The Apocalypse of a Nameless Einstein

You are your own Einstein. The only wealth is being. The only job is teaching no one. We have forgotten how to conjugate the verb, to be. Start with I am.

If x is 10,000 seconds to be, how many is y dreaming. After all the questions are answered, there are no answers. The only thing you can't believe is your self.

Being is wordless but not unspeakable. The closest translation is unconditional love. It's not a question of immortality; it's the fact of no beginning.

I can never speak to one still talking. After awakening is the revelation. Every summer, it's me, yourself, and I sitting around the apocalypse, speaking.

Confusion is always in the turning. It's not about finding someone to love; just love before you think. Know love self-correcting is just karma. Think more different. Think mystical.

Science has yet to prove itself. Of the world, translated, is serious. In the world, translated, is love. The past is right before your eyes—now is right inside you.

Writing about nothing is comedy; dying is impossible. Between the socially-conditioned and the unconditional lives the recluse. There are two ways after one way but neither is memorable.

The shaman prescribes against a future. The shaman doesn’t recognize the past. Loose ends long for re-attachment. Enlightenment is post-psychological.

The plutonium rule is just to be. Self-inquiry is both our first and last rites. One, shine the light upon yourself. Two, translate truthfully. Three is nonduality of That. 

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

following after poets

filling the birdfeeder 

with sunflower seed 

watching the splash 

little blackened shells 

big bang fireworks

a red-winged blackbird flies

across the empty road

a man is walking a dog

a dozen boats are floating

on the late sunday river

books of ryokan and saigyo

robert lax

on the coffee table

birdsong coming through

open windows

the light above

my shoulder lighting

purple ink on paper

reflecting in the picture

window

like a moon

in space between

the wall and green face

of an evening

summer wood

manifestation

is

the translation

of revelation

into mind

bliss

is

the revelation

as felt

by body-mind

as evening deepens

reflection of the room

deepens in the window space

basho walking through

the woods

poetry is

the inspirational

reflection of the revelation

seen in words

and dancing

in the dark leaves

appear like clouds

shadowing deep images

although I know

they’re nothing

spoken silence

saying something

leaving

someone

silent

To the Purple Rose of Consciousness

It would appear, in evolution, this form of being which has called itself a human being, is the only form of being self-aware.

Instead of being, basking, in this self-awareness, the human being has discovered transformation, called it death, identifying with the form itself.

The world it builds is just the fear, forgetting self-awareness, disregarding being as its base, and practicing idolatry of form

in semi-permanent outstanding structures of its buildings, roads, and infrastructures, pyramids, cathedrals, banks of skyscrapers,

in other words, materialism, scientific and objective, praying at the feet of form to overcome the fact of form,

to fear of death and not a celebration of this awesome functioning of self-awareness, being, basking in and as this self-awareness,

being light and basking in the light, this being, basking, being, basking, crowning function of creation, crown of evolution,

noumenon of all phenomena, true revelation and apocalypse, the power and the glory, knowing all the universe is just reflection of oneself,

the mirror knowing it's the mirror, truth unborn, undying, I and nothing else.

opening the field

it must be

almost

summer solstice

i can smell the sweetness

of hay

the field is divided 

between tall grass 

and space 

now 

in bales 

  

imagine this confluence of 

intelligence 

consciousness

bliss

like a field of sea

(write with mind

as self

to nobody

then

circulate)

