Wind-Horse

the Green Man

2011-09-18T20:06:00.000-07:00

on a further note, I wrote a piece on 'the Green Man' as a poetic response to a spiritual insight -- the idea is essentially that the Heart is the 'centre' of our Cosmos, liken'd to what our Master Babuji said when he referred to the Heart as the 'Seat of God.' However, my take on this is that 'spirituality' and 'creativity' is not limited to 'religious' practices but can 'evolve' simply and naturally in an Artist/Mystic in tune with Nature.

the Green Man

As above, so in you:
the light, the warmth, the sky so blue;
and in the darkest of the nights
the stars that sparkle as they do...

the language of the 'Birds,' his secret tongue,
while silence is his noble one,
arises from a whirl'd within his heart,
and twirls in awe throughout his Art...

this then is what we can say of Art,
that it's born of a heart pulsing wonder,
which blooms as leaf from deep-down under,
and bears a fruit for all to eat,
-- ambrosia, divinely sweet...

"the Celts have him as Mythical figures such as Cernunnos, Sylvanus, Derg Corra, Green George, Jack in the green, John Barleycorn, Robin Goodfellow, Puck, and the Green Knight all partake of the Green Man's nature; it has also been suggested that the story of Robin Hood was born of the Green Man mythology. A more modern embodiment is found in Peter Pan, who enters the civilized world from a nether land, clothed in green leaves. Even Father Christmas, who was often shown wreathed in ivy in early depictions, has been suggested as a similar woodland spirit" (from Wikipedia)

HeArtMan -- the picture below

-- the Green Man is the Mystic in tune with Nature living in Peace with plain and simple ways -- sHe is Natures urge to Wonder -- sHe is the Poet and the Heathen and the Saint of the Green Earth made by Natures divine immanence -- sHe is oft represented as the Hanged Man in the Tarot (upside down smiling a frown: invertendo man: inside out without a doubt) to realize that his Heart is in Heaven and his Head belongs to the ways of the Earth -- sHe also is shown as having 'roots' in the Heart, a trunk up the neck and a rich foliage of leaves in the head to represent the connectivity to a juicy Heart of Wonder bringing the sap of creativity to the Head synaptically fired in a coalescence of neurons springing suddenly into Awe -- Art is being in tune with Nature -- Nature is the heart of it all from whence we become her 'epiphanators' ...

WIKI: The Conference of the Birds (Persian: منطق الطیر, Mantiqu 't-Tayr, 1177) is a book of poems in Persian by Farid ud-Din Attar of approximately 4500 lines. The poem uses a journey by a group of 30 birds, led by a hoopoe as an allegory of a Sufi sheikh or master leading his pupils to enlightenment.

Besides being one of the most celebrated examples of Persian poetry, this book relies on a clever word play between the words Simorgh — a mysterious bird in Iranian mythology which is a symbol often found in sufi literature, and similar to the phoenix bird — and "si morgh" — meaning "thirty birds" in Persian.

    It was in China, late one moonless night,
    The Simorgh first appeared to mortal sight -
    He let a feather float down through the air,
    And rumours of its fame spread everywhere; [1]

Its most famous section is:

    Come you lost Atoms to your Centre draw,
    And be the Eternal Mirror that you saw:
    Rays that have wander'd into Darkness wide
    Return and back into your Sun subside

In mythology, medieval literature and occultism, the language of the birds is postulated as a mystical, perfect divine language, green language, adamic language, enochian language, angelic language or a mythical or magical language used by birds to communicate with the initiated.

... and the initiated have a divine 'seed' planted in their Hearts to bloom as leaf in where they 'ponder' and bear a fruit for all to eat, yes, ambrosia, divinely sweet ...

the stream-winners

2011-09-11T22:48:00.000-07:00

well, that's a choice and many ascending-avatars spent eons of time in their caves trying to get out from behind the many-reflections of this sentimental-reality in flow -- this was the goal for awhile and they were called stream-winners when they'd finally grasped that the numinous moving-us is just a trick of the light --

however, the means of getting out of the stream all together was as illusive as stepping in the same stream twice, so they sat staring at forever, until wonder turned into awe and their eyes glittered with the beauty that they saw, and then they found that the stream returns in an infinite 'eternal-recurrence' which means that not only do you step in the same stream twice or more, but that the stream craves you more and more each time it passes by, longing for you in infinite waves, speeding up to feel you deep-inside; 'tis then that you have more and more deja-vu's flowing inside-out to open your eyes wide, from this free-flowing streaming-embrace, this free streaming-love in which we each take a step in grace ...

ssǝusnoıɔsuoɔ.consciousness

2011-09-06T19:33:00.001-07:00

it
begins in ʎʇıxǝldɹǝd.perplexity
as the absurd.pɹnsqɐ-man
arrives at the nature of reality

without conclusions ʎlsnoıƃılǝɹ
without religion ʎllɐɔıʇılod
without politics ʎllɐɔıɟıʇuǝıɔs
without science ʎllɐɔıʇsılɐʇɐɟ
without fate ʎlƃuıʍouʞ
without knowing ʎlqɐʌǝılǝq
without believing ʎlǝʌısnlɔuoɔ

perfectly ʎllɐɔıxopɐɹɐd.paradoxically consciously-pǝʇɔılɟuoɔ.conflicted
with all these incongruities converging into the
moment he crosses the street;
his-heart
still affected by the dark
restless sea of awareness --

bent before his fierce-vulnerability,
he's an innocent victim like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy"

we're all bubbles of consciousness, bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues, bouncing and bullying each other around while looking for ways to merge with each other; leaking through our surface tension, we're wiggling 'n jiggling for that 'special' one come to burst us free to really be whom we ought to be -- life is real only then when I am bursting at the seams of what I thought reality means

-- as such, the Poet is like a sphere with her centre everywhere and his circumference nowhere, without beginning nor end, always rolling, rolling ’round ‘unknowings’ wondrous bend - mostly metaphor is a trick of the light to get these reflections just right, so, you-know, it’s glinting in your eye as you release into the ‘flower of meaning’ with a sigh; like looking at the mesmerizing-sea glimmering-many-Suns, so sympathetic-tessellations resonate in your oceanic-brain, where synapses shivering-sentient luminescence, reflect again ‘n again … then you’re an ecstatic swimming in a whirl’d-view, swooning with another oceanic-dream waving inside of you…

“Nature is an infinite sphere whose center is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere” Pascal

"God is a circle whose center is everywhere and circumference nowhere." Voltaire

"The center is everywhere. Bent is the path of eternity." Nietzche

neither compelled by the past nor future beckoned...

2011-09-05T20:01:00.001-07:00

if fears 'n worries are nothing but a hapless-spin, then hopes 'n wishes are its better-off kin, nonetheless they're both creating the duality-delusion we're in ...

intellectual-ism is a knee-jerK reaction, a survival specialization, like an exo-skeleton or thick-skin made to cover your soft-flesh, and that beating heart flush with warmth 'n blood, and all those 'leKtrick-filaments dancing in your brain, flashing as lightning in your eyes, from whence you'll look and look and dare to see the Beauty in this whirl'd of creative-destruction, and the Truth in this human. this all-too-human sentimental-reality ...

The goal is Love! The goal has always been Love, however derived, denatured or deconstructed we make it.

-- that's where a cosmic sentiment is a serendipity which is bent toward your infinite-in, there where love is a radiant bouquet, bursting to blossom as you, over and over again -- there, where the music in you is wanting to play in a mellifluous-voice which only the heart can hear, that'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll 'round the sound of a whirl'd swelling with a kiss of bliss, 'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue, the Soulful one, which is willing to risk absurdity in an unfettered language, and is divested with an unbounded-eye not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in, there where you're looking and looking and daring to see, this creative-destruction outpouring into another sentimental-reality...

The French Symbolist credo that “To suggest is to create; to name is to destroy” can be modified here, on more neutral grounds: prose denotes; poetry connotes. Thus is Truth 'n Beauty made as if a crystal with many reflections.

As Lorca wrote: I hear the beautiful beating heart of God, in the monster of the world...

elastic-time

2011-09-03T12:38:00.001-07:00

elastic-time is when you're on a roll, whistling as you go, feeling on top of the whirl'd, where compressed time blooms and unfurls, expanding your point-of-view to doing what you've gotta' do to be true to the authentic-you...

winds of change

2011-08-21T10:18:00.001-07:00

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of constant-remembrance of the beloved, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta' doubt ... it starts with wonder imbued in awe, which is unbound by the language of 'reason' nor by the fatal-skin we're in. It's uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad-education nor is it spoiled by the comfortable-cliche' of mediocrity! Fear tunnel-visions and converges toward where all the dead-ends meet -- while joyous-remembrance opens the whirl'd in a frisson of being, in a revelation of seeing this sentimental-reality as a perennial wind of wonder that blows with creative destruction everywhere...

we feel it

2011-08-15T20:13:00.000-07:00

Change is a seemingly hostile environment to our little cell:brain biology paradigm. Cognitive dissonance is a process where a massive retooling of our synaptic pathways is occurring, often resulting in 'temper tantrums' and breaking things and other 'bad' behaviours learnt by all of our 'bad' education. Yet it is in that very process where neurons coalesce into a new flower of meaning and significance.

This is reflected in these riots and random acts of defiance. We’re living through some very difficult times, and we feel it in our bones, in our hearts and in our minds; this new-paradigm is bursting at the seams of what it all means, and by an internal-fire made of many-reflections of realEYEsed light, our in-sight, where deep calls to deep, which’ll bend space n’ time ’round Quantum-tunnels flowing within as divine, and then all that matters in this whirl’d-view is that we cross the line, from what is old to what is a new interior-design…

All men make a God of their desire and history repeats itself ad infinitum ad nauseum... nonetheless, creativity is a process of change and the Artist is an agent for change. They'll disturb comfortable-meaning and unravel recursive-cliché by their fierce-vulnerability, by their courageous-authenticity and by having been bent by their beautiful-individuality...the Truth in this sentimental-reality is rolling in the changes of creative-destruction we see everywhere...

"...a progression in which each successive movement emerges as a solution to the contradictions inherent in the preceding movement." -- Hegel

intellectual-ism is a knee-jerK reaction, a survival specialization

2011-08-10T20:39:00.000-07:00

intellectual-ism is a knee-jerK reaction, a survival specialization, like an exo-skeleton or thick-skin made to cover your soft-flesh, and that beating heart flush with warmth 'n blood, and all those 'leKtrick-filaments dancing in your brain, flashing as lightning in your eyes, from whence you'll look and look and dare to see the Beauty in this creative-destruction, and the Truth in this sentimental-reality ...

sometimes my heart is about to burst

2011-08-08T19:45:00.000-07:00

sometimes my heart is about to burst 'cause when you notice beauty, beauty notices you -- that's where a cosmic sentiment is a serendipity which is bent toward your infinite-in, there where love is a radiant bouquet, bursting to blossom as you, over and over again -- there, where the music in you is wanting to play in a mellifluous-voice which only the heart can hear, that'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll 'round the sound of a whirl'd swelling with a kiss of bliss, 'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue, the Soulful one, which is willing to risk absurdity in an unfettered language, and is divested with an unbounded-eye not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in, there where you're looking and looking and daring to see, this creative-destruction outpouring into another sentimental-reality... those who see this world so intuitively, they're aware that these syntactical-alliances of language are not capable of parlaying a look that dares to see this creative-destruction, this sentimental-reality; as such, they're moved by these feelings of beauty whirl'd into a push and a shove, swooning with the power-of-love ...

breath is full and strong again

2011-07-19T19:44:00.001-07:00

Just completed a 8.62 km bike ride with RunKeeper Duration 0:26:25 | Calories Burned 211 Average Pace 3:04 / km | Average Speed 19.58 km/h | Elevation Climb 170 m http://lnkd.in/rKGSSg

riding in the Sun

2011-07-19T14:09:00.001-07:00

Just completed a 6.79 km bike ride with RunKeeper Duration 0:24:23 | Calories Burned 184 Average Pace 3:36 / km | Average Speed 16.69 km/h | Elevation Climb 144 m http://lnkd.in/A3WwRw

Cycling Activity 8.66 km | RunKeeper

2011-07-18T13:37:00.000-07:00

Cycling Activity 8.66 km | RunKeeper

Xpanding negative-space

2011-04-28T17:46:00.000-07:00

Xpanding negative-space

...from the eye
of a howling-pen,

language-weeps
language-weeps
after-words language-weeps
from the wounds that reason makes;

seeps from the wound of omission,
seeps from some super-scary-SaṃsKāra,
the wound of tunneling-fear,
seeps from some gimme-gimballed duality,
the wound that is a mirror

there where they're trembling from the loss of blood,
from their lessons on the alter, stoned
in the wailing rhythm of suffering,
...
innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy",

there where the stretchered edges in longings go,
where we all strive to Love, yet stray only to affection,
and falter lessor still, there where we whimper in the clinging,
instead of weeping for the longing Dream, bursting at the seams...
where the mirror is cracked, where the bubble-breaks,
there
where its dark and deep...

it's the plight of the unbelonging to be longing to belong,
bent before their vulnerability, they're overwhelmed
and underunderstood, as a fierce-grace burns conflicted,
their wounds are open-wide, to let the light inside ...

