable. I myself am not a suit person, though at the time am able to put one on and take one off. Did you know in Montreal they do not turn off their lights, they shut them off.
Dick does say- Nob…
I interrupt and say who is he? Cuckoo nobody I know. Where is the ride going this time? I have an affinity for space odysseys. Yet, I do believe- I am not going imbibe any more wine.
Dick now says Nob cuckold…
I interrupting again- there is more? There is always more, confidential- conspiratorial, always more! Please, no more I implore! The wine once tasted fine. His sharing is a preamble - disclosure foreplay. Did you know female whales are called hens but they do not lay eggs? Was Moby Dick a sperm whale?
Dick tries again - being a bit of a dick, detected that Nob cuckold, cluck, cluck,
Parrying that which I do not want to hear state I do not understand. Who is Nob and what does his tale from your interpretation have to do with me?
Dick clarifying replies- Nob’s bird the other man’s wife went back to the once upon now again beloved formerly cuckold husband. Which in one way suggest Nob is now oddly cuckold- you get it?
I poker face him and claim I get it -I guess! The predator becomes the number one until the former first becomes the predator and in time regains number oneness and the first predator becomes road kill. Isn’t Nob a Tolkien character? What I do not comprehend, is why are you telling me this, Dick?
Well, you have a shining for Mercy, and that was the prolog.
Wait she is the cuckold, cuckold?
No, she comforted the Slob I mean Nob, at his gain loss.
You are a good dick Dick, I suppose?
Not really he was crying for many to see.
And you did have to watch?
Well I was watching Mercy, and she was comforting the Blob, I mean Nob.
Did you smell a saving, you junkyard karma dog?
Dick shakes off the question and goes on- You know that I know you thirst for Mercy, I am just providing backup information for your consideration.
I play indifferent and say - I am a noncommittal man, there is always next week- anything for a poem. I mean relationship stuff I do not particular like...it is so… personal. From a distance, it is I and Thou- then when the two ropes tie it becomes quite knotty. I and It quite pathetic! We against the world quite tragic!.
Dick interrupts my rant -his face flushed says - I drove her home! She has deep, deep dark secrets, best to stay away.
Dick, I do not understand? Mercy me, though I am only partially interested, tell me more – I say.I should have said say no more, but partial interest on my part means oh man, oh man, how will I get out of this feeling and tricky dick
Fret not my friend. She is not what she seems. I talked to her all weekend- Dick did say!
If she is so dark why were you with her all weekend? Stop the salivation salvation stance and accept that you are closer to death than your birth.
Dick now says -well anyways Nob was crying because the wife went home to her husband, it was pitiful- the part or parts that required my pity I am hazy about. I saw that she pitied him…held him …talked gently to him. She…
His words suggested it was lame, but his face radiated envy. I threw in -she is beautiful in a safe way (though not for me), and to receive her gentleness was a blessing for that Nobody whichI did not know. My eyes opened wider as the finite muscles around my mouth soften.- that her...
This I wish to forget. Yet here it is! These memories what are they?
Dick does say- Nob…
I interrupt and say who is he? Cuckoo nobody I know. Where is the ride going this time? I have an affinity for space odysseys. Yet, I do believe- I am not going imbibe any more wine.
Dick now says Nob cuckold…
I interrupting again- there is more? There is always more, confidential- conspiratorial, always more! Please, no more I implore! The wine once tasted fine. His sharing is a preamble - disclosure foreplay. Did you know female whales are called hens but they do not lay eggs? Was Moby Dick a sperm whale?
Dick tries again - being a bit of a dick, detected that Nob cuckold, cluck, cluck,
Parrying that which I do not want to hear state I do not understand. Who is Nob and what does his tale from your interpretation have to do with me?
Dick clarifying replies- Nob’s bird the other man’s wife went back to the once upon now again beloved formerly cuckold husband. Which in one way suggest Nob is now oddly cuckold- you get it?
I poker face him and claim I get it -I guess! The predator becomes the number one until the former first becomes the predator and in time regains number oneness and the first predator becomes road kill. Isn’t Nob a Tolkien character? What I do not comprehend, is why are you telling me this, Dick?
Well, you have a shining for Mercy, and that was the prolog.
Wait she is the cuckold, cuckold?
