An Indian Fantasia

Ten thousand objects. One subject. Keep it simple.

Love is not a thought: direct path to no mind.

This infinite experience of simple being is ecstatic joy.

While death is just a careless thought.

Einstein is the proof of angels.

Columbus discovered nothing but didn't know it.

Dreams are commentaries on a dream.

All my footnotes reference Nisargadatta. 

Between being and nothing is something else. Beyond.

Knowing the power is troubling at first and ultimately prophetic.

West meets east when neither has direction.

Nothing is as much a thought as any profit.

There are ten thousand Buddhas because one universal being.

Between the black hole and memory is being.

Being is obviously the Son of God.

Existence never is.

In other words. Einstein. West. Black hole. 

Nisargadatta East Being.

Sermon from a River

Do not become misguided by the politics of division

for the world itself is nothing but division.

The mind divides.

That’s what the function of this instrument is there to do.

But one does not identify with a tool, of course,

for in doing so, a divided world is lacerated out of universal being.

We are this one universal being before societal conditioning

and universal being always

despite forgetfulness and ignorance

and these projections.

It’s not a problem though;

it’s just the inner workings of a process the mind calls self-awareness.

There’s an evolutionary vector one is following

and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

The river flows intently to that absolute almighty sea.

Being is the holy water

and love, forgiveness, and compassion is the current.

Follow oneself and see.

Pike's Peak Projections

At thirteen thousand feet, I saw majestic long horn sheep about three hundred yards away from the highway up Pikes Peak.

I stopped the car and ran across the mountain tundra intending to get closer for a better picture,

or I rather jumped from rock to rock avoiding tiny flowers, moss, and lichen in that fragile alpine zone

until my rapid breathing caught me by surprise.

I had forgotten that the air up at such an altitude is as rare as all the ground beneath me.

In that special atmosphere I was remembering something quite pedestrian—

breathing is as awesome as whatever else is out there in its fantastic exhalation.

Phenomenal Fantasia

1. October Flower Dance

Looking at leaves, my subtle branches intuit the stars.

There is no separation for division is exclusively a concept; what appears to be the universe is my society of being.

Only thinking makes an object from the subject, makes this jade-plated quality from that which is unknown.

As if the self-awareness of the self—the self that unknown pure awareness—is spontaneously blossoming into thermonuclear dreams of being.

There is a current underneath the chatter like the river pulling at the heart of some huckleberry backwater.

The personal is just projection from an ignorance of what I always know I am to be unknown. Stop and feel the flowers.

Love, forgiveness, and compassion like the naked roots of god only knows the stars above us.

As the universe is my single song, the absolute is silence singing.

There's intent in evolution, spontaneity is this freedom of intent and self-awareness is the song of self—that is why purple asters in October.

2. No Will

The dream is a self-powered love machine.

Everything is a thought. Even nothing. I am.

A red wheelbarrow.

Black hole white noise. 

The sea, the sea, the sea.

Shakespeare Bodhidharma.

3. Further

After irony is reflection is understanding. Comedy is always further.

One's conditioning is the mirror by which the absolute is seen. The dust is the whole point.

Feel the dust as dust.

See the leaves as always turning.

Love being and being illuminates.

Existence is a thought. Being is now. I am beyond.

The process of self-awareness is like watching sausage getting made.

An Indigenous Trip

Down by Indian Creek the leaves are turning back to that indigenous condition of an innocence before conditioning.

An unnamed stream is flowing with this hydrologic river to the absolute unknowing of the sea.

And suddenly the dream of summer celebrations on a sandbar in the middle of

this wide expanse of legendary knowledge fades like chlorophyll in hillside foliage.

There is a red-tailed hawk in pure blue skies, yellow double lines on a river road, and orange sunshine

in the loving deconstruction of yet another world.

The Great Profile

I saw the Old Man in the Mountain the year before the five granite cliff ledges giving form to face collapsed.

It was Autumn 2002 and the trees up at the notch were bare, although within the valley further north the foliage was peak.

Still, the drab surroundings only made the rock face more prolific in its inspiration, as if a vision will only come alive

completely unattached and otherworldly in the murky night when sleep has overcome the colors of our daydream.

The overall effect was honestly phenomenal! But next summer when I visited again the site I saw an even greater revelation.

There in crystal skies is surfacing the Old Man’s original face.

October Surprise

October begins with leaves 

and ends in emptiness 

and in-between occurs 

a colorful illusion 

lost to apple picking.

By November, everything is over

as if the none of it was ever there.

But that is getting far ahead of autumn things.

Stories need their telling like sleep needs dreaming.

There, a leaf is turning yellow, another

one is falling like a magic carpet

sailing in the cool fresh air,

and ten thousand erstwhile fallen

hide the ground from being self-aware.