The Alchemy of Word

2011-04-28T16:19:00.000-07:00

This Is Your Brain on Metaphors
By ROBERT SAPOLSKY
http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/11/14/this-is-your-brain-...

"Our brains are wired to confuse the real and the symbolic. And the implications can be as serious as war and peace.

A single part of the brain processes both physical and psychic pain.

What are we to make of the brain processing literal and metaphorical versions of a concept in the same brain region? Or that our neural circuitry doesn’t cleanly differentiate between the real and the symbolic? What are the consequences of the fact that evolution is a tinkerer and not an inventor, and has duct-taped metaphors and symbols to whichever pre-existing brain areas provided the closest fit?"

Do we dance the brain or does the brain dance us... what's a metaphor for?

Religion, Science and Politics are often immured in an arrogance of ignorance, i.e., promoting cliché as self-evident, eh, in that they define their percepts with allusions of their own creation, managing their metaphors in a sort-of Möbius-strip logic —a self-fulfilling prophesy!

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt, that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!

In the beginning was the Logos, and the Logos was Theos ...

Another 'meaning' of 'LOGOS' was 'MIND" and 'WORD' was an extension, the action of mind ... because 'thought' was imbued with 'LOGOS' and therefore 'THEOS' stirred. The word became a sort of Magical creation on its own. ... and the Word was God! Ergo the 'word' as LOGOS could actually change things; where the idea of incantation Magic comes from like the AbraCadabra Myth.

Goethe was, among other things, an Alchemist. As such, he was aware of the principle of 'Sympathetic resonance' found in the Emerald Tablets of Hermes Trismigistus, a line of which is, 'As above, so below'. Even words are imbued with potential, acting as agents of change.

"If you treat an individual as he is, he will remain as he is. But if you treat him as if he were what he ought to be and could be, he will become what he ought to be and could be." -- Goethe

Heartfelt words of magic, igniting Grace to action. The Alchemy of Word.

I do not think Goethe was intending any singular future for those individuals he was referring to in the above quote. Rather, I believe his intention was to 'free' the person from imposed personality constructs, both from within and from without. Neither compelled from the past, nor future beckoned! Free to become who they ought to be; in God’s image, you see.

Simply put, he believed that we are all Gods, but we have forgotten this over lifetimes of uncertainty and fear; the veil of ignorance; and that by the miracle of Love and Courage, and our God given freedom to choose, we can become again as Gods. It is this, in which he beckons us, with the quote above.

We're Masters in the making. Yet we're fools of our own predispositions; a veil of ignorance covering our sight from the very Heart of it; the bliss of this sentimental-reality.

There are Alchemical principles which can turn our very base proclivities and experiences into this Bliss of Gold through the catalyst of 'Constant Remembrance', Sankalpa – Subtle idea – the inner name of God. We become what we Think in Wonder and Joy! With Grace and Love we become whom we ought to be, Simple and in tune with Nature, naturally.

Man is what he loves.
If he loves a stone he is a stone;
If he loves a man he is a man;
If he loves God--I dare not say more,
for if I said that he would then be God,
ye might stone me! -- St. Augustine

Ghandi stated, 'to be the change you want the world to become.' Dr. Wayne Dyer said, 'change the way you look at things, and the things you look at change.'

Quantum physics has shown that depending on the observer, light is either a particle or a wave. (Quantum entanglement theory) It is a strange power that the observer has, is it not? How we see ourselves and others would have similar consequences, n'est-ce pas?

-- what was it that Einstein pondered when he spoke in a mathematical show 'n tell? "if I rode on a beam of light through the deep dark reach of space, what would I see? what would I be? would I be anyplace?" then he chuckled, stuck out his tongue, made his eyes go wide, "I'd be everywhere at once, bent toward the infinite, really deep inside."

A word can convey a meaning and change a mind, infused with 'Joy' and 'Love' it can change a Heart and that's forever!

civil-writes

2011-04-26T16:06:00.000-07:00

?what does a Spiritual-Person look-like?
do they dare to look and look and see,
with an essential-self in-congruency,

are they sloppy-solipsists for-soaking sentimental-reality,
hail'd by Mary everywhere on their pinnacle of doubt,
cross'd in-divinity, individuated against impossible odds,
a magnificent rebellious-angel both within and with-out,
so illuMentated with a fiercely-individual light,
or are they more often under
understood and out-of-sight

do they make meanings so merCuriously aware,
do they wear super-fantastic under-wear,
naked just-there, between their inner-whirl'ds and
outer-airs, expediting creative-destruction's negative-space,
a certain semi-someone somewhere
                so enthralled with all the rush
                                   at the speed of life
                 rolling with their body of cycles to
                        cross the thresh-hold of push and shove
just to make-nice...or

are they just innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy?"

the cloud-of-unknowing

2011-04-26T15:23:00.001-07:00

we phase-shift through our wonder into awe as our eyes glitter with the beauty that we saw...

the phases of 'knowing' have been parsed thus: firstly we're unconscious that we don't know, then we're conscious that we don't know, then we're conscious that we do know, then, finally, we're unconscious that we know.

knowing is often wounded by our reasons inside, those 'forms and rituals' that fear the unknown, from which we hide, and that they lied about the numinous that is always moving-us beyond the shackles of Newtons arrow-of-time or that we're slaves to Darwin's struggle from the slime; nonetheless, we're made in our own image and can invent ourselves anew, as three parts dark-matter, where deep calls to deep, and one-part light, to see what our sentimental-reality reflections really do...

this slippery surface of merCurious illuMentation:
this ephemeral shining at the back of the mind,
where the numinous is really moving-us
beyond the limits of the fatal 'skin-we're-in'
and beyond this tunnel-vision we call time--

it's the plight of the unbelonging to be longing
        before sentimental-realities bottomless bliss;

where you kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses thee,
and listen to the sound that only the heart can hear,
and there, experience eternity...

reasons un-wound, fall, unbound, toward
a pointlessness of
     parallaxing into a tunnel-vision,
               where the paralysis of analysis 'n indecision
becomes a doubt about it, then derision...
that cynical-sin of taking things apart, piece by piece,
and then cutting them down, again and again,
and calling it discriminating-wisdom then;
where deep calls to deep,

where it gets
wrapped up
        in many Mansions
                    for LotusBlossomslaughter,

where wounds of reason all bleed-out
from lessons upon the alter,

where Gods like Horace
and that blind-Homer
reached within the cloud-of-unknowing,
for another conflicted hero,
watching shadows lurching on the wall,

bent-over laughing at the absurdity of it all...

When we are at rest, we Dream; that is Poetry, in that what we experience as Dream is the concourse of being inside out withoutta' doubt; a sentimental-reality - Poetry is often this language of Dream, in that we experience these Dreams of Language in Poetry which is without the doubt of reason, but reveals the phases of 'knowings' natural 'seasons' - Novalis said, "We read Poetry to heal the wounds that reason makes" - we make Poetry to contemplate what is beyond mere reason - Poetry is meaning in motion like the roiling ocean reflecting many Suns - the Poet is like a sphere with her centre everywhere and his circumference nowhere, without beginning or end, always rolling, rolling 'round 'unknowings' wondrous bend -

unknowing-one - what would 'objective' Art look like? -- it would seem there are two forms of Art. Objective Art and Subjective Art. Subjective Art comes in 3 flavours, generally, i.e., Intellectual, Emotional, and Physico/Instinctual. A quick example of each would be Picasso's Instinctual works, the Expressionists emotive works, and the Intellectual forms of the so called minimalist Post-Modern Art. Of course there are various blendings of these 'subjective-types' which speaks to each of us on the level of our personal character, our relative perspectives; hence the like/dislike quality of subjective art works.

With Objective art, like the Gothic Cathedrals of old, the Pyramids, and music such as Beethoven's 5th Symphony or Mozart's 40th, 41st and 42nd symphonies, each and every one has a similar experience. Lifting us up, out of our personal time/space habit patterns; lifting us in awe to the greater nature of life, lifting our wings of wonder so we're flying through a vast cloud-of-unknowing that is this sentimental-reality, throughout Natures continuous motion of creative-destruction. So it is that Nature reflected in Art moves us beyond our tunnel-visions, while the subjective forms tend to chain us to our habits of seeing and hearing, or provide us a temporary diversion at best.

Poetry often reflects the 'small' miracles in our everyday struggle. Like most Art, it is subjective and produces few Saints. Poetry as a Language speaks within but without reason, and sings of a Love that cannot be named, in a music that only the Heart can hear. However, it is like having a 'Myth' which is like having a 'Map!' We can share these 'stories' of our 'Map Quest', our experiences, and somehow in the sharing we are renewed! Nevertheless, ?'knowing' is like this Map, but it's really not the Territory, that cloud-of-unknowing you're presently 'wondering' through...

Dreams are like Poetry;
Some are wishes, some are fears,
while but a few are prophecy!
Some are laughter, some are tears,
while some are mere philosophy!

Some writers write to be mean and right,
others to be liked, feel they belong;
then there is the Shiva-Grace: a destroyer,
a creator, a Diva of change!
An urge of nature in lyrical song!

She is mystic, language her crucible,
igniting grace to passion;
no past compels, nor future beckons!
Her dreams of light, this second sight
that comes of longing in the night!

mostly metaphor is a trick of the light to get these reflections just right, so, you-know, it's glinting in your eye as you release into the 'flower of meaning' with a sigh; like looking at the mesmerizing-sea glimmering-many-Suns, so sympathetic-tessellations resonate in your oceanic-brain, where synapses shivering-sentient luminescence reflect again ... we're epiphanators, ecstatics reflecting a whirl'd-view, swooning with another oceanic-dream waving at me 'n you...

"We don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are." -- Anais Nin
"believe nothing, not even yourself" -- Gurdjieff

Mission Statement:

2011-04-19T16:14:00.001-07:00

To be a visionary, bent by my individuality, which is made in the image of a look that dares to see, this whirl'd of creative-destruction and sentimental-reality... then to act from courageous-vulnerability, by giving generously of my core-competencies, toward helping my community change the world so wonderfully...in tune with Nature, naturally!

The goal is Love! The goal has always been Love, however derived, denatured or deconstructed.

Have you ever met someone who is a visionary envisioning their beloved? A courageous-vulnerability swells from them in waves of Peace and infectious Joy.

it's a-muse-sing with them, as their eyes are filled with many reflections, while they're simply staring at forever, absorbed in every small thing, as if it were all a gift that God did bring -- deep calls to deep and yet they're in tune with nature, being plain and simple --

when Nature has need of some new expression sHe urges in surges throughout mankind for a heart made ready from beating wings dipped in tears and laughter, and when sHe finds a ready vessel, malleable, vulnerable and made pure for this new expression, sHe urges in surges the creativity of wonder and realized raptures in the bliss of a longing heart song --

this Mystic, this visionary is often reflected in that urge, as the creator is always part creation, and as all things go, all things become the yearning-Love-song, and so too, is this Mystic, this visionary becoming an urge of Nature express'd in the deep surges of Loves bliss -- the Mystic-Visionary then speaks the language of Love, with tears and laughter, in such a way that the enrapture'd listener becomes the beloved and is an expressed urge of Nature surged in the rhythms and sounds that only the heart can hear...

the visionary is guided by the beloved, his heart a compass of yearning, pointing to where, Love is the goal, I'll meet you there ...

on Facebook and the authentic friend

2011-04-17T23:52:00.000-07:00

I like you, however, Facebook is too one-sided without a 'dislike' button! Perhaps a few buttons which reflect our core-feelings and values, such as a 'significant' button with its opposite 'insignificant' too. A button for 'incompetent' as well as 'competent.' Those would reflect things better than the 'like' button alone. Doncha' think?

random 'friends' come and go, whether it's where you live or any other place you show your face, but this I know, that if you wanna' grow, wanna' embrace that grace, then you wanna' have friends that feel out of pace with your winning Master-Race, and friends that show-up broken and crying in your space, and friends who are not just clones of you, doing the same things you are compelled to do, and friends that'll quietly take your hand when you don't know what's going on, and friends that'll give you a firm push when you felt your life was finally done...

I remember the school yard, where tribal approval ratings were the thing, judged well if you wore the latest and greatest bling, and then another compelling day of whispered-opinion, when you felt their snickering derision; we sometimes have this need to feel special and cool, not just one of the herd, one of the clan, and yet, if you did not feel you belong, you'd be longing to all along, whether woman or a man -- rather than looking-away, we ought to be living like we were the first person who ever dared to say, 'hey, it's OK, I'd of loved you anyway...'