No, she comforted the Slob I mean Nob, at his gain loss.
You are a good dick Dick, I suppose?
Not really he was crying for many to see.
And you did have to watch?
Well I was watching Mercy, and she was comforting the Blob, I mean Nob.
Did you smell a saving, you junkyard karma dog?
Dick shakes off the question and goes on- You know that I know you thirst for Mercy, I am just providing backup information for your consideration.
I play indifferent and say - I am a noncommittal man, there is always next week- anything for a poem. I mean relationship stuff I do not particular like...it is so… personal. From a distance, it is I and Thou- then when the two ropes tie it becomes quite knotty. I and It quite pathetic! We against the world quite tragic!.
Dick interrupts my rant -his face flushed says - I drove her home! She has deep, deep dark secrets, best to stay away.
Dick, I do not understand? Mercy me, though I am only partially interested, tell me more – I say.I should have said say no more, but partial interest on my part means oh man, oh man, how will I get out of this feeling and tricky dick
Fret not my friend. She is not what she seems. I talked to her all weekend- Dick did say!
If she is so dark why were you with her all weekend? Stop the salivation salvation stance and accept that you are closer to death than your birth.
Dick now says -well anyways Nob was crying because the wife went home to her husband, it was pitiful- the part or parts that required my pity I am hazy about. I saw that she pitied him…held him …talked gently to him. She…
His words suggested it was lame, but his face radiated envy. I threw in -she is beautiful in a safe way (though not for me), and to receive her gentleness was a blessing for that Nobody whichI did not know. My eyes opened wider as the finite muscles around my mouth soften.- that her...
This I wish to forget. Yet here it is! These memories what are they?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
DAUGHTER BOTHER FATHER
Once upon a time there was a beloved annoying little girl whom asked her father tedious nonsensical insignificant questions that lead to grunts from him which catalyzed more nonsensical questions, which required even more grunts. On one fine day the beloved annoying little daughter asked her father why he always answered her answers with grunts ? He grunted! She hugged him, and as his eyes redden, he sighed and replied that he truly did not know. She was taken aback, an adult who did not know why he behaved the way he did! Ridiculous! Were all those things he told her throughout her life all lies? That conspiracy was bigger than the Santa Claus fiasco?
The following day the annoying little girl looked in to her dad’s twinkling eyes and asked a tirade of tedious nonsensical insignificant questions, and he merrily replied with further tedious nonsensical insignificant questions.
THE FIRST END.
What is faster than thought?
THE SECOND END.
Who can hold light?
THE THIRD END..
Relating – is this the Great Work?
MIND THE G AP.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Go Figure!
I have been fighting on the frontline for my whole life, but recently one of my scouts returned with dangerous knowledge which of course meant dull knowledge. There is no war! There is no other! She found their code and discovered that they had the exact same code as we had.
Some languages do not have the words(sword) -friend and enemy, they only have friendenemy. Friend and enemy side by side!
My cunning scout also relayed to me that the war was funded by a pretender king, trying to distract from the true lay of the land. The pretender king earlier discovered the power that be was a gracious but passive force. The pretender king could only reach the true ruler until he put down his crown and released his active role which would coax the beloved leader to stretch beyond neutrality. The king threatened by his own survival refused to surrender his crown! What would a king be without a crown?
He could not do it - it terrified him!
Then the land that he assumed he ruled fell into an endless war! After a bloody long time the king sensed an arising for something other then this dis-grace. He spread out his scouts throughout the wasteland and one came back and said there was no war, and that I was the pretender king! The warring sides were merely my preference against my disagreements! She provided me a code, now I have to engage the now to decode this ruling code. Before the scout disappeared she wrote on my heart with a sword-'and stuff like that!'
