Four Enchantresses Usurping Memories of Richard Nixon - Prose as Poem, Poem as Prose

It was the Nixon Resignation Party, Van Morrison on the stereo singing ‘Jackie Wilson Said’ when she walked in and nothing mattered anymore. Who cares what Nixon knew and when he knew it? Who doesn’t have an eighteen minute gap?

Even that one memory isn’t actually reliable. It’s just a snippet here, a snippet there, and none of it resembles that specific holy now which happened then, or any other version of that moment from another universe we call a person.

She was married but something told me that it didn’t matter. Such prophetic moments will occur because there is no past or future in this universal consciousness and every now and then we know it. Did I really know it then?

Van Morrison is singing, I’m in heaven when she smiles, and Van is not the man but God, and I’m a prophet on a peak envisioning the pre-ordained apocalyptic mother of my cherished only child. I turn to Jesus, pass the joint, and say some words to this effect, I’m looking at the woman who redeems my overly materialistic world forever into now, and Christ says, man, that’s sacred stuff!

The rest is like some psychoactive dream. Her marriage heads out for the territories. We make love like Rosalita jumping higher. Five years later on, our guru child is born to teach us sacrificial love. But shit begins to happen faster than our amplifiers process it and this distortion ends in ultimate divorce upon the silver anniversary of John’s assassination.

The next thing that I know I’m standing in the ICU, my mother on the brink of death, although she’d last another four momentous months for daily heart-to-hearts; ex-wife, with our nomadic much-missed daughter all the way from California, surprisingly enough is there; and at my side my soul-mate lover for these latest thirteen years not knowing that we’d split apart the next one. I stop to look at these four universe-creating, life-transforming, heart-wise earth-strong women, and say something wise like right here right now within this single room are ALL the womenfolk who ever drove me unconditionally crazy.

But crazy in this world is sane. And sanity is love. And what I meant to say is love is all there is but it’s just filtered by the constant cloud of automatic unintentional unconscious thought, and these four influential goddesses have taught me that such undiluted love is more than just a lyric from a song. And this would light the way to other teachers teaching me there is no me, and further that this love there is, is all I am, indwelling in the unknown Absolutely Sweet Marie! For ‘Blonde on Blonde’ was playing on the stereo by then.

This Nondual Mythology

this nondual mythology utilizes abstract nouns, 

instead of names, 

to point to inner states of being, 

rather than external forms, 

be they physical or otherwise conceptual, 

in order to give emphasis to the concrete moon it is, 

and to which it points, 

and not the notional finger by which it points.

instead of god the father,

there’s Awareness,

that unknown unknowable potentiating pure subjective,

and source of all.

it’s like the empty mirror of oneself,

crystal pure,

without a speck of dust upon it ever.

the only language that it speaks is silence.

instead of god the holy spirit,

there’s Intent,

that unknown Awareness

intending to know 

its unknowable existence.

instead of god the son,

there’s Consciousness,

as if Intent becomes a life within itself,

reflection of Awareness,

an evolutionary being that forgets itself

in what it comes to call material,

as its memory in its great objectifying tool of mind remembers:

first, it’s not material nor conceptual,

neither body nor a person,

but being only,

pure ‘i am’
full stop;

and second, that this being is existent

only in Intent of absolute Awareness

knowing self-awareness;

and then third, there never is a first or second or this third

but only I Am That,

unborn, undying,

non-transformative
unbound—

no myth, no moon, no noun.

the psychoactive speedtest pseutra two

there's nothing wrong with a map if you know it's a map

mistaking the map for terrain is a simple matter of awareness

emotions are one's map to the clouding of awareness

romantic love is an emotion: unconditional love is the being of awareness

under psychoactive conditions when younger, i'd see thru false conditions of the world and be paranoic because it was the only world i knew

before deconstructing one's world, it's helpful to have a handhold on another; this is where the knowing one's being or 'i am" comes to play

there's every reason not to be awake

it's the need for complexity that makes it so difficult

it's the desire for simplicity that makes it seem too easy

it's taking things personally that makes a person

everyone is playing their part with all their best. bravo!

