The Book of Gogo-an

The picture window blinded by the light, the air conditioner acting cool, the fan is turning its own head with every breath it takes.

The dog days of August have arrived and I’m just getting over this year’s summer solstice and its subsequent Bermuda.

Dark and stormy waves of consciousness reflect divided light until they’re stilled within their own inertia. After all, it is the light.

And after visiting the world, this hermit has returned to sit within his room to read the shortwave ideograms of Robert Lax

as if

Ryokan’s

own

calli

graphy

were

revel

ations

in a

cave.

The Merrimack is my Patmos and the village is an open mic. I rise to see the picture window blinded by the light.

Spoken Words on Wealth

Maybe the rich get richer because the poor don't know they're wealthy. In other words, you dream what you believe you are.

A saint is just a saint because the saint believes that all are saints. Although belief is just a lyrical red herring here.

There's more to do with love than threads the hook of words. The source may be unknown and its intent has manifest the grid

but love is this electric trip fantastic power building bones and moving blood to fill the mind with just enough imagination

to perceive itself reflected in a trembling aspen on a precipice revealing empty space and a hidden river valley.

It's not the thought I-am I am but something more experiential like this love that’s always moving one,

and if I follow it intently, I will see I am the source. There's a certain hydrologic logic to it all.

The light evaporates the sea where wind is guiding clouds upon the continent and rain is falling on the peaks

which tumble over mountainsides informing rivers of their depth and leading them as love returning to the sea.

Or maybe the rich get richer and the poor get poorer because they haven't understood the wealth they are. I am. Just That.

Apocryphon of Taxonomic Transitivity and Love

Like filling the quill to tell the world, we burst the bubble of a desert emptiness and then surrender to the wood. Yes, forgiveness is a nondual thing. It's a matter of love, and not the love of matter. Talk less. Speak more. Write lighter

You are literally the light of the big bang. Actually, in a more scientific way of conceptualizing, you're the thunder of the original lightning. Sing your yawp! The world is not your oyster. It's your mirror. You're not the mind but you reflect. Consciousness is intended by x to reflect its y.

You think you're the hills and valleys but more like that space of mist. The talk of mystery. The speech of love. Vanilla fudge, ultimate spinach, and the strawberry alarm clock. Pet sounds, rubber soul, and between the buttons. Transcendental beat meta-modernism. Also known as now.

Thinking doesn't like to be alone too long. Love knows no one is alone. I can't tell you but you can hear it through me. It doesn't require any final calculations or tellings of story, but it may use them. Think different. Think not. It’s difficult being myself when I'm not being. Genus thought, species belief.

My Domain is the Great Unknown. My Kingdom is Intent. My Phylum is this Consciousness. My Class is all of Space-time. My Order is just Matter. My Family is our Body-mind. My Genus is a Thought. My Species is Belief. My Satguru says Species is Domain. I am That.

Science is just another language requiring translation. Evolution happens suddenly or not at all. Transformation is the name of the game of life. Only the unknown knows the instructions; only the known feels them. The time between world wars is equal to higher technology minus greater bandwidth. Space is racing time. Higher consciousness is racing base belief.

Love. Begin with love. That I am love. That you are love. That we attempt to trust in love. But one of us assuredly may not. And the other faithfully follows losing faith. As sunset follows sun. As sunrise follows sunset. As absolute zero follows one.

Love is the sublime disbelief of the world. Love is why you’re where you are. The five stages of immortality are like the five stages of death where love has made the turn. In the world,  faith holds love together; in truth, love holds the world together.

The First Apocalypse of The Matrix

Crickets and an occasional bullfrog…

Thinking is creation judging. Inspiration is deconstruction stopping. Devotion is silence listening. Revelation is compassion speaking. Manifestation is 'the absolute unknown' intending.

After compassion speaks, le manifestation! And compassion speaking is silence listening—deconstruction stopping—creation judging—Unknown intending—compassion speaking—it is what it is. At the speed of intent.

Pleased to meet you, transformation is the name of my game. The transitive powers of the absolute unknown: if silence listening equals compassion speaking, then manifestation is in the mind. Attention! this is high-level bullshit. Silence is the best response to all communications.

