Canticle of the Heavenly Fall

As the tree is dropping leaves, 

the tree prepares new leaves. 

Yellow, orange, red and green! 

O goddess you are not unseen—

your central point is always present.

The universe is just your name 

while being is my manifestation 

in all your glorious transformation. 

Sea of green and sky of blue! 

I know myself through me and you.

Third Eye Talk

She dawned on me while watching CBS, 'The Big Bang Theory' I believe.

"Third eye is the first eye and two eyes are my ten-thousand things."

I take a little melatonin just to saturate this desert vision in the natural tears of her affectionate awareness.

Thus she comes to me in that rare quality of some hallucination in its final stages,

or its first—my love appears to be a pineapple whose outer layer is dissolving in sweet nothings

which she whispers in the rhyme and rhythm of my dreamtime.

That is what she says.

The Psalm of Sleep

Deep sleep is calling to me every night

and every night I follow her to bed—

she gathers me lightly in her arms,

a crescent moon embracing earth itself,

and like the sea we undulate in love

until I spill into her goddess depths

and disappear within that soft unknown.

But in the morning she has left me there

alone, awake, and waiting for the world

to slowly tick this daydream day away.

O Jesus, she will be the death of me!

Third Eye Song

Oh god and goddess of the third eye, Ardhanarishvara, half male, half female, Shiva Shakti,

do our actions manifest, is manifesting moving action, is it all the synchronicity of a timeless one?

Are there seven poets just because I gathered seven books? Did I gather seven books because of seven poets?

Is the number seven just coincidence of one—this universe is both the cause and its result, the mind divides the indivisible,

crow caws the causelessness of crow, and you, Ardhanarishvara, are manifesting only that I know.

The Oracle of I

I of I that sees through me and knows I am and has the mind of me say this

deconstruction isn't nihilistic but a revelation of this timeless being, spirit, Christ you know it isn't easy but surrender is the only way,

while Janabai, this humble household servant knowing Vithal holds the broom, is saying void is not devoid of God.

So Son is singing from the core:

that unknown lover

come to me

with crystal

flowers of awareness

and accepting

their known fragrances

with all my heart

I am at once

my self—

and when the clay container in the sea dissolves, there isn't simply nothing—there's the sea.

Letter from the Goddess of the River

O Goddess of the River, I had built a boat of personality and thought it was my everything.

Yet in my heart of hearts I knew it really wasn't but I didn't know exactly what was what.

And so I built an unknown hell from dark disheartening conceptual deep nothings and my boat turned out to be the only thing between those hellish depths and me.

O every minute I was struggling to defend its frail integrity!

But you kept floating me your notes and I kept reading them in wonderment.

Until one day I finally declared my love for you and lifted up a floorboard and saw instead of death and blazes—yes! a river underneath. And river talked to river and I knew I was the river and the boat was just another concept built from flotsam and from jetsam floating madly on these living waters.

Here the river glints and shimmers, Goddess of the River, and I know there is no great divide of black and blue between this tidal being and that unknown sea of you.

The Gospel of the Great Blue Heron

Ever since I was a little boy I loved the golden light. I looked for maps in yellowing books searching for its source. O it was causing me to carve strange words in fits of lines and chaos!

I found myself within the great gorge of the dead when it dawned on me the source was in myself. And then my love approached in prehistoric visions of a great blue heron.

I embraced her ancient song of crystal evolution and she embraced my life of being here and in a sudden golden flash we disappeared like western pathfinders returning to their sea.

Eleven Notes Playing One on One

no

one

wants

to hear it

but nobody

wants to listen

truth isn't personal

until one

makes it so—

then

it isn't truth

you are david

and the world is goliath—

give it your best

shot

hey superman

basically everyone

else is you talking

to me about how you

remind me of me

in some bizarro way

although there's only i

here now

the empire

scares

me

but I know

that’s only the empire speaking

there are no

definitions

other

than the ones

which define

me

there's nothing wrong

with duality—

it just hurts

if you believe

it

you can drop

the world

and

still play

but you can't double-

dribble

the great

thing about words—

you can say

two things

with each

one

I stare the

wordless

in the face and

blink

every time

the best one

can do

is be—

after that,

it’s not about one

A Little Day Night Sutra

1. On Two and an Epigraph

Compassion is loving one being that believes in two. In this fugue of being.

How do i know myself? Let's make a universe and count the ways. The loves are many but the way is one. I am.

The way is always present in a love, but love, like any act involving two, is tricky and may lead to an attachment, hate, or damned belief.