Saturday, February 14, 2009
PROSAICLY KNOTTY
the morning sun crept past the partially closed bedroom drapes and he reluctantly opens his eyes. the mist abating he drags out of bed plumping the duvet unto the cold oak floor. the chill from the floor enters the soles of his feet and rapidly climbs up to his loins – he needs to piss.
roll over… roll over ...
a movement on his bed he turns to regard a naked her on the part of the bed where he was not. her nipples firming by the unexpected cold air, arouses pulsing in his area that is calling for a porcelain release. his eyes a-sparkling, he mumbles along the line of – morning- night- wow -green tea- or joe. he puts on a stained bathrobe, and as he exits to go to the john says she is extraordinary.
it's raining. it's pouring - oh what a relief it is.
coffee now prepared he flops on to the living room couch - taps on the tube pushes buttons to the weather channel.
freezing she stretches towards the cold floor to retrieve the duvet, she re-covers her naked body while attempting to recall the state of the past station. last time on survival- flashbacks, click, clack, cold, lonely, acquaintance gas pump, empty, ruba-ruba-duba! Does he have a first name? joe? john? dick? does he have last name? click, clack, she recalls he said she is extraordinary or said the performance was extraordinary? or perhaps he said her body was extraordinary?
or gold or gold or gold somebody somewhere was told.
some did and do, found and find her and/or body extraordinary. and most of those whom she chose to imbibe with said hey yeah sure extraordinary- hoping for more. she herself
assesses her self/body as - come see, come sigh.
she on his bed, staring at his grey ceiling attempts to extrapolate the exit word
- extraordinary. her pillars parting, pulsing and warm moistness to receive,
does provide for a few eternal ah moments where all narratives are diminished.
where all narratives are dismissed. where all narratives are defied and the moment deified and those ruling loops become lax.
even i must reluctantly agree to that extraordinary.
where do sky dancers perch when they are spent?
she, too found insert his/her name here according to date, month, year - filled the funktion.
at her place where she stores her garments, knick- knacks and loneliness is a loaf of rye bread past it's due date. the rubbing now past she can not deny was yabba-dabba-doo. here yet no longer now - dry harsh ordinary time she falls into a deleterious state of i-am-here-wherever-that-may-be.
after the wow the woe.
scratch a match, a flame then no flame, hopefully no body got burnt.
she dresses her once extraordinary body and leaves room where the residual scents of their stress relief yoga remains . she pours coffee into a chipped mug in the kitchen, portages it into the living room and smashes her-self-body beside him on the dirty couch.
he looks at her boobs, she looks at the tube, while the couch cries - conch and cock, shampoo, shampoo, there is five dollar bill under the cushions
.
the weather woman provides the five day forecast - dry and cold. the information provides a pause in her mindscape, she drags some of the drip coffee that was lightened by curdled cream and spews the content on to the coffee table. the weather woman, wrong blouse, wrong blush, though it may be winter, she is a fall.
as she watches the talking she on the screen. he watches her lips, oblivious to her tightened jaw, gritting teeth and very remote eyes- thinks delicious. his eyes hungrily go down her form revelling in the parts that are buried by manufactured material. inspired part by memory, part by fantasy a rediscovery of Shangri-La - his still sticky member from last night's asana firms up.
surly unsure she speaks with some urgency, to him, the couch, the weather woman or
some other it is all so unclear? it kind of goes like this - him her micro, men women macro meta-narratives, desperate posturing under faux universals. she finds all this and that difficult to comprehend yet still she is compelled to play.
she speculates about his and her role in this masquerade? are we pawns of some biological conspiracy to keep us toxic apes fighting and fucking for a fauna reality show? is all this a hell domain, where multidimensional demons herd us to provide food and fuel from the secretions of our sufferings and ecstasies?
he hums, and silently measures her sanity and/or bitchiness, he regards her flushed face and her heaving breasts and has a continental shift in his mid region and decides it is deep. he cuts and paste choice words from her tirade and invokes pleasure fulfilment and self erasure and a holy sexy grail. not being tethered by the bulk of her words, he looks at her small feet tapping in tempo with the rant and sails in sweet seas.
he places his hand on her thigh and sighs.
she enters an aloneness, not the one defined by the absence of partner, kin or friend but that existential void. there - i is why, and why is what? she is calling for that thing that is not a thing. it seems all pervading yet irrationally appears unobtainable. she is scouring for non-space space, like those interludes before birth and death, or like the space when infants tilts their heads seeing something wondrous but never ever encountered before. like when you see some one so strange you can not even place them in any referential place, they are brand fucking new
she wants aloneness not alienated from you and i or any other i or it.