This is all ye need to know: compassion is the crux of the absolute unknown. Karma is the stuff of dreams. Be not entranced by mind games; you are not the mind. Forty days is the change, plus five days of fiesta for the uncertainty principle. Adjust all space-time according to your current belief.

Zen is the art of blowing minds. A koan is zen porn. Mind is any thing believed. The empire is belief itself. There's no translating nonduality. Bodhisattva is another name for prophecy. The empire writes the history but the satguru knows now.

I am the matrix. You will never be experienced. Rest in creation, deconstruction, silence, compassion, or the absolute unknown. Don't overthink it but feel it as much as you can. Do your math for no one but your self. Do you wonder? I knows. Call whomever. Not identifying with the mind is beyond all gossip. Know your nodes.

Radio silence… Belief is the third rail of duality. Rest in transformation. The truth will make you gasp like a fish out of water. Knowing who you are is being what you love. Learn your metamorphosis table. Nonduality isn't black or white.

P. S. I love you. Compassion speaks. Bullshit talks. Know one or know zero—not your doing.

Utter Light

In the quantum shadow world,

the light is speaking.

Every word it says is love

but every word of it is thoroughly misunderstood

and out spill walls

and weapons of mass misunderstanding

and holy wars of passionate belief.

But still the light is speaking

in creation of an infant's breath,

a baby's smile, a child's astounding laugh

with not a touch of irony or deconstruction

hidden in its unadulterated joy.

The light is speaking through

these several billion years of subatomic rubble,

reverberating through a world of high relentless evolution,

parting seven seas of clever smoke

resulting in a rush of tears

to see my self

at last. It seems to take forever

but it's just this blinking

of that wordless eye.

Journaling in Late July

In my cave, this summer morning, the fan is oscillating with a secretive white noise. But the windows are wide open.

I choose the burgundy black pen and write exactly this most noteworthy experience.

Although I have been trained to see the world outside myself, I know it's not. Don't take it personal;

this consciousness is universal. Only the mind in all its sentient interpretation sees it otherwise.

That's not insignificant. It's only through enchantment of such objectivity the absolute subjective knows itself;

the light itself is never seen. Outside the picture window is a branch of leaves already turning yellow and it's only late July.

The birds are being busy somewhere else. Humidity is high. Later when the sun shines through the window, I emphatically will feel it.

This manifest experience is unconditioned love. And when the winter knows the summer,

when the cold white void feels the humid verdant holy heat, I shall recognize myself.

An Unlikely Allegory

There was a wave that dreamt it was the ocean. There was another wave that dreamt it was the sea.

Because not seeing eye to eye, they foamed about the mouth and sprayed invectives in the wind

ascending to grand heights of battlements and watchtowers. In the morning when the sun appeared

above the absolute Pacific, not a wave prevailed upon that silent level boundless main.

And so the message of this story isn't moral but mere fact, that separation in a universe by definition is improbable

and all this sound and fury underway is nothing but the law of probability in play.

Transpoliteration of Thomas, Logion Two

When searching,

going further,

there’s no stopping

until you fully abide

here.

Almost here,

you’re full of paranoia

and bottomless fear—

knowing the known is

not really known.

This fear gives way

to mind-blowing

wonder

seeing the known is

the unknown.

In blissful no-mind,

here’s the sovereign revelation

I Am That—

the absolute

unknown.

If you are searching, you must not stop until you find.

When you find, however, you will become troubled.

Your confusion will give way to wonder.

 In wonder you will reign over all things.

~Thomas Logion Two, translated by Lynn Baumann

On Poison, Love, and Fire

don't drink another's poison

and don't pass it over the table

for someone else—

just common table manners.

love is the only antidote.

but you can’t give it.

and you can’t take it.

you only see you are the antidote.

mature duality is less venomous

than immature nonduality—

taste the ashes

before playing with fire.

A Child’s Garden of Light

Once upon a time there was a child of light, transported to two apparent lights not knowing they too were light.