“Ask my heart about the pain of love and it will tell you / The half-drawn bow’s the assassin, not the arrow that pierces through.”  ~Ghalib

2. One Introduction

A person thinks one is divided from the one. Yes, it is as absurd as it sounds. Yet that is the world and why it is as it is.

The world can’t be cured. It’s only a symptom of the personal. One treatment is to stop taking things personally.

By definition, a person is broken—therapy therefore must be transpersonal—unconditional love, personal deconstruction, resting in awareness.

Politics is as destructive as any war. Religion is as addictive as any drug. Science is as misleading as any superstition.

What passes as knowledge in the world is an ability to manipulate the past most efficiently. True knowledge is being.

Form follows memory. Being follows emptiness. Form is emptiness and emptiness is form. But memory isn’t being. Is it?

Think with all one's heart. Love with all one being. Be with all that unknown. Do all that other stuff on your own time. For now, be.

3. Photos of Reality

mountain way

hiking

in the dense fog I

spot any further cairn spot on-

ly in the present

one

catch 11

the catch about taking

pictures

of the moment is

there is no

moment

when

taking pictures

flash

if the price of undertanding

the wordless

is

to give up each, every, and all your words,

would you?

anything less is believable.

4. Reconciliations

Experience is the great compromise between nothing and something. Creation is the great compromise between silence and noise.

Being is the great compromise between not knowing and disbelief. Between dreaming and and being is making a living.

The greatest love is between noun and verb. The greatest verb is between noun and object.

Every straight line deserves god.

5. Three Endings and an Epitaph

on koans

plural

of koan

is koan

the circle be

the buzz of energy

is being

and

any metaphor is like a bee

buzzing

satisfaction

can't get no

i without

i am

the epitaph

“I Am is the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Absolute Parent except through the Child of Being.” ~Jesus transcreated

Sea Change; A Divination

My first time on a cruise ship and the captain says we're in for wind and rain and waves and sets the Beaufort scale to eight.

We're staying in the bow and night is like a wicked rocking and the waves are banging on the forward deck and sleep is something hard and passing shallow.

In the morning such conditions haven't changed, although by noon we've settled in a leather chair up in the bar room called the Crow’s Nest

looking out at seas of twenty-foot high waves and white cap waves upon those waves and plowing bow splash reaching to the windows of our twelfth floor observation deck.

This ain't the Sixteenth-century though and I'm enjoying all the brave new worlds of nautical experience this tempest brings to play.

For I appear as well to be a similar chaotic dream of waves surrounded by unknown deep seas that I, at best, may call deep sleep and be.

A Pastoral of Leaves

The leaves begin to turn their colors from the green we think is natural, although another month reveals space is what they always are,

to reds and oranges and yellows. As a side note, notice none of them are blue. I am looking at their clear reflection in the high slack river.

In the middle of this mesmerizing symmetry there floats a bright red navigation buoy. Call it what we like.

The river of our universal being always sends a sign to pay attention to its underlying current.

The Map of the Gods

I

intending

to know

I Am

is sudden,

nondual and obvious,

although,

within the process

itself,

or mind,

it appears to be

all space-time.

A Map of Truth

Love 

is truth 

from the view of illusion.

Wisdom 

is illusion 

from the view of truth.

Truth 

is 

no view.

Prayer. 

Myth. 

Silence.

Signs of the Apocalypse

It's not so much that everything exists because of consciousness but nothing other is existing but this consciousness.

And so I dream at night to see straight through the dream of daytime. Psychological manipulation is the way the dream is manifested—

understanding and compassion is the way the dream is apprehended and unveiled. So-called external signs will further this direction by the way.

Undoubtedly, if science points to evolution, evolution points to self-awareness. Anyhow, that's all folks.

A Pastoral Told in Time

Seagulls are sitting on slack tide. A fish is jumping out of nowhere. The sky is deepest blue; the sun is radiantly unobservable.

Leaves are floating like a constellation. Another leaf is falling from the heavens. A single wisp of cloud is playing like a dolphin.

Pleasure boats secured to docks are currently approaching nowhere. A cormorant is diving in reflections of its sky.

A breeze is picking up and diamonds start to sparkle on the river. A pure white moth is fluttering in reverence nearby.

A Pastoral Told in Spirit

While contemplating boats upon the river being put away like little toy things at the end of summer play,

I see a falling leaf fall on my folded hands and feel its weather-beaten revelations.