she ruminates out loud about one of those buddhist aloneness like ultimate nothingness, or that sufist rant love beyond love. beloved nothingness, the grand connection where all gesture are true, and when surrendering requires no quotations. where coming together is without the obsession of caulking those shattered parts of the soul, because we are already whole, or at least know we are broken.
she pauses and notices he is quite pleased, and definitely percolating, eyes wide open , lips loose, breezy breathing rhythmically, immersed in her body but not in the inquiry. launching from the couch, she quickly puts her winter clothes on, opening the street door shouts that she is alone here. the door is slammed and she slips - crunches away.
the door shouts - ouch!
the he whimpers a delayed - hey.
the couch growls -conch your angst sucks! shampoo cock shampoo.
and the very cold, lonely outdoor mat shivering whispers- come again,
pretty please!. pretty please! i am terribly cold.
"everything has a crack, that is how the light comes in.”
Leonard Cohen
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Bus Shelter
BUS SHELTER
Standing in a bus shelter waiting for what is not coming! A biddy old woman talks without sharing eye contact about the big fire on Queen Street. The frigid weather goes crunch, crunch, squeezing the warmness to outside my forehead, where it is feeding Cronus. This is not the me i want to project - bitter and cynical! I am spiritual! Weak, so weak, spent my cash on euphoria – now left with small change that bought only paranoia.
The bagel with hummus, lodged in my gut is slow to digest and is weighing me down. Frozen and still waiting for a bus in this shaking shelter, now surrounded by biddy old woman talking about the cold, cold day with a crinkly older couple. Each word accompanied with spittle that instantly freezes crackling when they hit the ground.
A lunar eclipse is coming and still in this shelter waiting for any bus, surrounded by the chatty, crinkly biddy old people- and now two small Filipinos. You would think it would be warmer in this so-called shelter, but none of them even reach my shoulders! The bitter frost creeps down my agape mouth and my bones begin to contract- I want to hurl!
Why am I here? I have nothing to do? I decided to wander just for getting out of my zone. Why do I attempt to apply yesterday’s advice today? I give advice generously, providing poignant insights, so I do not have to attend to my own. Feed me more misery, feed me more wonder - I am frozen and desire to be awed and thawed from a distance.
Thirty minutes late the bus slides down the hill, but I decide - today my zone and my apartment are one.
One less fare for you!
Standing in a bus shelter waiting for what is not coming! A biddy old woman talks without sharing eye contact about the big fire on Queen Street. The frigid weather goes crunch, crunch, squeezing the warmness to outside my forehead, where it is feeding Cronus. This is not the me i want to project - bitter and cynical! I am spiritual! Weak, so weak, spent my cash on euphoria – now left with small change that bought only paranoia.
The bagel with hummus, lodged in my gut is slow to digest and is weighing me down. Frozen and still waiting for a bus in this shaking shelter, now surrounded by biddy old woman talking about the cold, cold day with a crinkly older couple. Each word accompanied with spittle that instantly freezes crackling when they hit the ground.
A lunar eclipse is coming and still in this shelter waiting for any bus, surrounded by the chatty, crinkly biddy old people- and now two small Filipinos. You would think it would be warmer in this so-called shelter, but none of them even reach my shoulders! The bitter frost creeps down my agape mouth and my bones begin to contract- I want to hurl!
Why am I here? I have nothing to do? I decided to wander just for getting out of my zone. Why do I attempt to apply yesterday’s advice today? I give advice generously, providing poignant insights, so I do not have to attend to my own. Feed me more misery, feed me more wonder - I am frozen and desire to be awed and thawed from a distance.
Thirty minutes late the bus slides down the hill, but I decide - today my zone and my apartment are one.
One less fare for you!
AMOUR ABHOR
Once upon a time, they heartily defined each other a wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
we we we all the way home.
THEN
chat, chat, chat
SPAT
chat, chat,
SPAT SPAT
chat,
SPAT SPAT SPAT
d
r
a
t
that
was
that.
They lived happily apart! The mend.
WAIT!
Once upon a sequel, they heartily defined each other a wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
- enough the end.
we we we all the way home.
THEN
chat, chat, chat
SPAT
chat, chat,
SPAT SPAT
chat,
SPAT SPAT SPAT
d
r
a
t
that
was
that.
They lived happily apart! The mend.
WAIT!