emptiness

using the mind

and not

mind using

itself

consciousness

between intuition

and inspiration

reflecting awareness

is the revelation

tree frogs must be

at their peak

i hear

a distant siren

in their harmony

further is our intent

the open road

is consciousness

dividing lines

speak to mind

a new wild voice

not one in memory

almost like a seagull

in coyote staccato

beyond dna entrusted archetypes

heighten experience

lowering experience

consort or saddhu

any experience

will do

one

doesn’t make

the moment empty

the moment is

empty

reflecting

experience

not

reflecting on

experience

the experience itself

touches dna

mystic third rail

seeing

there’s no archetype

beyond

archetype

is

that

unknown

the time

to speak in

tongues

is fast

approaching

the moment

without reflection

experiential

beyond archetype

the great unknown

deja vu

is stuck between

an archetype

and distant

memory

you may remember rome

more power to you

but experience itself is how

that archetype

got milk in a day

it’s not so much

being mindful

as being

doing

mind

see the moment

beyond all archetype

now phantom

the noumenal

unknown

arjuna doesn’t

just arise

arjuna will

experience

for krishna

by knowing

now

the great unknown

now knows

the great unknown

to know now

i need to know

what isn’t now

this is the clown

of creation

there is a window

i see the window

the window is open

there’s an open window

i am the opening

straw frogs

first there were peepers

now there are tree frogs

around the time

of crickets come

fireflies!

every movement takes

about fourteen billion years

if you really

wish to believe

evolution

a religion

may be

detected

by its glorious

guilt

wax

wane

yin

yang

full moon tao

guilt or

being mindful

there's your yin

and yang

of all religions

i've never not been living

i've never been dead

i'm not guilty saying

i don't know

the difference

you're probably

at the corner of love

and I

you’re probably

within spec

my latest death

poem is

that Evolution see

there is no

death

i've been trying to eat

less words

and finally learning

who to copy

never mind this writing

the word

becomes the primal scroll

then it's printing the copies

later is the reading and at last is

silence

the grass hut

thank you

tree frogs

yin yang noise

for my grass

hut

god is

the foundation of empire

while mind is

the foundation of dreaming

god

doublespeak

is what

the empire

hears

as truth

truth is

destitute

and homeless

in the speech of

doublespeak

truth is

seeing there appears

to be two

as the world believes

in one

the act of knowing

yourself

there’s the john of revelation

mona lisa now

apocalypse

when the movie

leaves the screen

to walk within your world

it’s basically

over

my generation

the first generation

to see illusion

from behind

because wizardry of tv

the closer you

get to the end

the more I see

there’s no

beginning

we die

when the slow clock of intent

meets the fast clock of transformation

someplace other than

now

listen to the tree frogs

alternating stars and zeroes

ever since the big one

it’s either something

or the other

the difference

between freud and jung

is yin and yang

young

old

i will go

further

as long as i feel

like going

further

honestly

speak your truth

as if it frees

you

or kills you

all these words

aren’t the

eye

of the

hurricane

  

the grass hut

is

one

seen

through

noumenal reflections

neither

rhododendron

mountain laurel

nor azalea

neither summer

leaves

nor winter

snows

neither yin

nor yang

but nameless

tao

there's nothing

personal

in this

process

as you

see it

and

misunderstand

let's say

the noumenal

unknown

spontaneously

knows

the noumenon

and such a knowing is

phenomenal

We Are Kurosawa

On Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood

false ones that usurp

that great immortal god

the noumenal unknown

will now be overthrown

by their own phenomenal truth

On Kurosawa’s Great Humanity

Kurosawa is a singular visionary

but not a nondual one—

his deconstructive sun

blinded focusing his eye

on rubble of imperial delusion

Atomic Dreams

imagine being one

coming of age

in a land

devastated

by two

Credits

know

there is no one

nor other but

that noumenal unknown

i am

Leaving the Remains

Approaching summer solstice,

there's a flower to be faced.

The act of getting to the edge

is not for living on the edge.

Something isn't deconstructed

just to live within its rubble.

Seeing through the false

is not the seeing in itself.

The truth is not extreme,

nor desolate, nor cynical.

Breathe in that fragrance

of a spaciousness beyond

all narrative of space.