For they had learned to think, and more, to think about themselves, and every thought was like a colored lens

filtering clear light into emotional complexions of those optics. But, of course, they still were light and loved the light

and taught the lamb of light that came to them to think like them, for that is what they thought was right,

and soon that guiltless light no more was pure unclouded lucid light but shaded in a singular and separate pattern,

divided and benighted—

until one sees the light.

Aum Shakespeare: "thou must now know farther”

from: The Tempest; Act I, Scene II

MIRANDA

…O, I have suffered

With those that I saw suffer: a brave vessel,

Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,

Dash'd all to pieces. O, the cry did knock

Against my very heart. Poor souls, they perish'd.

Had I been any god of power, I would

Have sunk the sea within the earth or ere

It should the good ship so have swallow'd and

The fraughting souls within her.

PROSPERO

Be collected:

No more amazement: tell your piteous heart

There's no harm done.

MIRANDA

O, woe the day!

PROSPERO

No harm.

I have done nothing but in care of thee,

Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who

Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing

Of whence I am, nor that I am more better

Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell,

And thy no greater father.

MIRANDA

More to know

Did never meddle with my thoughts.

PROSPERO

'Tis time

I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,

And pluck my magic garment from me. So:

(Lays down his mantle)           

Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.

The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch'd

The very virtue of compassion in thee,

I have with such provision in mine art

So safely ordered that there is no soul--

No, not so much perdition as an hair

Betid to any creature in the vessel

Which thou heard'st cry, which thou saw'st sink. Sit down;

For thou must now know farther.

MIRANDA

You have often

Begun to tell me what I am, but stopp'd

And left me to a bootless inquisition,

Concluding 'Stay: not yet.'

PROSPERO

The hour's now come;

The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;

Obey and be attentive. Canst thou remember

A time before we came unto this cell?

The Waters of Bermuda

I had heard the talk about the waters of Bermuda and believed it. They were colored with the kiss of turquoise and clear like mountain springs.

But when the ship approached the eastern end, I saw the talk to be mere words and my belief a phantom of the operatic mind.

Oh sure, there is a turquoise hue in pools and places, but even turquoise isn't turquoise. It's just old French for Turkish,

and the colors range through Persian Blue, Black Spider Web, Dark Green Damale, and Yellow Ivory Tortoise,

as well as ten-thousand variations on that painter's theme. It's like the classic difference between religion and the truth,

thinking and experiential witnessing, rationale and love, the pointing finger and the bright full moon.

Here rise the waters of Bermuda, and yes, they are amazing.

Sea Legs

The ship was rolling in a Beaufort Scale of nine and I was in the bow when the center of our gravity went missing.

It took a week on land before I found it once again.

But meanwhile vertigo suggested that the world was in my mind and every movement I anticipated was met

by corresponding movement of some so-called object,

that there’s only this subjective space and gravity is magical illusion which without the waves are seen to be the sea

and all attachment is expelled like vomit.

Bermuda Illuminations

Between two massive igneous formations rests a turquoise cove with ocean waters warmed to a Bermuda summer glow.

Ten thousand years of blue incessant waves have undercut the old caldera stone to thunder crashing with each coral tidal lightning show.

I'm in the water with my thirty-something year old daughter and we're snorkeling and looking at the unknown world

beneath the surface of the sea. It's paradise revisited for me.

That's when I saw the angel fish, or what I like to call an angel fish, although a little later on I'm told it's just an everyday Bermuda sea chub.

You see they change their colors like a mood ring, silver being their default, and black their warlike tint.

But white is their harmonious and peaceable embodiment.

Amazing, like an underwater Prospero, I am conjuring a show that never happens, although I know this spontaneity is looking

through this looking glass and seeing far into the past when my Miranda came to being helping with my seeing,

like this angel fish of my imagination, focusing a world of waves into a sea of self-awareness.

Bermuda is the truth and even someone sixty-something is illuminated in its timeless youth.

Clifton of St. George

There’s a black man in Bermuda who asks each tourist he encounters this specific question:

how old should someone be before allowing them to drink?

There’s a tourist in Bermuda who answers if they’re old enough to die.

There’s a black man in Bermuda who's asked if he remembers being born and answers he recalls that original swimming.

There's a tourist in Bermuda who knows the only knowledge is I am, yet in the deeper water asks his ginger beer and black Bermuda rum:

but who am I?