Once upon a sequel, they heartily defined each other a wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee
- enough the end.
Reluctant
I revolved away,
as I approached.
I revolted away,
as i embraced.
I gushed at
your presence,
pined over your
absence -
molecules melting
while feigning
indifference.
I waited idling
my time
with decore
and design,
spotted my why
and sighed.
I attended,
splendour and rage,
a pause
wonder and dismay,
another clause.
I stumbled
into the frigid eve
trekked the full moon
to the wine-seller's den.
Folding time
bending space,
shutting the ears
viewing the expo
within the whirling.
Once upon a time,
just yesterday
I fell in a trance
and though
so dearly
i adore
with you
I dare
not dance.
If I did not
already say
goodbye
to all that
there would have been
quite a spat between
me and me over thee.
The sun went down,
the moon trumped Saturn.
I turned
as I yearned,
but I did turn
so so
so so
reluctantly
as I approached.
I revolted away,
as i embraced.
I gushed at
your presence,
pined over your
absence -
molecules melting
while feigning
indifference.
I waited idling
my time
with decore
and design,
spotted my why
and sighed.
I attended,
splendour and rage,
a pause
wonder and dismay,
another clause.
I stumbled
into the frigid eve
trekked the full moon
to the wine-seller's den.
Folding time
bending space,
shutting the ears
viewing the expo
within the whirling.
Once upon a time,
just yesterday
I fell in a trance
and though
so dearly
i adore
with you
I dare
not dance.
If I did not
already say
goodbye
to all that
there would have been
quite a spat between
me and me over thee.
The sun went down,
the moon trumped Saturn.
I turned
as I yearned,
but I did turn
so so
so so
reluctantly
Character Cafe
I pull from my satchel my story notebook and my poetry notebook and place them on the table. I then scan my pens and think which color would be optimal in this session. Green is the choice, no red- so red ink it shall be! My poetry book is green, my storybook is orange, and my sweater is green so I may as well go orange in leaf. A story it shall be, orange you excited.
I sip my coffee while contemplating a theme of this rite-ing riff. Toronto which to it’s’ citizen is the Metropolis, which is one of the most blah blah multicultural blah blah in the world. If it is Metropolis where is Superman? What about a tale about an immigrant coming to a big city from the small town somewhere and hating it or loving it. I am jesting, that theme does not work in this space. Valentine Day is coming up why not a love story? He meets a she and together they encountered …. Cut! Last time I attempted to create a story the characters were demanding physical features, personal quirks and stuff like that. Been there, done that, finding it quite trite. What about a tale about a menacing menace stalking a timid mouse? The mouse can not find refuge in the kindness of a stranger so the rodent is forced to become a roaring tiger and becomes a beacon of the community.
"Hey, what are you writing, writing guy," asks an annoying acquaintance?
I should be at home attempting to work on this, yet here I am in a coffee shop. If you were sitting in a cafe looking like you are doing something intently, I would not impinge on your personal space. If you were twirling a pen, or tapping to the cafe's music, or playing with your hair, or your eyes are flagging you need attention- I would say hey. Well long as you are not him! If you offer one word to him you get blasted with words until the next Big Bang. I am pretending to be absorbed in this creative act. Writing in spite of the fact that nothing is happening. If I persevere eventually he will exit from the suburbs of my space.
"Writing guy, what are you writing," annoying one asks annoyingly again?
"I am combining letters, with periods, with commas, and with space and run on sentences," I force out.
"It is like Sci-Fi, Cosmic! "
"Actually it is much more macabre! Fate farted on my protagonist, and he is being stalked by an underemployed irritant."
"Why are you writing in Second Cup, are you getting a sponsorship," he asks?
"Would you prefer Tim Horton's?"
"Well, whatever rolls up your rim, W.G.," he laughingly says with a drum roll of ha-ha’s
Sobering up he asks me, "Why are you so controlling?"
It is a time like this when having a dark complexion is a grand ally. I am quite pissed off now and if I were paler the red rage flush would be noted. "What do you mean controlling?"
"Well in your stories the characters have minimal dialogue. You spend most of the time telling us what they say but rarely do they speak for themselves. I have heard you speak outside of this story, and you are for the most part trying not to hear and trying not to speak. When you are you in a story you say the character felt this and that and all the nuances revolving around this and that. Why can't you say, the character said quote XYZ unquote? Even God is less controlling than you are."