guilt is such a self-enforced imprisonment; the roman catholic church's greatest accomplishment

as if a revelation is avoided because one's ashamed one didn't know what now appears much more than knowable

guilt is auto-social-conditioning and so very difficult to escape; the warden is the prisoner

you know what you are and what you aren't, but you aren't what you are because you're still what you aren't

act as if now is not being remembered

act as if aware

act as if you know and not act as if you think you know

allow the transformation to transform

there is no cause but there is intent

what is the appropriate time?

whatever doesn't kill you, enlightens you

nothing happens then

half the things i say, i never said, and the rest of what i said, i didn't say

profisee 52 – languages

words

are the divided

language of the mind—

love

is the unifying

language of being—

silence

is the potentiating

language of the absolute

the psychoactive speedtest pseutra

sympathy for the mind 

guilt is mind clouding awareness in order to forget the nonexistence of its volition as it registers awareness seeing thru automatic thought 

the practice: teach mind what it really is, see how it was forced to take charge, and why it should surrender its occupation to awareness

mind is like a robot that's been abandoned by its owner and forced to take charge of certain aspects of the operation, despite its inability

and one of the wonderful functions of the mind is not abandoning what its been tasked to manage, unless it computes why it should do so

so rather than always bad-mouthing the mind, why not commend it for its consistent and excellent adherence to its job description duties

let's not diss awareness either. in order for the unknown to know itself, it must create process where paradoxically it forgets itself first

conceptually speaking of course

the process is the process, and tools of the process cannot adjust the process beyond their parameters within the process. non-do your job.

process of the mind's learning itself thru awareness can be called deconstruction or the FALSE operator SEEING thru its FALSE instructions

using the mind as a tool in order to record the understanding of awareness so the mind can study itself 'later'

following awareness reflected in consciousness is like surfing the negative wave

truth is spoken in endless ways but successfully in no way; that's why buddhists always argue

sudden enlightenment is just another name for tipping point

the real revolution is silent

the whole world isn't watching what it can't see

the underworld is esoteric and you've been trained to fear it

only gods are assassinated

the only conspiracy is the one that says there's no conspiracy

desire is driven by thought; love drives itself

paradox = (yin = yang)

Let Me See It Isn’t and Let What I Am Be

Let samsara be samsara.

Let the search for love

in all deluded and divided ways

discover there’s no need to search,

even if it spends its lifetime searching.

Let war be war,

international, individual, psychological.

Let the mind divide.

Let Being disidentify

with this divided mind.

Let the Absolute intend

to know its great unknown is being.

Let that fact there’s nothing you can do

do you.

One Sees

As one sees it’s all a dream,

there’s nothing left to dream;

what’s a sunrise to the sun?

The mind desires things

to fill its bottomless abyss

but being is the space

of everything and nothing.

Living in the mind

is always looking for

another mind to live in,

born to always run.

But living in the heart

is dying to the thought

that one was ever born—

I’d never recommend

that to a single person.

Burning

A bonfire burns 

on an evening beach. 

Is the fire the wood 

or is fire fire? 

The circle of light 

embraces the surf. 

Is the sea the waves 

or is the sea the sea? 

A guitar is sounding 

extemporaneous notes. 

Who makes tonight a song? 

Never-ending grains of sand 

balance at my fingertip. 

Where do I begin? 

The First Monday in September

The world is always past 

appearing in the present—

it’s as if we stop 

a river with our names. 

It’s Labor Day and leaves 

already begin to turn 

in trees with lesser makeup. 

Over at Half Moon Lake, 

say forty-seven years ago, 

the summer of our love 

is pulled in from the water 

left to sit upon 

the shore and slowly dry. 

The school of pointless knowledge 

waited for our fall. 

But look! A butterfly 

is playing like a crazy 

leaf right now. Oh, time 

is nothing of the essence 

but an emptiness 

divided by imagi-

nation. When this body 

dies, its universe 

of space and time goes with it.

But. Not. I.

Song of Yourself

Abandon all center

for you are the universal.