Universal consciousness is like a tree and every insect-riddled sunburnt leaf is just another apparatus cast away in time

making way for its replacement, next spring's gold device continuing the amplifying of awareness in the ground of Buddha nature.

I Am is what I truly am; this body-mind is just another leaf that obsoletes with time, no need imagining some narrative device like death

to tell its story. Trees themselves are speaking truth and beauty in a shimmering October morning glory.

Letters to the Revelations

Without this being, what is love? Without the known, what is that great unknown?

You can try to build a better mousetrap or know you're not a mouse. But seeing through this something is not the same as seeing nothing.

The world has tried affirming its own unaffirmable and nihilism will deny the undeniable. Deconstruction is the dark beginning—

many will get lost within that wood. The world is what it's not but I am what it is.

Division is division only when it’s seen within division. Beyond division, division is intent for that unknown to know this one is that unknown.

Awareness in this consciousness is suddenly aware awareness is but what it is and this phenomenon is nothing.

Thus, the world is your reflection; think but nothing of it. This illusion, even though inherited, is utterly self-generating.

You are all the power and the glory, love. Be this universal. Speak that absolutely.

An Epistle to Death

The universe is called the universe because it’s one holistic entity but yet we cling to superstitious magical beliefs

of separate body parts that live untouched by universal interactions, are endowed with free volition, and are born, survive, and die—

like me—although, as me, I never actually experienced my birth and only know about my future death by some conceptual conjecture.

In truth, there’s only self-aware existence, name it God the Child, and that unknown unmanifest foundation, name it God the Parent,

and its Immaculate Intent to know itself, which seems to take a universe to execute, evolve, and do.

First Epistle to the Meaning of Life

Please listen, love. You’re in the middle of a process which when viewed within that process will appear absurd at best

and downright scary at its worst. So join me for a moment, step away from all the world, and let's consider myth and metaphysics.

Let's talk about this God the Father, call it God the Parent, Absolute Reality, instead.

Such a God would have to be that one without another. In other words, that absolute reality would be the pure subjective subject.

In our experience, there’s no perception of this state, except the one of deepest sleep.

The closest metaphor there is to this subjective subject is a mirror without reflection.

And the closest experiential terminology we have for such a state is pure awareness.

Now, let's take another view of God the Parent, Absolute Reality, Pure Awareness.

That god could never be a god and never know itself. The pure subjective subject thus intends to know itself, and this intention

sets in motion what we call the universe, an evolutionary process by which pure awareness is aware of pure awareness.

The process is reflexive, first creating something other than the pure subjective subject, then intending

this universal object of reflection to evolve as such awareness permeating being, seeing it’s no object but that pure awareness.

Let's call this being God the Child. Let's see that's what existence is. Let's know that all the world is just an object’s alienated view of this intention.

And with that understanding, let's return within the middle of this process and look again with open, clear, and natural eyes.

With my Daughter at the China Blossom

Enjoying such a lotus world

of lineage and love,

knowing there’s not anything

other than this spontaneity,

for the past is purely anecdotal

and the future nonexistent—

I open up my fortune cookie

and there’s open space within it.

Seventh Day Moon

Last evening i was suddenly contacted

by a crescent moon with mystic earthshine—

"peace-loving aliens tried to save america from nuclear war"

—earthlight on the dark side of the lunar landscape

saying awareness is native, belief is the only alien.

There’s Nobody Born Every Minute

Which came first, the hermit or the cracking of the world's illusion? Never mind, it doesn't matter.

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss it though. But in the inhalation following such a mournful sigh arrives this further insight:

no longer does it hold undying interest. The world is just a sideshow thought to be the main attraction, but it's not—I am.

Listen, the wind is whispering through mid-September branches that the sun is going nowhere.

An Epistle to a Dream

Every person is a psychological dysfunction of this universal being. Whether the person is a functioning component of society is all that matters to the world. It doesn't want to cure

because it doesn't know the cure. It's all about alarm clocks, peak efficiency, and credit scores. The fact that personal existence is absurd is not a product sold at stores or sermonized on Sundays.

And the further fact that love is proof the personal is not sustainable is usually kept within the family unit if it's kept at all. Possessions are another thing.

Self-inquiry seems to be an esoteric practice even though it would appear to be the question being asked by every two-year-old. Why is just another way of asking who am I.

To answer I am that which is aware of this absurdity of personal existence may not be most appropriate to tell a two-year-old, or sixty-two-year-old for that matter, but loving wisely is.