‘The love of a true-friend pierces the heart and batters the head’

we're really a lot like 'Le Petit Prince a novel by Antoine de Saint Exupéry,' that child-of-castles-in-the-air, in that we're all bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues bouncing and bullying each other around, looking for ways to merge with each other, leaking through our surface tension, wiggling or waiting for that 'special' one to burst us free, to really be whom we ought to be; beautifully-fractured-reflecting ones -- life is real, only then, when I am bursting at the seams of what I assumed 'I' really means...

"Most people, including ourselves, live in a world of relative ignorance. We are even comfortable with that ignorance, because it is all we know. When we first start facing truth, the process may be frightening, and many people run back to their old lives. But if you continue to seek truth, you will eventually be able to handle it better. In fact, you'll want more! It's true that many people around you now may think you are weird or even a danger to society, but you don't care. Once you've tasted the truth, you won't ever want to go back to being ignorant"

Socrates : Greek philosopher, mentor to Plato (469 - 399 BC)
Source: The Allegory of the Cave and Book 7, The Republic

Stars, I see Stars...

2011-04-16T11:13:00.000-07:00

what if light is the language of Star
and Star is the language of night
and night is an under-understood feeling of ineffable space
where the infinite writes insight, with plasma roiling from its transmuting pen
into particles 'n photons that zeal; that seems to me to be so very real ...
then our shadows slow-diving on the ground are reminders of the night we always carry 'round...

Yes! greatness in another brings us all up; no one is left behind. When a Writer or Poet lifts the veil, revealing reality, we are all made more by this feat! Nature always sends us Visionaries, Poets, Mystics; just-in-time mutations bent by infinity. They take us to the next evolutionary level.

our hero's are conflicted, hanging cross-wise, riddled with choices; pock-marks on their skin, topographically hardened by their spirit of humanity...

if poetry can fill the gap where words are whirl'ds inside the brain, if another voice can boom as thunder to release my tears like rain; if rhyme and rhythm can move my heart like streams that rush to the sea, where waves all gather, but disagree; if a writer writes infused with fire and lonely empty space, in a feeling that's numinously-moving through us, though irrational and out of place; if sHe can jingle in fractal-frissons that goose-bump tingles up my spine, then I've read another piece of beautiful, in a viscer-real voice that 'feels' like it's mine, in another heart-felt work of conflicted-yearning blooming as human-kind...

nonetheless, a writer writes and never stops writing and rewrites and writes again and again ... and we never stop writing, except to Dream, perhaps to reach for that Star in that Star crowded Sky, and bring that Star to the end of our Pen, and write like plasma all over again ...

see the French root of courage, 'with heart' -- viva la couer, à la vie ... like Nietzsche painted in his marvellous, 'Thus spoke Zarathustra', we are a 'bridge,' an interim response toward a loftier goal, toward a farther further place which our hearts do show -- we're the quantum-foam on this sea of reality, where the roiling of Natures longing takes us to the next wave of creation. We're a mutation and a momentary play on this thin organic film of symbiotic life on our inextricably intimately evolving Planet. We're this Planets thoughts and meaning. This Planet which longs in swelling waves toward the Stars. From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!

inside out withoutta' doubt ... it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of 'reason' nor the fatal-skin we're in, uncluttered by the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliche' of mediocrity!

Art reveals the passion of creative-destruction imbued with sentimental-reality -- and so it is in the heart of the Art-Martyrs where flames of confliction become a book of dreams written in the night of the 'Laylat al-Qadr', the night of storms, when they'll speak in tongues that flower into flames so hot and bright that they'll consume the Moon and the Stars and sear the secular eyes of all who cannot see this Love...

'if there's no mass to catch my fall, is my velocity vector toward forever' -- of the two universal laws of living in time and space matters, i.e., the law of falling and the law of catching up, the former is often given a bad rap due to the physics of terminal velocity, which kinda scares us, i.e., the terminal part -- nonetheless, this falling is part of why things move in space and why the second law, which we're more myopic about, is also very important, as this is why planets ellipse around Suns and why Poets are always falling in Love...

Nota Bena: on journaling: if you don't know where you've been, you'll not see where you are and can't get to where you ought to be - the transmigration of writers is with ink - then there are these curious circles that fill our days and when we write them out and really look and see, a turn of phrase that changes us conceptually, as a circle becomes spiral, a vortex to the sky, where the Stars of hope wink 'n blink, and beckon us to fly ...

it’s always much too soon, ahead of all parting

2010-11-28T16:57:00.000-08:00

migrations are many
far and away
they go
within you with-out you
whether you do or do not know…
a delayed reaction
toward your realEyesed success
loving the word as you do
becoming the most outstanding
‘time-waster’ of your generation
as if on a well-trodden rockie-road in Afghanistan
where we’re constantly replaced
(in absorb’d reflections;
a screening in paraSympathetic relations)
to be aware where we are
faceBack’d
in a walk about
baby…
I was let-go due to Economic necessities, (
today there was a chill in the air)
yet, I rode my bionXbike 11k, eh
but it’s contagious, this lack-mentality
and dangerous, too
making making a difference marginalized or repressed
beating down the doors to get in
and by being deeply moved
so you no longer weep or laugh
so, it’s really beautiful
these migrations
we do not gently go through
to the last-laugh stage of life…
it does not fall everywhere, all at once.
and by going through the out-rageous repercussions
of throwing books around and
exclaiming with inflection,
‘look where knowledge got me now!’
underunderstand: we’d need not understand … there’s nice sounds in that – in a language we’d need not understand
or it’s really really another chance to recreate yourself
in the many mansions of your heart.
a fracture’d creature that looks over to see
this sudden sentimental-reality
it’s like they’re really only pointers
file’d under ‘with or without each other.’
yet
I’ll always take away something valuable,
about what I really want out of life,
so I can exact a plan to getting there…
it is always much too soon
’cause in duality it’s conflicted…
and it’s just another place where I’d desire only a deep sleep without too many dreams
and that the underworld would not have me…

civil-writes

2010-11-06T19:56:00.001-07:00

?what does a Spiritual-Person look-like?
do they dare to look and look and see,
with an essential-self in-epiphany,

are they sloppy-solipsists for-soaking sentimental-reality,
hail'd by Mary everywhere on their pinnacle of doubt,
cross'd in-divinity, individuated against impossible odds,
a magnificent rebellious-angel both within and with-out,
so illumentated with a fiercely-individual light,
or are they more often under
understood and out-of-sight

do they make meanings so merCuriously aware,
do they wear super-fantastic under-wear,
naked just-there, between their inner-whirl'ds and
outer-airs, expediting creative-destructions negative-space,
a certain semi-someone somewhere
                so enthralled with all the rush
                                   at the speed of life
                 rolling with their body of cycles to
                        cross the thresh-hold of push and shove
just to make-nice...

expanding negative-space

2010-11-06T17:40:00.000-07:00

...from the eye
of an artist's
howling-pen
language-weeps

language-weeps

after-words language-weeps

from the wounds that reason makes;

seep from wounds of omission,
seep from some-deep-super-scary-SaṃsKāra,
seep from some gimme-gimballed lurching-duality,

trembling from the loss of blood
lost in the wailing rhythm of suffering,
...
innocent victims like you and me,
lost between infinite-Love and "I'm not worthy",

there where the manic-music lifts
dreams farther-f u r th e r then the stretchered edges in longings go,

to those places where the bubble-breaks,
there

where all that's left is dark and deep.

mea-culpatterns

2010-10-14T10:06:00.001-07:00

in Cezannes colour of blue ...
think it through and feel it out;
yes, if it's under-understood,
it'll be over-stated and over the top --

It'll bring restraint 'round the
swelling of that
voice inside, which shudders
to jab with the tongue

It'll watch
for dissonant growls
and raucous rants
all diseased by the need to disagree...
between your terminal-shadow of despair,
where your dark inadequacy lingers,
It'll dismantle your misery
and unravel your fear--

these pieces of you
they're not nearly risen ...
into my love;
in the invisible rhythm of suffering,
-- these simple words of loss: not with me.
-- forever

’tis wondrous to be a mote on Gods eye —

2010-10-08T22:46:00.000-07:00

-you see roots of light, filaments;
it’s a miracle speeding ponderously, stupendously
as a congregation of stars transfigure into a winged-galaxy
and spiral-Angels glitter in your eyes –

dancing between every wondrous thing
in time and space matters,
orbiting infinitely-in
where every round thing dares begin –

first-light at the edge of the fatal-skin you’re in,
rises in longing swells, the measure of your heart;
a nebulae of mystery, the numinous light of peregrinated stories –

from stars we come to stars we shall return,
this ancient ache of longing urging us to burn,
to shine on ‘n on from inside out,
where illumination is a fire without any doubt

I’m not worried now, she is beautiful
no need to hurry now, she never dies
in infinite nights, she carries us far and away

curious cosmic scales

2010-10-08T22:43:00.000-07:00

http://www.nikon.com/about/feelnikon/universcale/index_f.htm

All dirt is made from Mountains and Mountains are made from Fire and a Star exploded in ancient space for all this to transpire. So I’m DIRT you know, a stone weathering into clay, the language of Mountain written in the dust blowing, blown so far away! From dirt I come, to Stars I’ll return, through this fire aspiring inside my yearning to burn…a mote in the eye of God, slow-diving toward a black-hole in the heart of space, where dust like me and you, gathers unseen from all over the place …

what if light is the language of Star and Star is the language of night and night is an under-understood feeling of ineffable space where the infinite writes insight, with plasma roiling from its transmuting pen into particles ‘n photons that zeal; that seems to me to be so very real … then our shadows slow-diving on the ground are reminders of the night we carry around...

the relative dance to the frequencies of scale : Planet to Planet, Star to Star, Galaxies and Dark matter revolving in the slipperiness of deep space keeping pace to their own law of falling into each other in time and space matter — I’d imagine dear Wittgenstein with a black hole in his head bending the light with his insight — Godal, Escher ‘n Bach played with the infinite-in where all thats left of the Cheshire cat is the grin — canons and fugues with Shepard scales, the white whale of Information Theory, the Eternal Golden braid in Quantum tessellations made — it’s Higgy dust come from nothing to everything you see, a Quantum fluctuation made you ‘n me

Cosmologists used to consider that the Big Bang would result in a Big Crunch — it seems that mass and the Gravitational force of that mass is not enough when you consider that deep of space ‘n dark matter is actually accelerating expansion — there is a slipperiness to empty space — they’re calling it the ‘Big Rip’

see the French root of courage, ‘with heart’ — viva la couer, à la vie … like Nietzsche painted in his marvellous, ‘Thus spoke Zarathustra’, we are a ‘bridge,’ an interim response toward a loftier goal, toward a farther further place of which our hearts do know — we’re the quantum-foam on this sea of reality, where the roiling of Natures longing takes us to the next wave of creation. We’re a mutation and a momentary play on this thin organic film of symbiotic life on our inextricably intimately evolving Planet. We’re this Planets thoughts and meaning. This Planet which longs in swelling waves toward the Stars. From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!

‘if there’s no mass to catch my fall, is my velocity vector toward forever’ — of the two universal laws of living in time and space matters, i.e., the law of falling and the law of catching up, the former is often given a bad rap due to the physics of terminal velocity, which kinda scares us, i.e., the terminal part — nonetheless, this falling is part of why things move in space and why the second law, which we’re more myopic about, is also very important, as this is why planets ellipse around Suns and why Poets are always falling in Love…

downLight:

2010-08-30T12:00:00.001-07:00

downLight: an Alchemical transmluminal process with darkness the Mother of light

halting-stars we are, aching
for the vastness of space,
that lonely-only place
where heat-beats swell
on the edge of night -

here we are sun~bending toward a red-ochre sky,
a gnarled branch, and bony-finger reach
for a cloudy-whirl, white on blue,
all the while curling-roots 'round
stones of earth, star-imbued mud
for sipping nameless elements of course -

we lurch in wind, whimper for the climb,
make leaf-song, slow-swelling from Sun
drenched dirt, the blood of longing serpents-up,
from deeper whirl'ds-turn'd where harder-roots have
sunk

into the electron-cloud where numinous-valences are allowed,
which are inspired to arise, such that lead becomes gold
glowing as a singular-sight, vortex'd through Quantum tunnels
that make our body bright -

just another rapturous transmutation
of matter into light

first-green

2010-07-23T13:12:00.003-07:00

the doubt of religion is science and the religion of science is doubt; it's doubtless that silence was the beginning of revelation and it's a revelation that silence is without doubt; I doubt that God has any religion and its doubtless that religion has any God; it's true that science reveals our doubts but I doubt that there's a science of true revelation; in this I'll remain silent for I doubt that either science nor religion will reveal this truth, nevertheless, poetry is as an echo of eden where that first green was golden

in to it

2010-06-26T19:39:00.001-07:00

those who see this world so intuitively, they're aware that these syntactical-alliances of language are not capable of parlaying a look that dares to see this creative-destruction, this sentimental-reality; as such, they're moved with these feelings whirl'd into a push and a shove, bursting with the power-of-love ...

it's up to you what you do ...