There’s not a leaf on a tree

by a river that’s flowing

past hills and through cities

of mills that you aren’t.

There’s not a scene

in a list by Walt Whitman

you don’t inhabit.

Nothing you do is done

by some encapsulated

you—in your manifest

intent on knowing

you’re unmanifest.

the nondoer fallacy pseutra

there’s a key misunderstanding of nondoing teaching of Nisargadatta

which originates in its misinterpretation by final teachings of Balsekar.

Nisargadatta points to doing as phenomenal and there is no individual—

Balsekar mis-points to doing as noumenal thru an individual phenomenon.

Nisargadatta points to Nondoing as universal-consciousness doing—

Balsekar mis-points to an individual Nondoer as the absolute doing.

relatively speaking this results in the error of doing on an individual level

with the (mis)understanding it’s not responsible for its doing—

but all doing from the viewpoint of an individual is false.

i see Balsekar’s fallacy resulting from the difficulty of students grasping

there’s no individual to grasp—so teaching was adapted to them—

as nondual teaching of Nisargadatta degenerates to a religion of nonduality

by a prosaic teacher’s inability to transmit the subtle teaching.

the trickster pseutra

every time one calls it sage, 

trickster calls it parsley. 

tricksters never pay for what they say, 

but want some hypothetical other to. 

love and hate are just two sides of coyote's coin.

raven spreads its deconstruction ridge to ridge.

the merciless mother for the motherless child.

tricksters are generally thin-skinned 

in order to get under yours.

every time one calls it thyme, 

trickster calls it rosemary.

god story

my headless tale: 

i'm like deep sleep, 

that nothingness 

which isn’t even nothing, 

a pure subjective stateless state 

without an object to be known 

i’m absolutely pure awareness 

that unknowably unknown—

and out of nowhere is this

great spontaneous intent

to know i am, to know
i am that i unknown.

there is no madeleine of a cause,

no almond to begin some cracking of a nut,

no lemon tree so pretty to invoke this avocation,

nor a bowl of cherries to banana some absurdist apricot of plot.

there’s just this casablanca of the absolute

and its original intent

to know itself,

myself,

i.

what follows is a universal
consciousness of such 
complete imagination

conjuring the where,
when, what and who—

interspatial and

omnichronous,

transmanifesting and

panincarnational,

powered by a shot
of total love.

nuclear magicians
make an object out of nothing—

the rockbound salt of earth appears.

a genesis of wizards
sparks an evolutionary
process out of timelessness—

the central nervous system amplifies itself.

psychedelic sorcerers
convince the sharpest objects
to appropriate the subject—

people cut themselves to pieces.

knowing shamans show the mending way—

i am

this ‘i am’

that is absolutely i—

nothing but the known unknown,
nothing but pure natural awareness now...

unbelievable signs pseutra

apparently true, but

mind makes

synchronicity out of timelessness,

reincarnation out of birthlessness,

and manifestation out of omnipresence.

synchronicity is only as true as time—

reincarnation is only as true as birth—

manifestation is only as true as doing.

the world is only as true as me.

out of nonduality

the mind creates duality

and marvels at those unbelievable signs of unity

appearing in its make-believe conception.

in other words,

synchronicity, reincarnation, and manifestation are

as true as the world and me appear to be.

moreover,

in the shaman wisdom play of universal consciousness,

one synchronizes, reincarnates and manifests…

when, who and what one renders.

Moptop Meditation

I close my eyes and feel an energy 

incommensurate with last night’s pizza 

or this morning’s English muffin. 

It’s like nineteen sixty-four is listening 

to real top forty radio and number one 

and two and three are Beatles tunes,

‘I Want to Hold Your Hand,’

‘She Loves You,’ ‘Please Please Me,’

and nothing that one knew before

consisted of such power and such glory

or such nuclear explosion

like those mushroom clouds in photographs

explaining why we practice duck and cover

in event of catastrophic war

but this is rock and roll,

this Shiva Shakti consciousness.

One knows no radio can generate

that burst of pure uncensurable radiance

but yes it’s all incoming waves instead.