Yet on another theme, the leaves are turning yellow on the butternuts.

The Gospel of the Great Blue Heron

Self-awareness is an evolutionary height the mind is turning the matter of all being toward.

The universe is functioning with all its processes and heart to make this happen.

Everything in space and time is how reality appears when viewed within the great divide—

although reality is not divided. Inside the process of an absolutist subjectivity aware

of absolute existence is the paradox of relative objective functioning, in which the crucial turn

appears to be to that which turns, volitional, although it's absolutely not. And with that said,

the blue September river sparkles with an afternoon abundance while a great blue heron turns into an eagle.

A Reflexive Triptych

*

The world is where the mind is turning back to what it is. Recluses are Arjunas too.

I want to say more in less. Or less in something. Unthinking, consciousness gets to know a mind and thinks that's all there is.

A metaphor is the dream language of all communication between deep sleep and sleep-walking. Neither traditional, nondualist, or free.

**

Awareness is the primal absolute—intent to know myself—being is the universal name for big bang—mind suffering the turning—

Silence is the mind reflecting—realizing is seeing I am the mirror—self-awareness is the primal absolute.

Billions of so-called years happening in no time. That's my story and I'm wearing it. Pure awareness and self-awareness are not two.

***

Running is meditation for type A. And vice versa. My heroes have always been type zero.

Being is more than enough practice. Thinking is a way too hard. The reflection of a room inside the picture window.

Basho walking through quicksilver woods. Ninja kanji hanging in the silence. Ryokan studies the branch of a cherry tree outside his window.

The Letter of Intent

One false in the equation means all is false. Receive and surrender. Now trumps memory. Beauty is happening.

Statistics are merely how one divides things. What's more important than the divided knowing it's holistic? More pieces?

I am the mirror. The world is just reflection. Identity plus action equals intent. Transformation is love.

Personal deconstruction is the ultimate revolution. Either one deconstructs oneself or one dies trying.

The razor's edge is nothing but seeing nothing while not believing in nothing. Beyond all marketing, I am.

Right now, one is being doing the best one knows how being is done. Please continue. Love, Intent.

Duty Calling Back to Sun

Our first September heat wave since nineteen eighty-two but I’m conditioned to want cooler weather

ever since this Wednesday indicated back-to-school. Of course, my calendar is empty on this day as most

and weather isn't necessarily a factor in my schedule. No school, no work, or no vacation interrupt my planned existence.

For America, I'm not exactly wealthy, but today I feel I have it made in the shade—while most are busy struggling

in the sun of their survival. How could I not stop to see the sun that shines from these eyes is the same sun

shining through that picture window. Yes, I owe such self-awareness to our social contract.

Between the Two

On Labor Day the lake is suddenly abandoned but my father likes to leave on early Tuesday crack of dawn instead.

Monday evening I walk the shore and sit on docks and rafts now stacked on land and look out on an empty lake.

It feels like winter melting summer into nothing but a blank reflection of a vacant sky.

On this cusp, I rise. Between the love of summer and void of winter stands I.

The Unknown’s Creed

Feel the happening. Accept the transformation. Surf the sea’s intent. Unknowing is the turning.

The teacher explains the wave; the sage is pointing to the sea. Revelation is not deconstruction like space is not the building.

There's no reason to change the world. It works for what it's worth. Oh physicist, know first thyself.

Between boredom and the great unknown is the dream. Between the plan and self-inquiry is coyote.

Not of the world equals no-mind. In the world equals chop wood carry water. One is always irradiating

Certain Silence

Fourteen months of reading

writing speaking poetry

self-publishing a book and now

I wait to see the final proof.

I find a certain silence setting in

but I'm so focused in those ways

I even write a poem about

this certain silence setting in.

There's nothing else to say.

Exegesis of Self-Awareness and Prayer of Oneself

Being truly fucked-up is not knowing you're fucked-up. Many have had this deconstructive experience.

Being truly fucked-up is in direct proportion to lack of self-awareness. Everyone is aware; self-awareness sees through everyone.

Oneself transforming oneself sees through oneself. One seeing through itself is absolutely it!

Warning. You are probably emotionally damaged if you need to see through yourself. So think about it if you can.

Self-deconstruction is founded on forgiveness, insight, and devotion. The golden rule: don't pass on your shit.

One equals forgiveness plus compassion plus love times the unknown. If one is the unknown, one is.

If one is other than the unknown, one is divided and separate and alone. As long as you're playing, don't leave any love on the table.