2010-06-25T12:39:00.000-07:00

institutional-standards economically-turned usually bottom-out at the lowest common denominator which is the cost of you to learn ... however long the low-road it's up to you to raise questions about your personal evolution instead of averting your-eyes to graze on the knowledge of this monetary-monster age; you're a meaning maker and it's up to you to change the way the world-turns on a dime and you'll do just fine changing what you are, inside-out withoutta' doubt, moved by courage you'll go far...

simply, what I'm saying is to follow your heart or it'll end-up like a bankers-heart in the end where it all comes-down to what you're earning instead of burning with an ancient-ache for goodness sake; for what its 'worth' is beyond the DOW, beyond these common-cents, beyond these standards of what we think we know, beyond oil gushing from deep-sea vents, and it will depend on you to become 'human' when all around you is a slick so thick and dark with the greed to feed on more desperate oil-wells -- it's your choice whether to bloom with a heart of care, one that's swells with 'truth' or dare ... ;)

headed in a back-words direction (eternal-reverb)

2010-06-25T11:06:00.000-07:00

(how well I could play)
in a straight forward way;
simplifying it, making it more pure
in a clear sound, turning it up
and bearing down...

there'd be distortion, red-anger, punk-blue,
get it up tough, keep it going,
'cause I didn't know what else to do.

at fifteen I was unreasonably accomplished
with those long dynamic echo-delayed riffs;
at eleven I was sleeping in the back of a car
surrounded by books an amp and a guitar,

rolling around with the sound of
a welt chord, a grace note, Henry Miller and Nietzsche;
laying-down these upholstery-songs in the summer of seventy-eight
where reverb was explored beyond the return of counter-culture,
going 'round the bend, headed in a back-words direction again

ars poetica

2010-06-18T12:26:00.000-07:00

it'd be indefinable and unknown,
especially unknown! and these unknowns,
they'd complete us...

it'd start with a cosmic sentiment,
a serendipity that's bent
toward this infinite-in,
where love in a radiant bouquet
bursting to blossom would begin --

there, where there's a music in you
eager to play in a mellifluous-voice
which only the heart can hear,
and it'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll,
a riff 'round the sound of a whirl'd
swelling with a kiss of bliss,
'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue,
the Poetic one --

it'd risk absurdity in an u n f e t t e r e d language,
and an unbounded-eye,
(not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in,)
that'd look and look and dare to see,
the beauty of this conflicted sentimental-reality,
this creative-destruction outpouring
into the middle of things
where good Homer nods
over a potpourri that is the Art of Poetry

define Poetry

2010-06-17T11:23:00.001-07:00

define Poetry

??? it'd be indefinable and unknown, especially unknown! however, your unknowns complete me...

nonetheless, having a cosmic sentiment is a serendipity that's bent toward the infinite-in, where love and a radiant bouquet bursting to blossom begin -- where there's a music in you wanting to play in a mellifluous-voice which only the heart can hear, that'd take you into a melodious rhythm 'n roll 'round the sound of a whirl'd swelling with the kiss of bliss, 'tis this that'd speak in that uncommon tongue, the Poetic one, which is willing to risk absurdity in unfettered language, and divested with an unbounded-eye not limited to the fatal-skin yer' in, that's looking and daring to see, the beauty of this romantically-real creative-destruction outpouring into a potpourri that is Poetry

in duality its conflicted

2010-06-10T13:56:00.001-07:00

in duality it's conflicted -- Religion, Science and Politics are often immured in an arrogance of ignorance, i.e., promoting cliche as self-evident, eh, in that they define their percepts with allusions of their own creation: a sort-of Möbius-strip logic -- In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the viscereality of constant-remembrance, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta' doubt ... it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of 'reason' nor the fatal-skin we're in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoiled by the cliche' of mediocrity! Fear tunnel-visions and converges toward where all the dead-ends meet -- while joyous-remembrance opens the whirl'd in a frisson of being, in a revelation of seeing reality as a perennial wind of wonder that blows with creative destruction ...

facebook friends

2010-06-10T13:54:00.000-07:00

apparently facebook only allows up to 5000 'friends,' however, the idea of 'friend' as a verb is essentially a facebook-ism and not to be taken literally, I believe. A 'friend' ought to be your best-enemy, one that tasks you to become whom you ought to be, one that batters the head and pierces the heart, one that cracks you open so the light gets in ...

down-light

2010-05-16T17:11:00.001-07:00

halting-stars we are, aching
                              for the vastness of space,
                              that lonely-only place
                              where heat-beats swell
                              on the edge of night -

here we are sun~bending
                               toward a red-ocher sky,
                               a gnarled branch,
                               and bony-finger reach
                               for a cloudy-whirl,
                               white on blue,
                               all the while curling-roots 'round
                               stones of earth,
                               star-imbued mud
                               for sipping nameless
                               elements of course -

we lurch in wind, whimper for the climb,
                               make leaf-song,
                               slow-swelling from Sun
                               drenched dirt,
                               the blood of longing serpents-up,
                               from deeper whirl'ds-turn'd
                               where harder-roots have
                                                              sunk

into the electron-cloud where numinous-valences are allowed,
                                which are inspired to arise,
                                such that lead becomes gold
                                glowing as a singular-sight,
                                vortex'd through Quantum tunnels
                                that make your body bright -

just another rapturous transmutation
                                        of matter into light

the swell and bell of beat

2010-04-29T12:29:00.000-07:00

in the way that your lips shimmer and your eyes flash simile-smiles making many reflections
with the irregular undulations rhythm'ng off your tongue,
with words flying out lyrically, kissing everyone

we are touched and easily forgotten in this age of impermanent ink,
with our ears perched high on a mystery, we're overlooked
for speaking in clouds expectant of thunder,
for rustling leaves in a tree,
for threadbare jeans flaking mud from long walks by the river,
for taking solace in the Sea

among writers we are the infirm, the mad heretics of desire,
ridiculed for whiskers and soft-eyes,
for bumping into enjambments, fish-like
and working out destiny by changing it,
moving it, Moon like...

we are the occasional ones,
risking decay and our sanity
for these holy short comings
and goings,
rather than face the impossibility of facts
or that self-righteous blind-eye of economics ...

there is mercy in this daring,
there is an art to this astonishing,
beyond these reasons which trap us,
beyond our need to pay the rent,

while the world conspires to ignore us,

we swell

the tchotchke critic

2010-04-08T17:02:00.000-07:00

swag me baby and I'll give you a literate clit-a-crit,
(leer with my tongue lashing jibe)
slut up to me with your verbalicenteous gerunds
and worthless rhymes while I make hasty cliche' ass-clinchism simile-slimes

unless you're a corporate china-doll with a tight
smile and a plastic shine to give me a head-job -
fluff my emasculated urbanity, assuage my hapless dreams,
my Mr. solid-for-ya', 'see-man', hidden-penis screams

I'll swag'ya with tickle-toys that'll glitter in your hand,
buttons of memorabilia to enhance your capital-tits;
scold'ya with inanity when you drop a diphthong;
smack'ya with a jesticulate-jeer, then drink my oor-ban boor-ban with beer-

a mote in God's eye

2010-03-29T11:41:00.001-07:00

In myth and legend the "stone-people" held memories, impressions, which could be accessed by sensitives - the crystal-stone has at it's core a fractal-matrix which can hold information and then transmit this information - the piezo-electric effect, the building-block of our CPU's, silicon the semi-conductor, and of course the galena-crystals in Radios, for over-the-air communications ...

accessing their memories can tell their stories from Cosmic forces to the history of Man, bringing lore from the life of the land - the stone-people are sentinels of the land and with their memories they softly sing to our DNA-crystals - it takes several generations for the Land to change a People, then we begin to see these changes in our children as they tell us the old-stories they've heard in dreams and the music of the land whispered to them from wind and stream -- ultimately we are relations to the stone-people with their message of fire and ice...

All dirt is made from Mountains and Mountains are made from Fire and a Star exploded in ancient space for all this to transpire. So I'm DIRT you know, a stone slipping into clay, the language of Mountain written in the dust clinging to a tree! From dirt I come to Stars I'll return, through the fire aspiring inside this longing yearn to burn, a mote in the eye of God, toward a black-hole in the heart of space, where dust gathers unseen from all over the place ...

the adoration of another conflicted kanuk

2010-03-25T22:10:00.001-07:00

I love my mom
with unabashed cliche,
                    when we hug, when we
                    telephone, cross this kanuk-country

she used to play guitar,
plaints and paradisios mostly,
laying licks in a mushy maudlin key,
while thinking of my wee brother
                                      billy and me,
fatherless sons,
a long way off,
left behind to be,
                  educated in the street,
especially the back alley,
by bees and blossoms, too early, too early,
by black-billed Magpies cawing in the trees,
by movies, music and whom-ever,
would take us in for money;
by surly-men with rolled-up sleeves,
by women slapping our face,
'til we learnt to say, 'Mam, may I, please',
by tape-recorders and radios,
but especially
by TV's...

I used to see her everywhere,
I saw her in my girlfriends,
I saw her in the Nuns,
I saw her in a statue of holy-mary,
mother of God, sweet-jesus,
I saw her in everyone!

I thought she was an Angel
dressed in white on channel 3,
with Ed Sullivan introducing her,
"ladies and gentleman,
back from Moose-Jaw Saskatchewan,
Ron, Laurie and Jeff playing
a really gooot sheeew,
for your special entertainment,"
well you know how that all went.

I saw her in my wives
who fought to gain control,
who finally gave-up fighting
with that selfish bitch,
that stole the show ya' know.
Maybe they were right,
she sold us kids for fame,
ran a band of salty men,
who tortured her for fun,
while traveling kanuk-country,
on the road called 'number-one'.

now
diabetes is eating-down to her Indian soul,
she can't get up, can't even roll,
nothin' can make her go,
doesn't want to know,
feels forgotten,
feels the song is ending,
feels that it's done,
feels it didn't go quite right,
                                  the dimming of the light,
                                              to hospital white...
still, I'll miss her when she's gone...

I'm ready with years of practice,
I'll have to try it out and see.
I'll sit selfishly by her bed-side and hold her close to me,
just to feel the warmth
            from the radiance
            in her tear-softened face,
just to hear a
        Cree crying song
        that she'd sing so emotionally ...

just in case she's full of grace,
                like the mother she wanted to be

Consciousness is sensitivity:

2010-03-25T15:33:00.000-07:00

the first step toward Consciousness is sensitivity: you can't get to conscious without walking in conscience and treating others with conscientiousness ...

however, when you're at the sharp-edge of a glance, see without the romance, cut through the selfish-lies and speak-out against Orwellian spies, when you lick-honey from the razors edge, dive off of realities so-called edge, grimace in the faces of those who lament, those folks not being able to give-up shopping for lent, chastise the needy for want of their addiction, correct the grammar of all who 'don-no diction', assail the arms-dealers for killing children with gun-happy kids, regal against the expectation that an angry-mob is better as a nation, scold the weary for their short-sightedness, remind each other of the burning-light in us --

this is the thing we have do for sanity, for me and you, 'cause let-us 'prey' is the commercialism of today, where psychopathy is the profitable way; and they do what 'survival of the fittest' bids them to do --

we're all star-dust from beginning to end, so we'll shine sooner or later 'round infinities bend... ... we can all shine a bit brighter with sensitive argument kindly bent to ease us, with a little friction to tease us, with a 'lil knowledge that'll please-us -- in the mystery of misery there is food for thought on the soup-line - we're all a little stronger in those places where once we were broken in pieces

words: wind and water

2010-03-24T13:03:00.000-07:00

I see water as a movable-crystal, alive with many reflections, within which fractal-clusters assemble, like a snow-flake, then melt into another new glimmer of intelligent design, while easily modulated by intentional-percepts, landmarks and the numinous-fingers of planets and stars which form the sounds of words, I find.

The language of wind in the cadence of your heart-beat again, via lungs that swell to a twisting tongue that forms the words so well, free-formed from a water-crystal in your brain, resounding like the sea, making many reflections, linguistically.