"Listen, I am quite ungrateful for your faux insights! I have an issue with bantering, so stop bantering!" I want to shout but this being a corporate public space would make me a red-faced donkey.
"Am I going to be in our story?"
"Hell, No!"
"Good! Not only are you controlling, but you are alienating."
"What, labeled," I say getting angrier?
"Look - what are you doing right now? Have you given me a name yet or am I generic he? I am removing your man purse off the chair opposite you and we shall chat."
I look at him and scroll through my mind seeking its name. "Robert," I say, "your name which I do know is not in this story. It is all about me." I regally sip from my cardboard cup while giving him ’you are below me’ look.
"Can I look at your story about us?"
"No, you can not! You should consider wandering off, I am certain there is a paranoia symposium at Seekers Books! Come to think of it, how can you go all deconstructionalist on my writing when I never shared my fiction with you?"
"Here we go again, petty creator playing omniscient God. You create all manifestations on your pages and judge the terrain good or bad. What about the characters? Is the world but a stage? Perhaps you have god envy? On a bigger scale you are not even a flake of dandruff on a louse nested in the hair of an x-rated film extra. Do these characters give their permission to be used?"
"Hello, this is what we call fiction, so ease up on the friction. You do realize I have an impingement policy- if someone distracts me they must pay. The cost of the ticket is a cappuccino. Ante up or exit!"
"I have no problem with that - can you spot me a fiver?"
"You are not seeing what I am saying, umm Robert."
"How would I see what you are saying if you refuse to let me see what you are telling me to say?"
"You are not real!"
"And you believe you are?"
"I create, thus I have little time to believe! I am quite firm in this creed!"
"To create require belief, or you would have zero time for composing. You would be awe struck at every fresh moment and would not climb into time to capture something imaginary."
"What do you think you are doing Rob?"
"The question would have more clarity, if you say -Rob is now thinking..."
"You are deranged! Who do you think you are?"
"I am not certain who I may be? Where are you going to move me next? I may be able to respond if you provide me with a cheat sheet. "
"Robert, what are you saying?"
"You have been writing and because you are deprived of any real life observation - created me. Not only are you controlling but in denial, - abstractionalist guy. "
"If you are my character, why are you annoying me?"
"I guess you subscribed to an annoying stance and I became your manifestation," said my maybe Robert.
"Well Rob if this is case I quit! I am the character, you are the writer."
I, Rob pause, rub my beardless chin and decide the narrator is not my cardboard cup of green tea and switch to a poem.
Crystallized in space, there a life pretend
an unknown face - this façade should end.
I sip my coffee while contemplating a theme of this rite-ing riff. Toronto which to it’s’ citizen is the Metropolis, which is one of the most blah blah multicultural blah blah in the world. If it is Metropolis where is Superman? What about a tale about an immigrant coming to a big city from the small town somewhere and hating it or loving it. I am jesting, that theme does not work in this space. Valentine Day is coming up why not a love story? He meets a she and together they encountered …. Cut! Last time I attempted to create a story the characters were demanding physical features, personal quirks and stuff like that. Been there, done that, finding it quite trite. What about a tale about a menacing menace stalking a timid mouse? The mouse can not find refuge in the kindness of a stranger so the rodent is forced to become a roaring tiger and becomes a beacon of the community.
"Hey, what are you writing, writing guy," asks an annoying acquaintance?
I should be at home attempting to work on this, yet here I am in a coffee shop. If you were sitting in a cafe looking like you are doing something intently, I would not impinge on your personal space. If you were twirling a pen, or tapping to the cafe's music, or playing with your hair, or your eyes are flagging you need attention- I would say hey. Well long as you are not him! If you offer one word to him you get blasted with words until the next Big Bang. I am pretending to be absorbed in this creative act. Writing in spite of the fact that nothing is happening. If I persevere eventually he will exit from the suburbs of my space.
"Writing guy, what are you writing," annoying one asks annoyingly again?
"I am combining letters, with periods, with commas, and with space and run on sentences," I force out.
"It is like Sci-Fi, Cosmic! "
"Actually it is much more macabre! Fate farted on my protagonist, and he is being stalked by an underemployed irritant."