Ourselves—forgive oneself forgetfulness—see with clarity oneself—and devote oneself to that oneself as one does—realize oneself—love, no one.

In the name of pure awareness, enlightening intent, universal being, and the turn of deconstructing mind.

The Precipice of Emptiness

Half-way up the Precipice, I stopped to summarize the situation. This hike had been my nemesis since I had started hiking in Acadia.

In summer it was closed because of nesting falcons and in autumn it was blocked by my own fear of hiking something almost vertical and sheer.

In winter ice prevented even thinking anything about it and in spring I had to ramp things up on Connor’s Nubble or that simple trail

up Gorham Mountain with an ocean view to kill such obvious egoic thoughts or two.

But here it was September, and my hands were on the iron rungs sunk deep into the granite ready to ascend my apprehensions

toward the peak of no return. That's when I heard the runners breathing down my neck.

I stepped aside and watched two high school students jogging up the trail between the end of classes and their evening homework.

They passed me in a flash of adolescent joy. And absolutely I was humbled but it didn't really matter.

I was such a one now with that mountain nothing personal could destroy, even those same harbingers later laser-streaking by

while I was somewhere only near three-quarters to the summit. A quarter later there was nothing left to say.

The beginning of the end of days spent hiking in Acadia was under way.

Nondual Tractate on Poetry

No words describe the truth and yet I am the truth. Even pointing to the truth is much too brazen of an act

and maybe dangerous to another who mistakes it for a thought and then believes it going on to form a new religion resulting in empirical destruction, inquisitions, holy wars, and waiting for the end of times which may require their personal intervention on authority of voices in their head or paragraphs they read inside their venerated book.

But poetry may be more subtle. Lines are written in a way where nothing solid is ever said—

because it's in-between the lines that's really talking. Here between the lines the spirit of the poet speaks

and here between the lines the spirit of an audience is listening. And spirit equals spirit.

There’s no difference. There’s no two. There's just an open clarity of knowing, being, loving space. No hat is hanging there.

Instant Apocalypse

The world is like a training ground in which the matter of illusion learns to see right through itself, or not.

It may not seem our lives are filled with quiet desperation but that Facebook face is neither truthful nor original.

Something truly broken can't be fixed by all the empire's holy bishops or its countless soldiers.

Neither will the revolution never be the status quo. A picture only tells ten-thousand words because it stops

the transformation in a freeze frame. Never try to do the same at home. When ice is melting, melted water helps

to melt the ice some more and not attempt to change the ice's shape to something moderately nice.

Daydreams in the mirror are much closer when they disappear. This rhymes with neither now nor here.

The Book of Reflexive Happening

Is self-awareness something deeper then the scientific method? What role does love play in my experiment?

When the false sees through the false, what is truth? Knowing? Being? Loving?

Awareness aware of awareness is the instantaneous manifestation. This is satcitananda!

Matter is the closing; mind is the turning; knowing-being-loving is the grand opening.

The closing makes a big bang. The turning hurts. I am the grand opening.

The Apocryphon of Memory

Memories are yesterday translated by tomorrow, neither of which exists of course. Or as god is my witness I'll never remember again. Yes, the real use of remembering is self-remembering.

Memories appear to be sacred because they're not real. If your identity relies on memory and your memory is unreliable, who am I? If memory is false, only existence remains.

One falsehood makes all false. There is a fine line between the concept of existence and existence itself. This is why silence precedes embodiment. All beliefs must pass.

One precedes three without two. I have to believe in something before I’m self-aware. Always look at the big picture and not some idol. Always remember 'I am' is not a memory.

I only know existence. If you want to speak to the absolute, stay on the line. True Tantra emphasizes the world to make it more obvious to see through. Seeing through yourself is being oneself.

Being oneself is the absolute direction. You will be tested for your own evaluation; there's no final grade. Between existence and the concept of existence is all the tea in China.

At first it's difficult to remember there's nothing to remember. Then the latest and greatest impediment to knowing who I am is indoor plumbing. And when I discovered writing was another business, I filed chapter 11.

Treatise on Quality of Understanding

"For realization, understanding is essential. Action is only incidental" ~Nisargadatta Maharaj

“A man of steady understanding will not refrain from action. Action is the test of truth.” ~Nisargadatta Maharaj

Is this concept of merit, then, the appraisal of one’s action in the test of truth, and not an individual’s doing but the understanding?

In observing one’s actions in mindfulness—one sees negative emotions—then the test of truth reveals an uncertain understanding—without merit.