Words are like a place-holder for 'sound' and 'value' - which came first the sounds or the meaning? - chicken or egg paradox: semantics -- nonetheless, words have their roots in sound and rhythm, to please or to scare, to fall as platitude or rise aware.

ahh, it's such a sweet-sound in those words that dare to stare with absurdity, a movable-feast for senses half-crazy with overflowed feeling, swoon'd by song, caught in my throat, quickening my breath, their awesome powers of life and death, as they carry me along.

sometimes the rhythm captures the words, like when I ride my bike and feel my heart-beat and the fullness of my legs spinning wheels, and the wind caresses my face while making white-noise, like crashing waves on a beach inside of my ears, over and under, while tides are changing with the gears - or when an image presents itself, unfolds into sounds, then the sounds arrange themselves in cadences, the dance of assonance and the sonics of post-modern imagism, imbued with the romance of irony, their urge-to-merge into the music inside of me...

fugitive peace is

2010-03-14T18:07:00.001-07:00

Man is what he loves.
If he loves a stone he is a stone;
If he loves a man he is a man;
If he loves God--I dare not say more,
for if I said that he would then be God,
ye might stone me!
-- St. Augustine

From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!

the corruption of stone, pieces of rock, fugitive pieces of me, far away from home --

All dirt is made from Mountains and Mountains are made from Fire and a Star exploded in ancient space for all this to transpire. So I'm DIRT you know, a stone slipping into clay, the language of Mountain written in the dust clinging to a tree! From dirt I come to Stars I'll return, through the fire aspiring inside this longing yearn to burn...a mote in the eye of God, toward a black-hole in the heart of space, where dust gathers unseen from all over the place ...

We become what we Love, Love Up!

I'd rather read Bauer's ironic-blasphemy than unK moronic-acerbity

speaking in tongues is the Poetic move for the holy-spirit rhythmically writeous groove

the collected Patchen poems gave me inspiration then William Carlos William and that old lover Walt Whitman -- these American Mystics who fired-up, the holy-mundane with wit, inspiring is the very foundation of it -- I've read other Poets but lean toward these guys, loving their oddity, finding it wise; Deistic-Mystics rise, oh rise

for instance Mandy here is a Patchen Poem about Christ

Pastoral

The Dove walks with sticky feet
Upon the green crowns of the almond tree,
Its feathers smeared over with warmth
Like honey
That dips lazily down into the shadow ...

Anyone standing in that orchard.So filled with peace and sleep,
Would hardly have noticed the hill
Nearby
With its three strange wooden arms
Lifted above a throng of motionless people
- Above the helmets of Pilate's soldiers
Flashing like silver teeth in the sun.

Kenneth Patchen

reply to Sri-Bauer - maybe you're from the post-modernist school, one of these conflicted heros, hanging cross-wise, riddled with the voices of creative-destruction, the ironic-polyphonics of the solipsistic-mystic

we're from the post-modernist school of conflicted heros, hanging cross-wise, riddled with the voices of creative-destruction, the ironic-polyphonics of the solipsistic-mystic

baby-boomers: we're from the post-modernist school of conflicted heros, hanging cross-wise, riddled with the voices of creative-destruction, the ironic-polyphonics of the solipsistic-mystic, the Political-strategy of the askewly-synergistic, which is the key to unlocking the integrity of doubt ... we always use that classic-move in describing things in a dialectical-plasticity, the room to view what changes bring beyond the norms of conservative-eccentricity...

roots of words have a lot of play in them - for instance the root of the word 'Sin' is to 'miss the mark', to wander from the path and in our hearts we know that Love is the goal - which leads to the conceptualization of the latin-word metanoia, which is often mistranslated as 'repent sinner' but which really means to 'change the heart', which is to Love again following that glow, bliss-singing in the heart ya'know ...

turn

2010-03-13T23:27:00.001-08:00

in these wandered wastelands
desire falls as dust
                   ashes of the past
                   paste the face
as a simulacra of disgust,
the only fire, rust--

Mountains push the sky
                      rivers rush the Sea
          fish flourish
      flashing dreams
of flickering Moon-light
       like a sentence that ends in white
          then
     meander down this page
unfettered, glistening

churn-turn, over and over,
in the night
oh, circadian rhythm
           beat of the Sky
                habit patterns jerk 'n fly
          labyrinthine passages whirl, twirl

in my frontal lobes,
               curl of my brain
where I end up returning,
           eyes burning with rust,
                    to start all over again

the deeper meaning of the sea

2010-03-13T23:25:00.003-08:00

I dive a little deeper each time
reaching
beyond my salt sweat-skin, in an apnea/breath-hold,
beyond the fatal-flaw of fighting for life,
jaws shut, eyes downcast,
hands finned; extreme free-diving dangerously
beyond the event-horizon of
the craziest things the deep sea brings -

I drop my heart rate, ba-beat, b a - b e a t,
the water holds me prisoner, a death grip in silence, the sunken tears of
a fearless fool risking the absurdity of whale-song, my blood flows away from these limbs seeking refuge in the heart, lungs and brain,
I hear the crushing-sea and it draws me
in a resistance to upward movement,
a polyphony without voice,
lungs aching to burst, to uncork the bottle,
release the Nereid-jinni-in my mono-fin

control

2010-03-10T18:25:00.000-08:00

by posting on the World Wide Web you no longer 'control' or 'own' any of your public work nor shall your work be without critique, unless it is ignored, which is often - however, by posting here and there you've engaged in an entanglement process which'll make your Poems, Blogs and writeous-rants a catalyst to further realEYEsations - Truth and Beauty are like that, in that they change just by looking at them ...

the mystery of misery

2010-03-05T16:02:00.001-08:00

the mystery of misery is finding joy in the little things, those moments during the sears of tears which transmute into seeing beauty in everyday ways -- this 'painful-joy' is liberating as we've discovered that not only does loss not break our hearts but rather stretches them to what feels like bursting, but doesn't - we then become big-hearted enough to enjoy the magic in the mundane again ...

pieces of me

2010-03-05T12:29:00.001-08:00

we grow ourselves from ourselves then we leak into each other discovering mirrors of our relations in the droplets -- we are wanderers of an undiscovered country that is ourselves, making myths, Maps, but our territories remain to be seen -- by this very looking into ourselves we change --

Quantum Entanglement theory is the powerful idea that what you look at changes just by looking at it and then there is Teilhard De Chardains' Noosphere where all ideas are inter-connected like an Earth-brain and we're the synapses 'lektrikly sparkling, changing over 'n over again --

now, I'm studying NeuroScience and Proust, where it is shown that memories leak and from this leaking we can become whom we want to become -- this is how evolving is done, from the pieces of the past to these pieces that are you, individuating into something new ...

turn

2010-03-04T13:19:00.000-08:00

On Poetry:

2010-02-18T13:49:00.000-08:00

Poetry is the emotion of motion crafted into a language only the heart can hear, like music resonating in your brain, making it clear, that Love has no opposite, not even 'fear' - internal rhythms, assonance and absurd schisms, a relentless word-play that has its say, the tongue licking at your inner-ear, the heart torn by a longing despair, toward an ancient-ache spilling from the pen, this is the Art of Poetry then...

On the Olympic Flame

2010-02-17T12:32:00.000-08:00

On the Olympic Flame: the 'fire and the fence' are symbolic of our times - the fire shows us a 'glowing-joy' in humanity that the Olympic-Games represents - while the fence shows us a 'dismal-faith' in humans that the over-burden of Security represents - together they show us a conflicted view of 'loving humanity but hating humans'

-- a glowing-pessimism palls these Olympics while a melancholy-faith in mankind lingers ...

the mosh-pit

2010-02-02T22:44:00.000-08:00

I do not understand –

I understand that understanding is highly over-rated as the modus-operandi of ‘reason, which is this artificial reliance on knowing the why of it all, just another hubris before the fall –

‘Nature is the Devil!’ Nature is SIN? This is the same as the Christian stance then –

we’re all dust and ashes in the end and Nature binds us to the storms of Maya, pushes darWINian DNA dreams and it all only seems to be a freedom of choice –

then that small voice which we can’t hear over the din, the buzz of our mental-mosh pit then –

that wee voice only the heart can hear, when peace is near, so dear to us when we sit bent-over in a slow-dive toward the infinite-in, there, where freedom truly does begin, in the Cathedral of meditation –

so that is life, freedom, when I am plain and simple, in tune with the heart from the start, ‘til death do us part...

Infinite-in fractal reflections moving at the speed of de-light - Nature is change, the Soul of impermanence, an eternally-recurring insight...

a mystic candle enamouring fire is so light -- shimmering tenuously, lurching shadows and gListening -- a silent language wafts in a wordless cry -- while all around storms are gathering!

the failure of reason

2010-01-21T15:52:00.001-08:00

I did this piece called, 'If memory is a lie then so am I', in it was a reference to that American Gulag called Guantanamo Bay Prison, where incarceration is an endless train of shadows on the wall -- however, it was noted in a documentary that a majority of prisoners shared their experiences with each other in the form of Poetry; not just mystical-romanticism but post-modern angst as well - almost everyone of them wrote poems to capture their plight and increase their sight, to harbor hope as a light to over-come fright, which is the real-deal if ya' feel-me ...

Romanticism sings siren-songs alluring you to the craggy-shore of love-me, baby, love-me-more -- or, for the longing swells of the ever-peregrinated, where longing is what makes you go-baby-go, to grow 'n stretch beyond the fatal-skin 'yer in --

a conflicted Romanticism as a plaint of a Beauty which cannot be captured nor knows any fear, yet is neither consummated in passionate embrace, a kiss-less kiss, a touch-less face, so sHe goes to that longing Love that shall ne'er be won, peregrinated to follow an ancient aching heart 'til life is done -

in Romantic Mysticism the longing is often an allusion to the ever seeking Heart toward the beloved, as the goal is Love, a hungry love never sated - Oh, to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss live an eternity - our hearts know this, Love attracts Love, the secret of the kiss -- and the law of attraction is as above, so in you, as you see Beauty, so it is in you, too -- all Lovers invent the Beloved and then the Music, the Poem, the Story is always about that -- the Lover makes the music, the Poem the Story as a texture of that ancient ache, a reality play which changes in innumerable revisions and realizations forever voyaging with the heart as compass - always going, never arrived, a visceReal Love uncontrived ...

I'd like it to be more clear, singing a Siren-Song reverberating there, alluring with a languid laissez-faire, calling you with a back-bone chill, a frisson thrill, where you lose your will and the last thing to go, ya' know, is the soul, which gives the pearl it's extra gleamy-glow

-- romantic-mysticism is like that at first, where the image becomes cursed by becoming numinous 'n fluid, the thirst being the thing after-all, after the fall -- that the goal of longing swells, that ancient-ache that tells us to yearn toward the goal, of love, ya know, is the place we lament in sears of tears that we're sent by the particles dream to coalesce as a Sun again ... while you're post-modern humanism stays the course, in images made of sense, toward lips so sweet to kiss, the meaning of all of this --

nevertheless, when looking outside-in beyond the fatal-skin we're in, it's enough to just begin to reach without an end - the song-o-longing remains the same, In infinite darkness an ancient ache cried out in a million quivering lights as if the night wept stars --

we write and read Poetry to heal the wounds of our reasons ...

love

2010-01-14T17:29:00.000-08:00

love: what would that look like, how would that feel, inside-out with out a doubt, making it real? Is it dependent upon our impressions, our sense-based metaphors describing our mood, love being really neither bad nor good. Or would the process be lingering with an ineffable-peace, the numinous moving-us toward release, from the fatal-skin we're in toward a heart rending goal, with tears in our eyes from longing so.

I'm reminded of the 'Divine Saliva' a repast most fulfilling when you kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses thee, and in that kiss is sweet eternity -- Amirta

some called it the Red Lion, the Philosophers Stone, the Pool of Nectar of Immortality which'll change your brain beyond the merely human vain, transmuting you through quantum-tunnels in the fatal-skin yer' in with a blast of atomic-might folding-space 'n time to the beginning of night, at first-light; thus you'd of created a soul with the goal of Love ya' know

becoming human is much more difficult than you'd expect, which is the first real step toward divining love - why, there aren't many humans really, except in singular-forms that tend to cluster askew of your bell-curve norms, the herd-instinct we do mimicking germs -- even these Newg'd romantics in their zeal to be nice, in random acts of blindness, which conceals their vice, are only feeding their hungry-ghosts, though they entice; while the fixated geek scratches their head-lice, the ideas they stroke, their hearts are of ice -- it's no joke that Nature binds you to the fatal-skin you're in and turns off the growing-of-your-brain when you, the driver, stop changing the lane -- individuation is the process of becoming human, which is simply individualism without the dead-end tunnel-vision of narcissism, which always defaults to social-darWINism, which is a crime against humanity

for example, I've a friend of many years doing a slow-dive, falling in increments onto his face for the last ten years or so ( the same guy I wrote the 'lil diddy about, ya' know, 'the seduction of despair, the rest is silence') - anyways, he's one of those groupies of newg'd romantics cum bio-informatics but cannot stay in a relationship very-long, preferring the diversion of group-immersion, that coming 'n going song -- he's kinda all over the place like a teen-age boy with angst, though he's 60something with a 10 year itch turned to rash -- he came over to stay from Nanimo the other day for an over-night play with some connections he made in his last group dynamic - again he rolled out the egregious errors of his last wife who left him without a home, the depression that resulted and, give me a break, that whine he does to please the fools who cannot get-up and choose to be relieved -- I had him in tears as he whined some more, not feeding his need to feel the poor-boy, fixed him in the eye with a warrior-like gaze, told him he's lazy, full of fear 'n doubt, the equivocation-haze - then he got angry and shouted-out, fukU,fukU, fukU over and over again, 'til the fear in his body left him flowing like Zen -- then I smiled and said with warmth that is real, after the fear is gone what's left is to 'feel' ...

