Tuesday, January 13, 2015

Really Heart Matters

She was five years old when I told her that her world was breaking. Her mother and father were caught within an argument without an ending. 

So I was moving out. And she was crying like I'd never seen her cry before. The world her parents built for her is being broken by her parents.

It's twenty-eight years later and I know just what I'm not and what I am and even know that knowing is a matter of imagination. 

It doesn't matter, though. Of all the places in the world that I've been driven to, that's the only one I wish I never visited.

Because I know I broke my daughter's heart that day. Although in time, of course, she mended. 

For hearts are not a matter of this world and can't be really broken. That's why it hurts so much when breaking one.

Monday, January 12, 2015

The Sermon on Love v. Love

Some say that love holds us in our time of incarnation 
resulting in continued ignorance of what we really are. 
And strife, and its resultant disaffection of its suffering, 
releases us from holding onto this divisional illusion.

Of course, there's some that say love is what we are 
as universal consciousness and its presence in our lives 
is just our way of telling us there is no ‘us’ of separate 
entities but just the one.

This apparent disagreement on the nature of love 
may just be one of definition, say romantic love, 
which sides with our desires, and unconditional love 
which has no sides but shines like a jewel of light—

universally pervasive and without a single facet 
in its diamond-like appearance, manifesting 
from the great potentiality of what one really is…

Saturday, January 10, 2015

The Sermon on the Wall

It's said that Bodhidharma sat 
before a wall for twenty years 
and so we sit before a wall for thirty, 
not knowing what the wall is pointing to. 
It's like a most significant metaphor 
heard by idiots signifying nothing 
but exactly what they think they heard. 
Thus most of our religions are created 
by the metaphorically-impaired, 
who wouldn't know a Fiat 
from a Pavarotti. Listen, 
Ahab knew exactly what 
that white whale was, pursuing it 
across the waves of consciousness 
until he was absorbed within its sea. 
It's how all great explorers come to know 
they are the great unknown.

Friday, January 9, 2015

Hiking the Whites

I’m looking at the days of hiking in the Whites. 
At first, the climb appears to be a chore; 
you fight for every step you take. 
Is that a pebble in my boot? 
I think my backpack isn’t packed precisely. 
Maybe I should stop to have a swig of Gatorade. 
Maybe I should turn around and try another day. 
But soon there comes a time when such 
a wall of thinking disappears, 
when you yourself have disappeared. 
I am the bear claw imprint on the ash tree. 
I am the deep ravine hardscrabble rock-slide. 
I am the Lapland Rosebay far above the tree line. 
All that now remains is just the closest cairn 
and that resplendent clarity of alpine fresh awareness.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Sermon on the Shit

Cain slew Abel 
now we're really in the shit. 
This primal myth is 
screaming out so loud 
that no one hears it anymore—
kind of like white noise 
but only redder, 
saying violence is 
our only birthright 
and to be divided 
into individuals 
inevitably is divisive. 
No shit Sherlock! 
Yet it's subtext says 
it's all holistic in existence 
but unborn in its incipient reality. 
Though no one gives a shit 
upon the whole—
we're all too busy choosing sides.

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

American e^(pi * i) + 1 = 0

Winter time and the living is inside. 
Foolish thinking—stops. 
Returning to i. 

The bad news is we die. 
The good news is that one is never born. 
We hold this truth to be Self-evident. 

Dividuals will be dividuals, 
and violence is their other name—
although we never answer to it.

A house divided is the world. 
There's nothing to fear 
when fear is viewed clear through. 

See through that wall! 
Ask not what you can do 
but ask just ‘who am i.’

The business of the world 
is dropping business. 
Peace, baby!

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

Insomnia Divina

No one ever knows the world as well 
as you do. Pine trees pine for nothing. 
In Arizona, everything is all about 
your altitude. Without the ocean though, 
what about the waves? It seems the moon 
shone full and midnight was alive 
with silver dreams about the morning 
in America when dreams were full. 
This light is all about the intermittent 
flashes far beyond the desert emptiness. 
Sometimes coyotes eat the starry night. 
Sometimes the night will talk your ear off. 

Monday, January 5, 2015

A Sermon on the Magical Event Horizon

Nothing is ever known. What we think we know is variations on a theme of light. It’s the hydrologic cycle at its subatomic core made manifest as if it’s matter. 

Matter doesn’t really matter though, although it is the stuff of dreams. And dreams are useful in their tendency to point to truth that light of day will never see. 

Beyond our sun is that black hole to which astronomers have said each sun appears to fundamentally become—and sages say from which it never disappeared. 

That said, one is that which. This is its spell. Abracadabra, hocus-pocus, shazam and presto-chango! But a wise magician keeps in mind one’s not at any point the trick. 

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Meditating Words

It’s winter and the river is reflecting nothing. 
It’s not the words which say it wrong 
but our insistence on translating them. 
Have you ever noticed that it’s always cloudy 
when you’re living while it’s January? 
Begin this sentence with a noun instead. 
The antichrist is driving off the bridge again. 
Working in the relative, we rest within the absolute. 
In wintertime, telecommuting is like 
a slow waltz from amazingly nowhere. 
If you haven’t learned to shoot a word, 
you shouldn’t read or write them. 
Silence doesn’t kill but the cold will do. 

Friday, January 2, 2015

Quick Start Guide for the Heart of Poetry

To craft an authentic poem, 
first rest in silent inspiration. 
Let me quickly clarify: 
if intuition is defined 
as universal consciousness 
whispering to divided mind, 
then inspiration is reflection 
of awareness sagaciously 
informing that holistic being. 
Now begin to write, or rather, 
write what one is being told. 
When all appears complete, 
perform an end inspection 
and remove whatever time slipped in.