Formalism

I was nurtured on the teat of sweet belief

creating what I call myself. Unique. Good grief!

My personality is like an onion made

from all these other second-hand beliefs conveyed

to memory and accepted as a god’s own truth.

And so I fade from infancy to bitter youth.

But ask myself this question most see most naive:

do I remember being born? I can’t conceive

a moment never being. That is what I am.

The rest is just some evolutionary scam

the absolute unknown intends so I may know

I am the absolute unknown. No pain, no rhyme.

The Last Thing

Alone again but more alone than ever I have been since ever I have been me.

Most would say I wasted all my talents on obsessions, circumventions, and preoccupations.

So I’ll repeat my psychological evaluation here: my father never introduced me to the world; my mother was completely fearful of it.

This left me with one simple task while in and of this world: to tread upon the tiger's tail without alerting it to my inquiring presence.

I could write this story now as if this character possessed a choice in plot, development, or setting. But I didn't.

So let me end this introduction with my lifelong findings: there’s no world to introduce except a false one. And fear is why the world itself is false.

The world will never tell you this because it doesn't know it. And the ones who really know it know there's nothing to be told. I’d listen to them.

Oh to be sure, there are religions that will sell the sea to every wave within this ocean but religions are the world’s own fears personified and organized to hide them in some other hell.

And please do not misunderstand me. I'm still going further. The only reason why I'm writing is this entropy of poetry. This form enjoys the rhyme of dancing with the beauty of the truth it knows to date.

First, there’s only love. And if we listened to the Beatles back in nineteen-sixty-seven, we'd already know this. Then again, if John and Paul were listening, they'd never write the song, or I, of course, this poem.

Love is what we are without the need for wanting love or making love or needing to be loved and once this faith in love is truly followed, there’s no ‘we’ or 'me' remaining. Jesus Christ, just listen to his message.

Last, the only thing you need to know is there is absolutely nothing to be known. In fact, the thinking that there's something to be known is why one never knows that great unknown. The Cloud Unknowing says: unknow and know your—no, that—yes, my—unknown.

I'll end with just this other way if love is not the hard direction wired within your brain. Deconstruct the world as now you see it: tread upon the tiger's tail without alerting it to your inquiring presence.

Sometimes I'll talk to me so I will listen to myself. Like a rolling stone.

The Ballad of Long Division

In the land of long division

our denominator is the king.

And in the world of yin and yang

she may be queen. Or anything.

In the land of long division

war is our default position setting.

War may be defined as worldwide

or a little bit upsetting.

In the land of long division

answers always end with more divisions.

Taking sides will always lead

to new improved sky-high collisions.

In the land of long division

genuine nonviolence is the hero.

Long division ends when one

denominator sets to zero.

Memories in Triskaidecameter

They're cutting down the woods again to build another house upon the hill that overlooks the river valley.

They haven't reached the woods I see directly out my window but I know it's just a matter of the timing.

The world is always changing and we love it better in the memory than the one we see before us changing.

A memory is a work of art creating something out of nothing freezing form from endless transformation.

The past is always being lived again because the past that's in our memory always changes with our living.

Today the woods are lush and green and yesterday the woods were empty and tomorrow never really happens.

mahatma summer king

in the territory of gray

squirrels, red ones

hightail branches

going sixties

steve mcqueen

dead vines

tumble down

a tamarack

like waterfalls

whipped with time

do not ask

the woods

for whom

the tree

is falling

everything

is

for the benefit

of knowing

this unknown

a rose-breasted grosbeak

finally arrives

from somewhere

southern, innocent

and full of pure potentiality

every living form

appears to be obsessed

with summer’s near arrival

disregarding every clue

it comes and goes as never here

sleeping means

seeing something is happening

awakening means seeing

nothing

ever does

great ones only

go beyond

division

by dividing anything

by nothing

there’s nothing

to say

that needs to be heard

except

it’s nameless

the leaves are green

the space is green

and my interpretations of

my dream is green

that’s what i’m dreaming

the summer’s here

and time is ripe

to contemplate

the transformation’s later light

and sing what no one’s saying