... the love of a friend should batter the head and pierce the heart - thus speaks love

mnemosyne: the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations

2010-01-12T11:41:00.000-08:00

the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations or further farthers found near-bye

sHe is grateful for the verities of Poetic experience
and Poetry often shows this lyrically without
the lucubration of pedantry or
the fundamentalism of bigotry.

sHe sings in the ecstasy of realization
so lightly in these darkened days,
lifting our eyes to the nobler quest in feeling waves ...
or better yet, sHe plays with language and creates anew,
mangling with absurdity, the light, from black words
as a Poet ought to do?

-- words imbued with a silence only the heart can hear,
the potential of the pause, the swelling of empty space,
in that stillness her longing heart whispers with verity,
the logos is thus theos, and so my dear,
you meet-her in words far 'n near--

Yet if the telling is the lure and words are as powers
to sway and preach, then they neither fly nor teach!

sHe lures us to look and look and dare see
with eyes open to our inner reality --

sHe dives deep, the infinite-in
where a visceral piety is the pearl,
made in the murmuring mud, rolling around in the sound,
a whirl'd of delight,
showing again as a gleam in her eye to be
reflected in the thousand mirrors of your mind --
where there are many more glimmering pearls
for you to find ...

on the goatherds crooked staff

2010-01-10T20:45:00.000-08:00

Poetry is an act of actualizing self, individuating with each write, which flows out of the lowest we did fall and crawl to the highest we dared dream in the eyes of a lovers gleam - this 'lektrick muse let loose, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your bone to become words that tinker in the antics of semantics and linger on the poetics of noetics, rythm'd in time; words that smash and blush, flash and hush, dash and duck, in the neuro-linguistics of your mind

I'll give the 'moan-oral' a try: I always liken'd Nietzsche to being the original cunning-linguist: an emancipated-semanticist with a philandering-philology of ontology path-dependent on desire -- imagine the Übermensch trying to quench his thirst for power with nihilism -- nonetheless, these writers write and I remember reading each of them and listening to Sibelius -- writing is a way to emerge from the cocoon of learnt metaphor clusters which we garnered from other writers and philosophers, so that our own wings of imagination, though fractaly path-dependent, but meant to navigate to new worlds we wept-of before, when we lost so much more than we felt we could endure, unfold fer sure and wing us to the fire like the moth to flame -- so, this bookmark of writers gleans my left-write brain-stays and even Heinlein, that right-wing hack, made credible sojourns for my becoming young mind -- a shadow hangs over me 'cause yesterday came suddenly, in the books that I read, reverberating inside my head ...

I'd like to hack-through this Gordian-knot with the steel of reason-true -- but that's what I'm telling you, the reader - when you think about anything you're in the point-of-view you're in, which is more-or-less than the sum of all you've heard and read, inside your head - then you go somewhere and develop it according to the nerves in you, plugged into the warmth in your chest or the chill in your gut, transmitted to your pen over and over again -- so the goatherd is simple, representing the quiet of a naturally rhythmic life filled with silence and peace, the pause of emptiness wherein the sound of dreams begin - which these writers and philosophers longed for, i.e., to become the noble-savage watching ripples on Walden's pond

aHa: a poetic noetic instantiation in three acts

2010-01-09T16:12:00.000-08:00

aHa: a poetic noetic instantiation in three acts

rushing inference, imminent insight,
suddenly its clear, a gut feeling,
swooning, reeling,
cross-connected hemi-sphere,
syncopated, reverberated, totally aware

open bi-ways, ahh, blue-sky days, making up my mind,
synapses shiver, axons quiver, dendrites deliver,
'lectrik-neurons fire suddenly in time

aha! aha! oh gawd I see, I ran around 'n cried,
a fool I've been, all along its there, right in front of me

with a grin 'n a nod 'n twinkly-looking 'round,
raised my arms 'n slapped my thighs,
'n made a ruckus sound --

donned my hat 'n set it skewed
upon my big bright head,
set off to town in an uplifted mood
while whistling a sweet sound,
forgot what I had found

#

there's a hole in my head
where the wounds of reason seep,
all words are dead inside my head
what's left is dark 'n deep

@

I'll always live
and always die
on the event horizon
of my mind's eye
where the flash
of neuronal fires
flower into
sudden infinity --

the seduction of despair

2010-01-08T12:40:00.000-08:00

yes, that's the thing,
we expect our desperately depressed friends
to just carry-on,

work inside the conceit of gravity,
have faith that this is as low as it goes - but no,
they often have an agenda dependent upon
their dead-end tunnel-vision,
you don't get me --

you don't understand how deep is my well,
so, I'll go beyond your gravity and
you'll be sorry that I fell ...

something like foreshadow the dark content
of life-disavowed, the faith of reasons not allowed
and the rest is found from here and there,
the little fear that when I'm gone and you're waiting there,
it'll become clear how sorry you'll be for me
not being me anymore:

I'd rather be a ghost
than feel like one,
it's more real for me and i'm being real with my feelings
or lack of them
from now on ...

my uncertain suicide

2010-01-08T00:14:00.000-08:00

death has a certain advantage which we the living do not, the rest is silence ... Momento Moris are stories we tell about feeling like hell, or deader yet, feeling nothing at all; the gray wastelands and tunnel-visions where all the dead-ends meet -- however life, misery and everything changes all the rules which were dead forms and rituals to begin with -- you have to make your own fun, be your own Sun and shine in those dark places others are afraid to see ...

my uncertain suicide is a sort of revisionist angst writ large for the gray-wasteland people - a friend in his 60's is pensive and avoiding eye-contact while his twelve year-old daughter begs him to quit skirting the edges of that black-hole he's sporting and just dive-in -- there's a 'suicide' theme today and I'm writing like I don't really care what you all say ... an experiment while feeling trapped in the world of the living - he responded well to the poemeant and is coming for a visit - suicide is thematic today so I had to write away

as a teenager I held a knife to my chest with EMO fright for half a day -- I was very afraid throughout my thirties and around 42 had an epiphany that death was better off dead and I was just afraid to live -- however, surviving isn't a priority but evolving is and if I have to strip down to my core reality I'd do it in the silence of simplicity -- nevertheless, not feeling anything at all is part of the desperate attempt toward feeling anything at any cost of desperation, which is the credo of the 'I don't wanna grow old' crowd -- I remember emotions being so charged with the stresses and strainings of just growing-up and then just-growing old became lame and without any noble meaning: a sort-of gradual disappearing where people can't hear you talking anymore nor even notice you walking down the street -- the fear of disappearing and not meaning anything at all is the last form of narcissism packaged in self-deprecation - nonetheless, we do go through phase-state changes which include these unremarkable gray-wastelands which leaves us feeling better-off dead

the rest is silence

2010-01-07T22:35:00.000-08:00

in good faith is celebrating gravity
and depends on the thief;
which is not really a valid point of reference
for a disembodied voice: the answer,
i feel, is taken away

the thief is in the fields to the right;
the fast car, the suicide thing,
the ferryman and the coins,
the woman at the station, waiting

since I'm not having anything to do with it,
I just hope you're sorry now

merCurious illuMentations

2010-01-07T13:13:00.000-08:00

the rest is silence ... such is the conceit of 'knowing' which is inclined to 'want to know more'; bent toward the gravity of 'I think therefore I am' which is the raison d'etre behind all pseudonyms ... wisdom based on 'knowing' has a fatal flaw, reason, which is wounded by the point of view you're in, the 'I,' where the fatal-skin begins -- however, the heart does not differentiate between man-woeman or race or any of our sense-based tools of distinction -- rather it's that 'glow of awareness' which is the key to the realEYEsed seeing of this blissful reality changing, ever rearranging -- a heart jammed into the vibration can see on the sharp-edge of a glance and into the hearts of man-woeman-beast without judgment or opinion while discriminating-wisdom is following the heart but using the head known as licking-honey from the razors edge -- the 'I know' mantrum is another form of temper-tantrum and a ritual of Western Hubris, the kiss of the Narcissist that looks at each other with darWINian percepts, that lasso of who's who on the hierarchical tree of 'I me mine' memory -- mmm, nonetheless, the fractal-flaw in us all is the revolutionary-mutation, the viva la difference dance where we all look into the mirror of each other and see sister and brother and if by chance the mirror reflects in a myriad of ways, the beloved one, then you've begun to see that the rest is silence and shall want no more, as such, said in another way, freedom from freedom is truly free, that is, the weight of the world is really its only door ...

Atlas mused - the yoke we bear in time is space, the domain in which we view, all that's done comes back again, because we chose it to -- when we look even deeper then, again we look some more, what we thought the weight of the world, is really its only door ...

saturn unfettered

2009-12-31T02:12:00.000-08:00

the hoofly God with long tales,
removed his horns
in the deep of night
where darkness moaned
a crack in despair,
there, where the light can now appear

he comes off
as chaotic, familiar
which is the way of
casting out a neural-net
of gleaning.meaning with
vortex prayers 'n fractal wishes
on the edge of an ancient-ache
in time 'n space matters

his path-depends
on that old Promethean fire;
coals of embers glow,
they gleam again inside the eye,
then sparks do fly, away, away, they go ...

the music of ice-bergs

2009-12-26T16:49:00.000-08:00

ellipses tremble
trace in waters
a deeper kiss than this
though deeper still
revelling in waves
sunken, slips
heavy under
starry-starry lights

i feel tall
those empty hollow places
that leave me under your skin
all deeper to the sound of standing-still
deep ocher core

mostly take the terror out of your eyes

2009-12-24T13:32:00.000-08:00

it's in-between the breath,
that silent-turn,
from deep inside,
rolling a-round
with the sound,
until it forms an awe

or wonder, too
that your tongue
inflects a tipping-out,
passing by lips still wet with kiss,
where trembling-air begins
to vortex 'n curl like waves upon a beach,
push'd in inner-ear as ocean sound,
re-sound again as bliss -

and further into this, your whirl'd
of curl'd synaptic-brain,
where lightning sings,
into a flashing of your eyes,
as if an eye could gleam,
between you and your simple dream,
of crystal clear blue-skies...

indivi:Duality

2009-12-21T15:42:00.000-08:00

American Express: the baby-boomers at the height of their artifice-driven narcissistic wet-dreams Newg'd out the "I am I cried" package in petty bo's 'n ribbons -- when you opened the package meant for one and all it was meaningless 'n droll -- we're all in it together they said, individually unique in bed, and while they sang, come all ye' faithful to the average man, they wanted you to have a credit-card in hand -- Express your individual right to buy anything in sight, you know it's true, you're the light you bring to the eye with the gift that keeps on taking, promulgating the lie ...