One doesn’t accumulate merit through virtuous action—such merit is acquired only in furthering understanding—with earnestness—love in action.

The further one understands—what one is not—the more what one is—acts.

The quality of understanding is primary—the merit of action is simply the test of that quality.

One explanation for furthering understanding is just to know what I'm not and be what i am.

The satguru is one’s teacher and the world is one’s testing ground. I prefer my river hut and distant village to whatever. 

The Apocalypse of Beginning

How does one start when there's no beginning? For example, I've heard white rabbits are well-read.

My birth is quite the story and the rumors of my death are completely unsubstantiated. This leaves here, now and change for all my thoughts.

I haven't yet begun but still I'm in the middle of this story somehow, somewhere, sometime.

It's true the world is in the mind; awareness is reflected in this being and that has nearly brought us to the end.

All mysteries require the one who pulls the trigger. The name in this one is Intent although for purposes of truthfulness, it continues nameless.

If there were a god, just how could it begin to know itself? Just where would this subjective absolute begin?

The Book of Ancient Math

Deconstruction becomes compassion or gets stuck in deconstruction; this is cynicism. Love becomes compassion or gets stuck in love; this is romance. Compassion becomes truth or consequences.

Romance is fiction. Cynicism is non-fiction. Truth is not either. Consequences are neither here nor now. Belief is the beginning of all nervous breakdowns. Self-awareness is the cure.

The hero studies beyond this world but practices in this one. The student studies beyond this world and doesn't practice. The master is beyond this world and is the practice. Do not mistake the master for your practice.

Deconstruction is the greatest martial art. Guardianship is the greatest love. Knowing oneself is all. All things seen by the eye is karma. All things seen-through by the eye is I.

Less than one nanosecond of being is worth ten thousand seconds of thinking. Ten thousand seconds of thinking equals believing. No mind equals x.

When does practice, be it loving or deconstructive, turn real? Yes, compassion. Yes, seeing through. A better word for seeing-through is understanding. Thus, compassion equals understanding.

If compassion is less than understanding, comedy. If understanding is less than compassion, tragedy. If comedy equals tragedy you're history. When does practice equal karma?

Between change and disbelief is what's happening. Your confusion turns to intent when you understand your hesitation. Reflection is your vector. Deflection is your fear. No math is an island.

The Apocalypse at the Movies

Startled out of bed while in the deep abyss of natural awareness, I dream. Daylight is the pigment of imagination.

Beliefs are filtering the light of this existence manufacturing the spectrum of emotions. God, they’re really colorful and mesmerizing!

Inertia is the world's one law and love its only outlaw. None of this is what it seems to be but all of it is what it is.

Awareness only sees itself in seeing through reflections in itself. Because there really isn't any object, no one talks about that subject.

Knowledge is experiential only. Words can only point to what one is. That's why we cry at the movies.

The Book of Santa Yana Yada Yada

Behold the universe I am. From starting with the stars to interning with insects, what a piece of change it is. Awareness is the only constant.

Watching rain descend as mercury behind a picture window, I reflect upon myself. There's a certain Sunday samadhi in the air today.

Two cups of green iced tea was followed by a mug of coffee. That supplied the bang I needed.

Zhuangzi loves to tell a joke but Jesus loves himself some love. Addicted to caffeine and sugar, I prefer to write for prophecy. Or two.

What would nothing do?

Division is original beginning of the one unborn. When young, my peas were separated from my mashed potatoes.

While in high school, I subscribed to Time to contemplate the weekly covers of the latest war or neoteric politician.

College boy, I marched on Washington opposing Nixon's opposition to another people's opposition to… and so on goes the game of drones.

This world has always been about the lowest commonplace denomination. Stop the presses! Love is one way, deconstruction is the other.

She takes the high road and he takes the low road and I'll be home in no time.

Epistle to the Reflexive Eye

What isn't in consciousness?

Since time is in consciousness, consciousness knows all time. So if space-time is in consciousness, what is science really observing?

If self-inquiry is in consciousness, who is really observing consciousness? Thus the highest science is awareness absolutely aware of awareness.

Revelation appears to skip a step between mental observations. Revelation is the skip.

Read between the lines. The mirror does not reflect upon itself. Reflecting on my wondrous reflection—I am That.

Mind is the conditioning. Being is the healing. Awareness is awareness. Just be until you aren't being aware. Absolutely.

PS. The Absolute is aware of itself through the Big Being. Evolution is deconstruction of the material. Love is kryptonite. 

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.