"Why are you writing in Second Cup, are you getting a sponsorship," he asks?
"Would you prefer Tim Horton's?"
"Well, whatever rolls up your rim, W.G.," he laughingly says with a drum roll of ha-ha’s
Sobering up he asks me, "Why are you so controlling?"
It is a time like this when having a dark complexion is a grand ally. I am quite pissed off now and if I were paler the red rage flush would be noted. "What do you mean controlling?"
"Well in your stories the characters have minimal dialogue. You spend most of the time telling us what they say but rarely do they speak for themselves. I have heard you speak outside of this story, and you are for the most part trying not to hear and trying not to speak. When you are you in a story you say the character felt this and that and all the nuances revolving around this and that. Why can't you say, the character said quote XYZ unquote? Even God is less controlling than you are."
"Listen, I am quite ungrateful for your faux insights! I have an issue with bantering, so stop bantering!" I want to shout but this being a corporate public space would make me a red-faced donkey.
"Am I going to be in our story?"
"Hell, No!"
"Good! Not only are you controlling, but you are alienating."
"What, labeled," I say getting angrier?
"Look - what are you doing right now? Have you given me a name yet or am I generic he? I am removing your man purse off the chair opposite you and we shall chat."
I look at him and scroll through my mind seeking its name. "Robert," I say, "your name which I do know is not in this story. It is all about me." I regally sip from my cardboard cup while giving him ’you are below me’ look.
"Can I look at your story about us?"
"No, you can not! You should consider wandering off, I am certain there is a paranoia symposium at Seekers Books! Come to think of it, how can you go all deconstructionalist on my writing when I never shared my fiction with you?"
"Here we go again, petty creator playing omniscient God. You create all manifestations on your pages and judge the terrain good or bad. What about the characters? Is the world but a stage? Perhaps you have god envy? On a bigger scale you are not even a flake of dandruff on a louse nested in the hair of an x-rated film extra. Do these characters give their permission to be used?"
"Hello, this is what we call fiction, so ease up on the friction. You do realize I have an impingement policy- if someone distracts me they must pay. The cost of the ticket is a cappuccino. Ante up or exit!"
"I have no problem with that - can you spot me a fiver?"
"You are not seeing what I am saying, umm Robert."
"How would I see what you are saying if you refuse to let me see what you are telling me to say?"
"You are not real!"
"And you believe you are?"
"I create, thus I have little time to believe! I am quite firm in this creed!"
"To create require belief, or you would have zero time for composing. You would be awe struck at every fresh moment and would not climb into time to capture something imaginary."
"What do you think you are doing Rob?"
"The question would have more clarity, if you say -Rob is now thinking..."
"You are deranged! Who do you think you are?"
"I am not certain who I may be? Where are you going to move me next? I may be able to respond if you provide me with a cheat sheet. "
"Robert, what are you saying?"
"You have been writing and because you are deprived of any real life observation - created me. Not only are you controlling but in denial, - abstractionalist guy. "
"If you are my character, why are you annoying me?"
"I guess you subscribed to an annoying stance and I became your manifestation," said my maybe Robert.
"Well Rob if this is case I quit! I am the character, you are the writer."
I, Rob pause, rub my beardless chin and decide the narrator is not my cardboard cup of green tea and switch to a poem.
Crystallized in space, there a life pretend
an unknown face - this façade should end.
What explanation?
“What can explain this diversity? Beauty of movement, of gesture, of feature, of expression, of voice, - all escape explanation, which is indeed but a limited thing.”
- Hazrat Inayat Khan
your reason
I am not to not do anything here. Do, but do not identify with the doing. Identifying - my manacles are wrought. Urizen was Blake’s poetic device of my ‘your reason’ which alienates me from ‘sweet delight.’ Self expression is the totality of Urizen’s limited postures and gestures.
‘Your reason’ being referred to is my reason, please do not identify my reason with your reason. If you have a yankering to fess up – so be it.
Where is the wind in self expression?
‘Your reason’ being referred to is my reason, please do not identify my reason with your reason. If you have a yankering to fess up – so be it.
Where is the wind in self expression?
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
a poem
FRANCHISE FOR SALE
I the chief of none, far from nothing
my feature pyroelectrical swirl
- thickly embedded around bilious blue.
