Saturday, April 14, 2018

Postneoadvaita Sonnet 1

Material reflects. Being projects.
Choose one or three but not two.
The moon allows the wolves to howl until they get the point.
Black is the new wisdom. White is the new love.
The world is DNA divided by conditioning.
Go figure. It’s either ten thousand somethings or one big nothing.
Everything is as it is, no matter what I may believe.
My lucid dream is what I love but minus all belief.
Being is true knowledge, the immaculate conception.
Consciousness is intentional transformation. Do the math.
Her sweet transmission is to love as her almighty engine is to words.
What if this were line twelve of a spontaneously self-aware sonnet?
That there is no thirteenth floor is just the way of magical reality.
Dreaming is the time for love and disbelieving is the space.

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