1704152244 or not of any interest

Deconstruct memory.

Be the absolution.

May your sleep be truly deep

and dreams no longer all that interesting.

Spring is not of interest

but only love—

Waiting for

Sakura

1704152152 or never sell your soul

Forsythia in Spartan Spring is singing her fertility like Venus all alone in the morning sky with Mercury.

Goldfinches gather by the feeder as if gathered at the river the beautiful truthful river.

Now the daffodils are amorously yellow while factually amaryllis.

April isn't being cruel when she reminds you of yourself.

Consciousness is the Altar where I worship God Myself.

Profound revelations alert:

Pancho is Lefty! As Jesus is Judas. As in never sell your soul! Always rent.

Winnipesaukee On This Bus

Love is emptiness without the thought of nothing.

Love is the universe without me.

Love is modern energy without romantic or postmodern fantasy.

Love is unreal and free, extemporaneous and incorporated.

Prophecies go unwritten. The sea no longer sounds.

New theories are the same as old beliefs. But love is never-ending.

Consider this. The only fact is being. Death is just a thought.

I am what I am. And I am what I'm not.

Purple Haze Over Winnipesaukee

O the bright light bulbs of Alton Bay outside the roller-skating rink I'm selling three Led Zeppelin albums for a nickel—

we're not exactly expanding consciousness but on the road to Weirs a flash of insight burns an enduring hole through this mask of memory.

Away from the penny arcades, at night, from the beach, the lake looks more obscure than Eastern Algonquian history, yet

still and clear like the onyx ring I am worshipping on Mary's finger on the hand I'm holding because I want to hold your hand, Hare Krishna—

I want to know that great unknown my mother hides away from, and my father only vaguely knows is something he can't tell me.

And so this trip is long and strange and doesn't ever end because I never can remember when it really started—

so unknown, unsaid and ultimately unborn, by the bonfire burning holes thru the veil of mind, this stream-of-consciousness is kissing Mary.

Peepers. Symphony for Agni with Miles Davis 2 go

Because I am, all is. Because I think it is, all is my projection. Because it's my projection, it dances to my tune. I am the piper at the gates of dawn.

Once I think something's good, it's automatically implied there's something bad. But there is no thing but my projection.

For there is no like nor hate but only love, my first and last illusion.

I love the sound of peepers in the spring evening. It sounds like...awakening. Deconstructing consciousness is bound to be the very next phase. As if the absolute is self-aware and this appears to be an evolutionary universe of being becoming self-aware. Dis-identifying first with the body and last with being, pure awareness is spontaneously self-aware, or so it would appear. Yet awareness being self-aware is a package deal. As if to dream the impossible dream. Frogs alive!

Consciousness is the only medicine and appears in many forms.

It just feels like there should be fireworks tonight and then I remember to listen to the peepers.

There's past in those peepers but there's something present too, like April mixing memory and the holy spirit of evolutionary intent towards…this dream of self-awareness. 

When intent appears, it registers in memory as a bolt of lightning ever-present. And when intent appears, it registers within the present as a flash of synchronicity. Thus, intent is the Trinity of: awareness being, being knowing, knowing awareness.

The smell of spring. The revelation of the spring. The genesis of springtime.

Nature's first green is this sharp splash of peepers in awakening air.

Singing love, synchronicity, and dreamtime.

It's as if my living room is Cold Mountain come the springtime

my religious instructions

to be

self-aware

is I am without

remembering I am.

the practice is remembering to be.

the schedule for this self-remembering is

the only practice that needs to be followed religiously,

although most religions soon forget this.

self-awareness is the crown of my creation

but I shall only know this

when I wear it.

and thus i wear it so religiously.

in awakening,

as realization is not abiding,

one practices self-remembering religiously.

but abiding enlightenment is absolutely irreligious.

there is no separation but one knowing.

there are no gods nor an electorate.

there is no duality but polarity and laughter

arising from the valley spirit—

o consciousness alive and being present,

this essential sense, this love,

this source of heart and fire,

and all before my birthday!

as if there is a tree to fall

As paradoxical statements disprove logic,

so are the days of our lives.

A daydream is the most powerful dream—

this mighty truck of wave-particles feels so real

like a pie in your face for being a sleepy bull frog, Basho!

Imagine sacrificing dreams to love.

Imagine unconditional love and it will appear—

like some field of dreams.

Like all western medicine, the world is

the manifestation of ecstasy

in chemical separation.

I have been one to pay attention to

those little workaday moments of satori

as if acquainted to the night.

Search for Jack Kerouac and Robert Frost.

Begin with Birches.

End at Big Sur.

Either be

or just imagine what it’s like not to be—

I'm playing Nisargadatta Maharaj or Ramana Maharshi.