Atlas pondered

2009-12-17T15:27:00.000-08:00

- the yoke we bear in time is space, the domain in which we view, all that's done comes back again, because we chose it to -- when we look even deeper then, again we look some more, what we thought the weight of the world is really its only door ...

sometimes the boiler aches

2009-12-12T20:46:00.000-08:00

in the language of a cumulative push -
steam-roars, boom, boom, boom
in the belly of the beast, crimson-teeth
rip-fire into-iron-flesh

b u b b l e s roll,
under-understood,
thunder-in down the pipe,
bellowing with hiss ...

stok'd into a viscous-rumble
s:trains-a-move-down-the-line
engine-urges-whine
up-the-track, clakity-clak
clakity-clak
in feet-of-head a head
of steam m o a n s,
presses tempest into iron-plated
bolts the size of your fist,
squeals out rigid seams as fiery mist:

truth escapes, trailing white plumes,
stack to sky, stack-to-sky,
to fall as condensate rain;
hard going tears, way down in the hole,
groaning-oh
'til the fire comes again

I used to be a Boiler Man

2009-12-02T17:29:00.000-08:00

super heated steam re-boilered in the extreme shooting plasmic condensates at extremely high rates - the roiling fires flame impinges on the steel belly of the beast, migrating as radiant heat, slides into water as bubbles rising in a crescendo, accumulating in a rumble, thundering down the pipe, bellowing with hiss

I'm a Fourth Class Steam Engineer also known as a Stationary engineer here-abouts and this is how I got my start in 'Puters as they became our monitoring equipment in the early eighties although the gauges measuring pressure and temperature were and still are relied upon -- I once had a fire-box explosion which blew out the stack access and rumbled the building to the top 12th floor - a leaky seal and oil accumulated in the fire-box -- I saw everything in slow motion - the brik-a-brak blowing from the stack, the boiler jumping on the spot, my life I had forgot...

in the language of steam condensates - head of steam indicated how much pressure you could raise and feet of head meant you could raise more BTU's like a tempest in a boiler plated with bolts the size of your fist, squealed out the seams as a fiery mist: the works were many from mines to sub-basements in commercial buildings - I once managed Government Buildings in Winnipeg with centralized steam boilers spewing white condensate into the frigid clear skies

I'd say my worst nightmare job as a boiler man was in an abattoir where dead farm animals, some alive, would be screwed up to a thrasher and steam pummeled for a long time -- the oils called tallow were sent out east to become the base of perfumes in a storage car -- while the 'meal' left over was made into dog and cat foods -- I smelled of death in those days

on journaling:

2009-12-02T16:31:00.000-08:00

next time you look at those twinkles in the night sky and sigh there'll be a glimmer in your eye ...

if you don't know where you've been, you'll not see where you are and can't get to where you ought to be - the transmigration of writers is with ink - then there are curious circles that fill our days and when we write them out and really look and see, a turn of phrase that changes us conceptually, as the circle becomes spiral, a vortex to the sky, where the Stars of hope wink 'n blink, and beckon us to fly

star talk shadow walk

2009-12-02T16:07:00.000-08:00

what if light is the language of Star and Star is the language of night and night is the feeling of ineffable space where the infinite writes insight, with plasma roiling from its transmuting pen into particles 'n photons that zeal; that seems to me to be so very real ... then our shadow we see, slow diving on the ground, is a reminder of the night we carry, everyday around

timeless

2009-11-27T17:38:00.001-08:00

in our measure of time there are curious circles filling our days,
numbered moments marked by the scars of transiting lights,
heavens moguls of tribulation 'n plight, that give or take away –

though I spend my time, circling the horizon of my mind,
seeing her in time 'n space as a congruence of my need,
the sifting of my sieve, she is on the face of it, a timeless piece,
a swinging pendulum of rhythms sway,
a clock that circumscribes my day,
and in every night as I watch her lay,
time stops and takes my breath away

days of shadow and sea

2009-11-26T18:21:00.000-08:00

it's easy to remember
you in these pictures;
light's language of shadow
sculpting time
and
you are there
like a shell pounding out the sea,
laying back on the beach,
head sideways, your eyes closed,
knees buckled in the air
open to the Sun's
fingers of light reaching,
glistening there

I've not been the Sun
in your darkened places
since
the day you offered yourself
to the sky,
the day
I succumbed to the seas
endless waves
washing over me

everything is gradual

2009-11-21T19:18:00.001-08:00

everything is eventual then it's happening --
we're moving in circles at a steady pace

the city got new search-lights pointing at the sky
looking for a miracle in the clouds hanging there
worried about the things they've got to do,
like the war on terror, H1N1, your money and it's true
everyone wishes the rain would break
the high tide, the flooding for god's sake

what are we going to do?

with a predilection for an immediate look
from any third eye cave -
i am in that tunnel
i am the rave...
rolling down the main streets
rolling down past the ignored miracle you are
rolling down where you can buy everything
from a gun to a slave
what are you supposed to do at the dead-end
of our collective mind

round and round
neutral flowing and changing every lil' bit
suspended precariously like a platter on a hardrive
a hard hard drive

aspiring

2009-11-03T16:08:00.001-08:00

I hide my flame amongst the embers, slowly burning there
a little light remains as assssh, fuming gasssseoussss screams
a waft of smoke ascends from where, my little light does flare
to lurch in shadows on the wall and burst to sparks that sigh;

my lowly ember flickering flame may be all my fire seems
to dance with stars in the night, is what my fire dreams ...

happiness is highly over-rated

2009-11-02T00:12:00.001-08:00

happiness is highly over-rated; however, laughter is the best of all medicines when one has come to the 'dust 'n ashes' stage of growth in consciousness -- nevertheless, the dog chases his tail and we all laugh at such foolishness, yet the dog is happy by his reckoning -- so, I say what is this 'happiness tale' you've been running in circles about? -- the muse of glee is fickle -- yet, watch an 11 year old engage in the minutiae of life's wonders, learning is a passion ... learn something new, turn off the tube, watch Autumn leaves fall ... and laugh every morning at the visage in the mirror, Dear -- you're all you've got but don't take anything seriously, especially your-self ...

Autumn sunlight

2009-11-02T00:01:00.001-08:00

cool crystallized
fractal hoar frost
clinging to leaves 'n grass --
askew autumn sunlight
reflects 'n refracts,
evaporates to mist,
like a lovers goodbye kiss

the very-tease of merCurious illuMentations or a further farther found near-bye

2009-11-01T23:57:00.001-08:00

grateful for the verities of Poetic experience
and Poetry often shows this lyrically without
the lucubration of pedantry or
the fundamentalism of bigotry.

sHe sings in the ecstasy of realization
so lightly in these darkened days,
lifting our eyes to the nobler quest in feeling waves ...
or better yet, sHe plays with language and creates anew,
mangling with absurdity, the light, from the words
as a Poet ought to do?

-- words imbued with silence only the heart can hear,
the potential of the pause, the swelling of empty space,
in that stillness her longing heart whispers with verity,
the Logos is thus Theos, and so my dear,
you meet-her in words far 'n near--

Yet if the telling is the lure and words are as powers
to sway and preach, then they neither fly nor teach!

sHe lures us to look and look and dare see
with eyes open to an inner reality --

sHe dives deep into the infinite-in
where a visceral piety is the pearl
made in the murmuring mud, rolling around in the sound,
a whirl'd of delight,
showing again as a gleam in her eye to be
reflected in the thousand mirrors of your mind --
where there are many more glimmering pearls
for you to find

... a definition of pious is dutifully -- however that is too rigorous as this quality arises from equanimity as being plain and simple to be in tune with nature; which follows as the equipoise in the eternal-now where one is neither attracted nor repelled by any such thing or is neither compelled by the past nor future beckoned, but simply elegantly without remonstration, sings from the heart as sweet as sHe is want to do

sighNs

2009-11-01T23:54:00.001-08:00

stars that once lit up the darkness of space
fell as burnt cinders to a sleepless city;
your eyes glitter'd with their lost reflections,
forever Moonless, thoughtful, manic.

I wander into
a well lit cafe
to drink thick blackness in a cup
brooding over your absence this night...

dead-girl

2009-11-01T23:52:00.001-08:00

she shines in the melancholia of living like the dead in the warm glow of television, so I caress her in a non-judgmental embrace, bending rigid fear into heart hugging arms

Spiral Wizards

2009-11-01T23:51:00.001-08:00

manic artists Nero'd their times
sculpted bigger things than human need;
from hot blood flames Divine madness

a man who dreams of being a God
is either condemned to death or
draws blood-lines in the sand

transcend and include ...

it's not enough to rise to the task
there is no shame, no war, no Empire
when its the duty of each citizen
to kill the Emperor

long live the Emperor who casts no shadow
no shadow is too long when the Sun shines highest

my noir apotheosis

2009-11-01T23:47:00.001-08:00

my banal original
left ordinary impressions
on the surface of your eyes; stanzas you couldn't
get out of your mind playing carpe diem

you'd stalk memories romantically
while holding fast to recognized patterns;
you'd say anything with a cigarette
hanging from your lip: tempus fugit

those wisps accent your spent look;
something frozen, dead winter,
caught by the Sun, melted, a haze of steam
rising nostalgically with redolent regret

spilling over to rise again

2009-09-21T14:40:00.001-07:00

spilling over, falling back:
land-lost, sea-sick,

though I reach as tender tendrils to the shores,
to lay amongst the rock-gathered mussels,
anemones swelled with bile;

I roll spilling mercy into sands
quivering my sea to falling day,
shivering my waters at the edges;

my foam encrusted lips whimper sounds
of pearls ratt'ling last memories
of green algae and sea-kelp reaching;

to the imperious sky I wave the deepest
of darkest blue

where the red horizon drips
as blood from another days crown
to rise again as little pearls of dew...

emotion in the write way

2009-09-07T12:26:00.000-07:00

some don't get the emotions, see them as cliche', while the root of the problem is the heart I must say -- where we begin in our Mother's water place, the beat of her life, made ours by grace -- the pedagogues 'n pip-squeaks don't get the emotion that leaks from the pen, as longing, as aching, as yearning in unbearable swells, again 'n again -- they've never birthed in bursting strife, their suffering 'n joy of life

we are the foam on the sea of reality, where the roiling of Natures longing takes us to the next wave of creation. We are a mutation and a momentary play on this thin organic film of symbiotic life on our inextricably intimately evolving Planet. We are this Planets thoughts and meaning. This Planet longs in swelling waves toward the Stars. From Stars we come to Stars we shall return. Look up! Dream Up! Love up! Burn!

writes of passage in the passion-fomenting each stroke of our pen, boils the words we've writ then ...

... cunning-less is the base of it: your juiced with over-flowed inspirations blissinging up yur' 'lectrikly sapient spine, making you feel an infinite-in, outwardly sublime

little-rat-eyes

2009-09-07T00:37:00.001-07:00

'little-rat-eyes' squint so much that all they see is cliche' -- they've castigated 'n shit on the Poets here with never any wit to the crit that'd help them be clear -- so much odiousness in the reply, why? they sound like an over-educated baboon that cannot cry -- all poetry, good or bad, comes of genuine feeling -- so reviews should not be personal diatribes but plainly simple dialogues of what works or does not work in the context of the writing -- where Poetry is about healing the wounds that reason makes many odious 'I am writer' folks are making wounds on Poetry with their reasons -- doubt is their religion and bullying their secular sacrament -- often intelligence is mistaken for hierarchical desire monkey opinion, 'cause I'm smarter, better, more insightful and my writing is top form kinda thing -- darWINian at best -- from street gangs to bed rooms and forums the Alpha-fucker puts you down so sHe can be one up -- eGo for it is the why -- the arrogance of ignorance is the conceit that hides behind the averted fear that I'm not good enough to be here, so they regale you, that you won't be too, if they have anything to do, with it -- so they'll take a shit all over what you writ and you better like it 'cause they're the writeous crit -- laughing with other little-rat-eyes without wit

'little-rat-eyes' = literati and 'ill-little-rat-eyes' = illiterate -- it's funny how ignorance can show up in an Academic and failed high-school red-neck alike -- I suppose that arrogance is hubris and without distinction

the little-rat-eyes are speed-readers always looking for ways to fill the gap between their lips with knowledgeable sooth-sayings 'cause they've moved the word meaningfully without the sounds in their head -- Poets have gaps in their head where they merCuriously spill their words smoothly with surround-sound lips that never get stuck on having to know anything at all -- they inwordly lip-reciprocate in an astonished why-lessness that (disturbs meaning) de-means everything into a sudden swoon that turns the whirl'd 'round -- the poet is one who brings a fresh focus to the everyday, fresh eyes to the mundane, with music in the ecstasy of broke-back words in how they fly away off the page in particles 'n waves, with lip-synchronicity and all the meta-sensory expansions 'n contractions to constantly risk absurdity

the ill-little-rat-eyes cannot see beyond what's in-it for them and can they get laid -- otherwise it's the alliteration of the illiterate and we all know where the ill-little-rats go when they don't know, pressing the button on their glowering expectations and can't crit 'cause they don't have the wit for it, so they shoot it down with the number crunch, a petty solution, the knockout punch

with reading a write I imagine cunning-less at the base of it, being wet with over-flowed inspirations blissinging up yur' 'lectrikly sapient spine making you feel an infinite-in, outwardly sublime -- neither little-rats nor ill-little-rats can see, beyond their myopic certainty

Poetry is

2009-09-07T00:14:00.000-07:00

Poetry is there where we are not so sure, there where the edges blur, there where we leak into each other, between the cracks in the words that we say, there where the light leaks out in a wondrous way ...