The Beautiful Equation

what appears

to be a universe

to you

is just the process of

the absolute's intent to know myself

it's like intent

to see myself

creates a mirror

most appropriate for that doing

you see it's complicated

after the lilac are the leaves

an osprey in the sky above the river

rhododendrons in their final purple burst

a bend in the creek

yellow buttercups appearing in the grass

the mind sees beauty

as this complicated object

to explain

it's not

really

me

you

love

one

I

Sha Ma Na Na

in the world

following awareness

unbelievably

may be a crime

try to make you do time

to avoid doing time

start thinking of

me as

I

love

big pharma is

especially afraid

ah-oooooh

werewolves of

consciousness

the likes of Shakespeare

doesn't write a play

as much as play

is writing

Shakespeare

more like

Shakespeare

is forming

ten-thousand

monkeys

Shakespeare

deconstructive

Basho blank verse some expansive haiku

silencing

the awful noise of holy empire

to bee

or not to be

there never is

a question of the honey

no

the June sun

is shining

through a seeming gap

in the leaves like

Stonehenge

no matter

how you want to slice it

there's no way

you're doing

straight time

summer is

breathtakingly incomplete

without

the appearance of

fireflies

Holding Hands in a Light Blue Thunderbird

From the road approaching Grand Canyon there appears to be a sudden gap in earth and nothing there but open sky.

It's true for people too. Asking who I am, if asked in earnestness, and not relying on another for an answer,

will approach an open space unoccupied by thought, belief, or all conditioning of any form,

resulting as awareness in one's free and open being, as if this universe of space and time was driving

toward this edge from its beginning. Now, the revelation has arrived. The Great Unknowing only knows itself within another.

across the river

river at low slack tide 

strong east wind at my face 

downriver an eagle maybe a seagull 

no. 

buddha nature 

now 

is the month 

of our summer solstice 

made glorious 

green in a synthesis of sun 

across the river

is a wilderness

of eastern white pine

reflecting

across the river

in the smoke

of coming summer

everything is

consciousness

appearing higher

you can lead

imagination

to water

but it won't drink

the inspiration

life

is

a dream

you play

by heart

only

the heart knows

one

divided by

zero

zero shines

at the speed of light

some belief

shadows it

no way

the way

appears to be

bi-polar

but it's only

reflective

across

the river

there is

no

river

On 'The Wizard of Oz' / A Dream Review

the tin man 

like the truly 

empty one 

he is 

follows his heart 

the scarecrow 

stuffed 

with so much thought 

is being 

mindful 

the lion

is in the act of using

its own thoughts

to deconstruct

belief in fear

dorothy

now knows

oz is but a dream

reawakening one to

home

the heart writes the play

and the mind makes it

mythic

so as to see all the action as

the story of one

follow the heart

be mindful

and don't believe

for you are always home

the absolute I of one

Adult Film

the meaning of the dream 

is knowing it's 

a dream 

or otherwise 

the dream continues on 

without a meaning—

this simple knowing

is awaking

one

as pure awareness

in an insubstantial

unafraid and

undivided

unadulterated

bliss

seven quintets in search of a name

1.

already leaves 

ignite into sky 

as ravenous caterpillars 

burn in the name 

of transformation 

2.

the fox moves

in the moonlit emptiness

silver leaves living

only in the echoing

space-time of mind

3.

July fireflies

in the lilies of my June

imagination starring

Zhuangzi and the Amazing

Magicians of Las Vegas

4.

transformation is

emptiness is

impermanence is

illusion is

is

5.

deconstruction is

seeing no construction

ever was

including the past

tense of is

6.

mercury apollo

carbonated water

cadillac granitic

strawberry arising

being anonymous

7.

blossoming mountain

laurel almost seem

to grow gossamer

brightly closing

my watery eyes

untitled

1.

everything is 

consciousness 

except I 

consciousness is 

I

like

I think

therefore

I forget

I am

fourteen billion years of

working on the night shift

and all I get to wear is

this flower saying

self-aware

2.

I write for nobody

so if anybody hears me

they'll know who

they are

I am

only you

know

if

you know

I know

I am attached

to your dream

at the body-mind's assemblage point

of Hollywood

and I

3.

people are either

builders or

finishers

the fool has no

marble

dream time is

the best time

to be

or

not to be

(i hope kids are still

learning

long division

isn't

the solution

using 80-20

by the seventh generation

from out of one-million

there's like

a baker's dozen)

4.

mystic experience

of the experiential

now

is basically

the assemblage point

touching that

experiential

assemblage point

is like being

the moon

reflecting in the river is the moon

reflecting sun

being absolutely zero

equals I

love