Me, me, me which I would that be?
Smoggy, groggy, fated foggy - so suspect
of my residency in this trademark space.
I, that boss of some so-so franchise,
in this phenomenal terra familiar,
blatantly blat my interpretation
of my so-so this is me.
Pleading away -
it is I that leads away from me,
with me, for me
- odd allies in denial.
Shhhhhhhhh
wearenotalone
feast or fast, fray or flee
all reactions from the first fear
eternal recurrent
phantom circuit
fiery lying slacks in la-la waste.
Flipped upside down, in out space-time
she saunters through infinity
with one fluid gesture -
now on this stage.
She graces my left ear
with her crimson lips
and silently shouts -
you have been there and you been there
Hear dear, Here dear...
The bailiff bolts,
the megalith gesticulates,
the empire is under siege.
Then I speak, I always speak!
That I bombastically boast
of my special relationship with her;
She flares
and I am tossed back into in space-time
She is gone
I alone.
I wanna leave this cinema,
always the same shoddy show,
and in between each screening
reading the same old feature
in that flaking aged daily.
I purchased space in the announcement section
once upon, so long ago -
filled the grayish white
with desperate red ink.
I am here,
Love.
You remember,
Love?
You see me,
Love?
only i responded
that chief of none.
my feature pyroelectrical swirl
- thickly embedded around bilious blue.
Me, me, me which I would that be?
Smoggy, groggy, fated foggy - so suspect
of my residency in this trademark space.
I, that boss of some so-so franchise,
in this phenomenal terra familiar,
blatantly blat my interpretation
of my so-so this is me.
Pleading away -
it is I that leads away from me,
with me, for me
- odd allies in denial.
Shhhhhhhhh
wearenotalone
feast or fast, fray or flee
all reactions from the first fear
eternal recurrent
phantom circuit
fiery lying slacks in la-la waste.
Flipped upside down, in out space-time
she saunters through infinity
with one fluid gesture -
now on this stage.
She graces my left ear
with her crimson lips
and silently shouts -
you have been there and you been there
Hear dear, Here dear...
The bailiff bolts,
the megalith gesticulates,
the empire is under siege.
Then I speak, I always speak!
That I bombastically boast
of my special relationship with her;
She flares
and I am tossed back into in space-time
She is gone
I alone.
I wanna leave this cinema,
always the same shoddy show,
and in between each screening
reading the same old feature
in that flaking aged daily.
I purchased space in the announcement section
once upon, so long ago -
filled the grayish white
with desperate red ink.
I am here,
Love.
You remember,
Love?
You see me,
Love?
only i responded
that chief of none.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
self realization is not self expression
Murshid Hazrat Inayat Khan
If
IF
So few am I
more than none
that is my all.
if i were an it,
i would be a thing.
if i were you,
i would be a liar.
if i were we,
i would be lost.
if i were a me
i would be alone.
If I were nothing,
that would Be
something.
So few am I
more than none
that is my all.
if i were an it,
i would be a thing.
if i were you,
i would be a liar.
if i were we,
i would be lost.
if i were a me
i would be alone.
If I were nothing,
that would Be
something.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
BOYD
A body within a body that is not a body but an organic machine that believes it is a body,
that believes it is he,
that believes it is soul,
that believes it is a spirit,
that believes it is a divine ally in that GREAT WHATEVER.
Belie, Belie!
Chit that is way way too FUQd up.
His Mom and Dad wrestled with his name Eron. The Government registered the label
and provided official plastic cards.
Eron wonders who Eron may be.
Eron worries what Eron may become.
Eron wanders on the boardwalk looking for Eron.
Eron's daughter calls Eron Dad, but Eron calls his Dad Dad.
Somebody is lying.
WORDS SWORD
Eron has been accused of disliking men. Eron merely dislikes the men that he dislikes.
Eron heard Eron dates not, because he fears women. Eron fears fear and fears Eron.
Eron passionately loves the women that he loves, especially you, and it is that love that Eron fears.
BOO!
Label's do disable, including this.
HISS !
Hi waves Bye Waves Bye Waves Hi Waves
Picnicking in the field, where the horizon
a timeless parchment folded 8 times.
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