viscereality -- Ezra Pound extrapolated that, "Rhythm is form cut into TIME, as a design is determined by SPACE." or the temporal, therefore rhythmic, distribution of the elements of language -- the texture of expectations, satisfactions, disappointments, surprisals, which the sequence of syllables brings about -- the physiological link of rhythm to heart and lungs brings the reader into the Poem with that viscereality --

visceReality in the poem -- vortex prayers 'n fractal wishes, on the edge of an ancient-ache in time 'n space matters -- I've always loved the flowing stream through rock 'n root making many whirl'ds -- those vortices apparently whirl down to the atomic level thus stream-cleaning water of biological hazards -- sometimes I write from the rhythm not knowing the words but using a sort of shorthand where phrasings are place-holders of syllables -- as pointed out this often ends up illiterythmically inspired -- nevertheless, motion is what creates something from nothing; as Einstein mused when considering the beginning of the Multiverse, " something moved " -- as such words become 'dynamos' of rhythmic punctuation when musically driven by inspiration -- this is why the 'thought' is conjectured to be a sympathetic motion in the brain from sensing Nature all over again -- the Poet who writes from that serendiptous-connection having mastered the word-image-rhythms can therefore incite the emotives/feelings/thoughts in the reader where a synergy of the relationship of observer/observed becomes tesselated interactively -- I throw a rock in the stream and watch the ripples fill the unbounded cavity of your brain, where these ripples ripple all over again -- so, she writes her insights with a lyrical pen that babbles like a brook of words that meander down the page while unfettered glistening fish jump from line to line seeking the source of their urgent drive home -- thus does poetry roam

why we evolve eh

2009-09-05T01:17:00.000-07:00

"What happens when a new work of art is created is something that happens simultaneously to all the works of art which preceded it." T.S. Eliot

so there it is -- when we work our art on our very selves to move beyond the clinging embrace of mere gravity, the dubious dirge of making ends meet, we evolve not only ourselves but we reach from the same urge of everyone who has dared to evolve before us -- and by that very reaching bring all further than they ever hoped or dreamt

all things are connected

2009-09-03T14:18:00.001-07:00

-- is it copying when inspired by another in a jazz riff that is the same but diff-a-rant? -- path-dependence is the name of the game, what is new, from old it came -- nevertheless, it's the fire in our hearts that sparks creativity ya'know and when those words in embers glow they'll gleam inside the readers eye, inspiring them, as sparks do fly -- you really wanna' know, that's how writers pens do flow

Democracy as evolutionary intent:

2009-09-01T22:31:00.000-07:00

I'll believe in Democracy when the average IQ is above the status-quo and the average joe is not such a selfish schmo and the average jane isn't shopping for bling; when the hearts of men care again, I'll be a Social-Democrat then

beauty as urge to merge

2009-08-27T11:32:00.001-07:00

where-ever I see beauty, I just wanna' be fuk'd by it -- like the humming-bird and the flower where the unfurling coil that is the hummingbirds tongue reaches in for that sweet spot, slipping and sliding 'round and 'round getting deep-inside that pretty one merging with it's Beauty -- how would you see it from the inside-out perspective -- what images, impressions, feelings does being-beautiful, being-fuk'd by beauty do for you -- such is beauties beautiful relativity process like being fuk'd by words, by poetry that turns our musical-brain full-on bursting into a thousand well-writ phrasings, making a mess of matters in such a beautiful way that words can have their night 'n day -- the urge to merge is an ongoing content that is alive and there if you're aware

Ramadan man:

2009-08-26T21:40:00.000-07:00

~ out of the desert at dusk he will come, intemperate, seeing you first with his eyes, burning like coals in his longing for your sumptuous fruits, then his mouth will swallow your blushing lips, he will drink deep from your sweet mouth while hands as strong as steel bind you close to him -- in that ravishing you will feel the Laylat al-Qadr in your breasts bearing passions fruit in your mind and your hearts will be one...

Confidence Management 101:

2009-08-26T14:53:00.001-07:00

expressing emotions with conviction, without trying to please others often causes the monkey-mind in others to respond with aggression first or deference -- nonetheless, when the mind plays on the slippery slope of words=emotions=take it personally or words=I'm special and you better be able to see it - we get misconstrued communications with pain-body ramifications and deceitful variations -- as such a common past-time is to treat all wounded-reasons as uninvited guests and find that what you thought was a hornets-nest is but a passing of gases dissipating rapidly

to breathe life into...inSpiration

2009-08-25T20:53:00.000-07:00

we breath life into language which we construe with semantics and syntactical alliances until it needs to be said or is a lovely song but mostly flung out there into a crowded starry sky to fly or fall, that's all -- I learn a lot from my still-born writes as much, if not more, than those that never get a stare -- it all gets recycled in the cauldron of my heart, boiling with fires too hot for knowledge or understanding, spewing forth with plasma graces where they flow to my pen again and again as leaden storms or golden winds

inspiration is the gift of stars flowing with light from eyes glittering with delight or waves of sweet wise words floating off the tongue of an old and smiling one -- nice poement -- inspire - To breathe life into

we invent language, but I've used the archaic expression with [Middle English enspiren, from Old French enspirer, from Latin nsprre : in-, into; see in-2 + sprre, to breathe.] -- which aids in the allusion of language forms 'n rituals being dead, without life until we breath that life into them -- kinda like in Jewish folklore, a golem (גולם; English pronunciation: /ˈgoʊləm/, goh ləm) is an animated being created entirely from inanimate matter and then 'life' is breathed into it -- of course they can become servants or monsters

I get the feeling you're really like Le Petit Prince, by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry in that your allusions are that we are all bubbles of brilliant shimmering hues bouncing and bullying each other around looking for ways to merge with each other, leaking through our surface tension, wiggling or waiting for that 'special' one to burst us free to really be me -- i'm real only then when you are and life is real only then when I am bursting at the seams of what I thought really me means --

the 'song' was originally a come-along of similar sounds with reverberation, a frequency-ride in scales that shaped the land-scape you were assimilating, the urge to merge with a naked-dance prance -- a sort of serendipity cum verity where your body-heart-mind instrument sympathetically resonated with the here-we-go, doncha'know -- as you are aware, I'm not a fan of thinking and find it highly over-rated, nonetheless, when thought follows in resonance with the heart and the body dances to that earth-bound beat reaching for the sky, that's when my words become imbued with inspiration, a sweet-release, a sigh

I don't flaunt that I'm a flautist and like to jazz 'n rhythm with that music stick in either sonorous tones of a Tai Hei Shakuhach or the rigorous tonality of a Sonare Solid Silver Flute (Split E) with it's inherent mystery -- from the Music of the Spheres to the sounds that sooth our fears in the relative dance to the frequencies of scale : Planet to Planet, Star to Star, Galaxies and Dark matter revolving in the slipperiness of deep 'n dark space keeping pace to their own law of falling into each other in time and space matter -- I'd imagine dear Wittgenstein with a black hole in his head bending the light with his insight -- Godal, Escher 'n Bach played with the infinite-in where all thats left of the Cheshire cat is the grin -- canons and fugues with Shepard scales, the white whale of Information Theory, the Eternal Golden braid in Quantum tessellations made -- it's Higgy dust where from nothing to everything you see, a Quantum fluctuation made music and you 'n me

I agree -- as stated in rigorous English, I'm not fastidious on syntactical forms 'n rituals nor am I averse to the idiom of the medium is the message -- as an idiot staring at forever I've found concept bubbles burst on the meandering stream of consciousness toward the Sea of eternity, where I, you and me no longer dis-agree nor are bound by the laws of 'be' but ride the waves of entropy -- the medium of longing swells in an ancient-ache, as if the stillness of the infinite sea that is our sky quivered in a hundred-million lights, falling as stars, the searing tears of night

i'm laughing in spasms here -- yep! it's the 'terror of the situation' bound in words that slap and scold that what is new always comes from something that is old -- here you've scraped the surface with your wit, like some grave-robber digging into it, to boldy go where we'll all end up, as worm-food making them, too, fed-up
for me, words as sound and vehicle of what we need to say, come as streams of rhythms bound naturally by the tempo of the time and how would you say, what is going 'round in Zeitgesitian rhyme -- nevertheless, as night is bound to day, where language ends, poetry will have it's say -- whether it's dialectically determined daydreams speaking in defence or a bird-song rivalling for the highest branch in the tree - the writer writes, in idioms of laughter and tears, words that grate or are in harmonies -- either way, what is real and what is not, is an invention we corral in the words that we've got; why not?

I get what you're aiming for and spewing word-vomit on the floor from drinking it all in 'till you wanna' burst that write is wrong when you've got it all rehearsed -- to analyze and sift through all that we are which makes us say the things we say, like Physicists mapping layers of a Star as it bursts into a fiery rage or the pundit and his polemic to the Political slave -- to reiterate my wan declination, I'm not a fan of knowings demarcation, but I understand this non-trivial need in this forum of Poetics, however, understand that I'm not into rhetoric nor a theoretician but rather lean to the nature of the beast in us and it's mystery of the numinous -- reason is wounded in that it cannot embrace consciousness, that there is something more and bigger than we can garner by taking it all apart, that Science like Art is not the map but the territory where your feet are write now, where to show is the goal and not to tell -- Art is greater than the sum of its parts but getting what you're going for takes analytical skill, the heart of it, if you will

i read often and often when I'm not, I read visually all sorts of movies from the 'B' horror raves to the artsy Sundance festival faves -- lately I've been entwined in IT Server migrations and DNS woes which is what I've been doing all day today -- however, the collected Patchen poems you steered me towards gave me inspiration then to William Carlos William and that old lover Walt Whitman -- these American Mystics who fired-up with wit, inspiring is the very foundation of it -- I've read other Poets but lean to these guys, loving their oddity, finding it wise

well that's an interesting turn of phrase in what you say, do I read for fun in any way -- well, yes it's fun to read 'n write, in fact it's outta' site -- as you read me write before, joy is the foundation of wonder and wonder is the basis of the dream that all that we are and all that we seem is as the bloom is to flower, as scent is to what we feel, and the feeling is fun when it's then so visceREAL -- I study too and then I dream, look out over the Burrard Bay into a city that shines like jewels in the night -- I read some and I write some, mostly for fun, while watching the Sun glitter on the Sea or the tessellating Moon beams that set my heart free, yes, that's fun for me

the TXTing scene is a dangerous-one, it would seem

2009-08-25T20:48:00.000-07:00

the drama in kids is another way to say that they're stressing and straining to acquire their own moves on this earth, for which these elders gave them birth -- it's hard to see through fixed-emotional monsters that roam like ghosts of dinosaurs past, these people propelled by their greed, that what our children are is part monster and part mutating-thing on the verge of the urge to merge they're DNA'd with -- eventually we all begin to see, or not, that what we are is not what we've got, but is more numinous than this, like kissing the beloved with the same kiss -- our children ought to see farther as they stand on the shoulders of giants before them and it's up to them to jump into the Sea of reality -- my children are a synthesis of me and their Mom yet much much more that that sum and aren't so dumb as to TXT 'n run

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DGE8LzRaySk

On Rating Poetry:

2009-08-25T20:45:00.001-07:00

degeneRATING has as it's inherent conceit the sliding scale in which we mete-out while crossing the line that poetry is fractal like each other, shall we deMean with a number-game our sister and brother?

falling stars

2009-08-25T20:43:00.000-07:00

-- in the medium of longing swells, an ancient-ache cried out, as if the stillness of the infinite sea that is our sky quivered in a hundred-million lights, falling as stars, the searing tears of night -- so did the night beget the light

infinite nights

2009-08-22T12:23:00.002-07:00

In infinite darkness

an ancient ache cried out in a million quivering lights

as if the night wept in stars --

that's the slippery slope of duality ~

2009-08-19T16:13:00.001-07:00

in the congress of Love
only Loving is the Truth
and that's the Beauty of beholding
with a realEYEsed look that dares to see
that Truth like Beauty is relativity --

this is my body, this is my blood,
come unto me as children would
with eyes the heart has seared with fire,
overflowed as insanity on the sharp edge of desire
where the fool and saint are one and the same
as players in the play of this duality game --

promulgate your Truth as if a wave on the Sea
where waves all gather but disagree
yet often move from deepest blue
as if they were both me 'n you;
dive deep for the pearls and come up smiling with their gleam in your eyes then write a Poem while watching each drip of your pen bloom into a thousand flowers, again 'n again

the metaphor for surrendering deeply
body 'n soul, like Osiris 'n Isis or
Dionysus the horned hoofly God
with his flesh ravaged
and eaten by his drunken virgin savages --

drink deep his gift of blood, eat the flesh
of the King for the Love of Spring,
to rise again with Sol, in light for us all

ahhh, yes - such are these terms of endearment
made merry with sounds that alliterate 'n show
the tender moments Lovers know

2009-08-04T23:19:00.001-07:00

galaxies 'n quarks inside our remarks, resolved by sense, leave us no greater than a flower or a tree, unfettered, yet burdened by eternity

2009-08-04T18:56:00.001-07:00

11 paradigmensionsional string theory proclaims this universe is like a loaf of bread where the slices touch each other is where black holes 'n wormholes tunnel to another possible version of me 'n you

2009-08-04T18:43:00.001-07:00

ping...

2009-08-04T18:22:00.001-07:00

testing myPing.fm for posting to my social networks simutaneously