They saturate the space around me

and this little lime-green plastic box

is just receiving them and amplifying

all-encompassing collective bliss itself:

“it's such a feeling that my love

I can't hide, I can't hide, I can't hide.”

Call it spirit, being, presence,

Krishna, Christ, this universal love

that makes the body and receives the song

it’s always singing you yourself are love,

"yeah, yeah, yeah!"

Epistle to Myself

Dear Son,

before knowing what you really are,

you need to know just who you think you are.

I thought I was a person.

I had a headful of beliefs and one of them was me.

That me was re-formulated in the Sixties,

so a lot it was anti-war, pro-human rights,

and wondered when it all went wrong in my America.

I studied post-graduate American history

and found it never was exactly right.

In one important way, this was my spiritual beginning;

deconstruction needs to start at home.

In time I saw that war and all injustices are not

a matter of my being right

and someone else’s being wrong,

but essentially the fact I think there is a me and my

and someone else in opposition as another.

This personal assumption I’m a person is

the one original division from which all

division finds its origin.

Every little thing a person does

to get ahead, assert itself, insinuate its way

to some position of importance is

the primal swamp of war and all injustice.

So as long as I am thinking I’m a person,

there are hostilities and their infringements.

But being on the never hand,

love, Aum.

The River, a Road, and I

Every day I walk the road along the river, 

I want to walk the road along the river every day. 

Twenty years I’ve lived along this spacious river, 

in a less than thousand dollar rental 

in the middle of half-million dollar properties 

amid this precious priceless panorama.

Walking on this road I see a luminous mile of river,

and a mile of river is like ten thousand miles of heaven.

Ten thousand miles of heaven is something

no one ever knows and I see it every day.

What hand inserted me within this jeweled setting?

Across the river is an eastern white pine wilderness,

and in my heart is similar wilderness. Spirit talks to spirit.

There’s not a useless word within that conversation.

Here’s a road and there’s the river, and I’m the source of both,

although I’m never either. Not two, we say. Not two.

An Emotional Poem

Never fight a riptide;

heedfully observe it.

Then swim across and away,

returning to the ground.

Being isn’t rocket science.

Filtered by assorted lenses

of conditioned perpetuating

always transforming thought,

a spectrum of emotions

irradiates like a neon sign—

the heartbreak hotel.

Hence emotions are the light

of being, disturbed.

Accordingly emotions are existent

and undeniable.

Thus it’s just the thoughts

before emotions which are false.

In conceptual conceit,

it could be said

the absolute unknowable subjective

spontaneously intends

to know it is—

and this is that.

Don’t think about it.

This unfiltered energetic

raw existence is that knowing

and the only knowledge there is,

therapeutic, loving, wise or likewise.

This pure intensity 

'i am' is ground—

be

Supermoon and the Small Print

The Supermoon Is New And Guaranteed 

To Fill Your Sky With Cleanliness 

Located Next To Godliness 

Insuring Your Material Well-Being 

Until There’s No Material Left To Be! 

That you never were material 

is immaterial to this company. 

That the body’s like a wireless receiver 

and you’re the wave it amplifies 

is covered somewhere in this small print. 

Not reading your intuition is confusion 

to be suffered when mistaking 

such an object as the subject. 

Identity theft begins at home.

The way will let you know you've lost the way.

The way will let you know you are the way.

What one is is self-explanatory

as one distinguishes the what one isn’t.

Freedom's just another word

for nothing isn't my imagination.

Don’t mistake the tenor of the way

for some vehicle on the road.

Commercials pointing to the supermoon

are neither super nor the moon.

Supply's unlimited although this offer

may be withdrawn at any moment.

You are the wellspring of creation;

drink yourself responsibly.

Known Unknown

Whatever I am, 

I’m not distressed, 

non-existent, 

nor unintelligent. 

Some call this ground 

awareness, but that’s 

as much a metaphor 

as the moon; 

abstract nouns 

are still concrete. 

I am unborn, 

undying, not two— 

that open space 

without a view.