WordPerfect 8 Linux
BEGINNING NEW AND FRESH
Beginning new and fresh, a child who
just born is dedicated to a life,
to light and love, to needing so much love.
Beginning now I need, with all reversed,
to love and radiate the brightest light,
to ever extend the possible, to implode
all that I've been. When so huge, too huge I
was born and spread my body out to space.
Now, it's space I make, negating lies,
negating hate, anything that harms.
Fully willing to look at the ego's ground,
that smooth serenity, requires only
a willingness to breathe attentively.
I breathe in, out, remembering, but then
forget tomorrow is mine as much.
Winter exhales a green, and stars explode
nonchalantly, colored extravagantly.
And objects, like the ego, fall, splattering
the ground, loosening light, fully willing.
The forest now is scented with the soil
cracked open by the swelling, stretching roots
and gophers tunneling and worms meandering.
The forest now is scented with a soil
that's wet and warm and dark and soft and sweet,
sweetened by last autumns fruits and grasses.
This grass, this fresh spring grass tastes sweetest to
the dogs. I watch them carefully sniff to find
the sweetest, eat and gaze completely content;
I also taste and am completely content.
This spring is not like others yet fulfills
an expectation of what spring should be.
I am not like I was, fulfilled by spring;
I do not expect this spring to be like others,
and this lack of expectation completely
freshens, unlike any spring before.
I am older, but always new, my mind's
opened by the brightening and warming, by
the swelling and stretching of visionary sense.
Not to be confined or freed by growth.
Not to be a person any more
than the budding trees, uncurling ferns or bright-
ening moss or blooming crocus are a person.
Not to feel embarrassment for swellings,
not to feel embarrassment when growing
thick with flowers as dandelions grow thick,
but to feel pride and say, look at this body,
to feel every aching, straining sense,
to feel the spring, and to expect anything.
To doubt and thaw the earth, and then to dream
a flower fierce with color, to dream
that meaning multiplies in every moment,
to dream that light and warmth endures forever.
Once I pretended I could not believe
the scent of soil turned up for spring planting
beneath soft sky. All winter I had prayed
to sky, prayed for release from frozen fears.
Then I pretended sky had entered in,
and from within had opened up my skin,
the wall, translucent wall, that kept me tight
and hard. I cried, pained like a flower plucked,
a forest sheared, but hoped, because I felt
that diamonds had promised me protection.
I felt full hardness, as if seeing brightness
that blinds or hearing screams that deafen; yet
I was not crushed, I was protected, kissed
by every sensual experience.
I faced my fears, from love I faced my doubts;
I faced and I believed that anything,
that even any suffering disease
could be faced without pretense. Living with
what is not with regret or hope, but with
what is so and unimaginably hard.
Beginning somewhere uncertain, I stare
through falling flakes of snow. I blow
a word or two with every breath,
but interrupting is a thought of doubt,
a skeptical long look that questions.
But snow, each flake unique and innocent,
silences the lonely laugh. I laugh
with all the flakes each one hilarious.
Spontaneously straightened, the spine joined all heaven
with earth, joined all blazing light with dull dirt.
And grass began to sprout.
Spontaneously, one point
jumped and changed velocity and place
too quickly to catch, to wildly, as wildly as
a sky of rainbows swirling everywhere
we look, in memory or expectation.
Spontaneously, I was colored and you were colored
with waves of infrared and ultraviolet,
of soft seductive green. The grass has grown.
Spontaneously, warmth radiated and melted;
and boundaries in space dissolved in space.
Spontaneously, winter changed to spring.
I couldn't see the moment when it happened,
but the dogs were happy eating grass.
TODAY, IT IS THE EQUINOX
Today, it is the equinox of spring,
and warm. Within the filtered shade of trees
still black and barren, snow has almost melted
completely, and the soggy leafy path
sticks to my boots. Because the sunlight warms
my body, stripped down to the waist, and warms
the body of the many birds returned,
we sing full throated. All Wisconsin hears.
SOFT, WET SNOW FELL
Soft, wet snow fell. The branches hung heavy.
And yesterday there'd been no snow, so seemed
that yesterday the spring had almost come.
As snow rests on the ground, the thoughts rest on
the ground, internal ground. All thoughts are dreamed
freely, are unconstrained. The snow exposed
to sunlight melts. Buds on the branches spring
for sunlight. Heat has fallen, heat bursts outward.
A SHEET OF WATER, MELTED SNOW
A sheet of water, melted snow outside
the door, seen through the window, opens up
another world, parallel to this
looking in. We stand frozen staring. When
we step in, first our feet begin to melt.
Soon there's nothing to recognize; then
we're recognized by everyone. Even
the wild squirrels come down from trees for us,
and ducks waddle across the lawn, hoping for bread.
THICK, THE SKIN OF HEAVEN'S GOD
Thick, the skin of heaven's god,
thick clouds today. No wind, and summer
thickest also, the leaves deep green
their August fullness of color.
And I wait down on earth beneath, wait
for profound experience:
a rich full blossomed summery field
of life. It is about time. Bloom.
THE WAY OF FORESTS
Awakening, I listen to a crow.
He squawks about a squirrel cracking walnuts
and the spiders webbing on his branch.
Listening, I awake to sounds echo
between the leaves; they vibrate down the spine
and up, tingling leaves and ruffling feathers.
If I stay so still, the cities quake.
THE GRANITE MOUNTAIN
Over the granite mountain boulders flow
orange and red lichen; and splashes in
the rapids seem frozen, ever the same;
and the pine trees slip snow from heavy boughs
that play with slow low flying clouds. When clouds
open to warm blue light, the rapids sparkle,
so too the melting snow. The campfire burns
resiney pine, and chinese tea made from
aerated rapids tastes sweet and made in
mountain breezes tastes pungently clear. The breeze
blows scented with pine, columbine, lupin, elk shit,
moose shit, sheep shit, our bodies long unwashed,
or quickly washed in glacial water. The breeze
inhales deeply, then exhales slowly
with wondrous indications: "Look at the light
playing on that jagged cliff and on that peak.
No film captures such subtle majesty."
Also no word captures the majesty
of our appreciation. Our senses
are open wide (yet how much wider when
we climb that peak). Our mind are opened wide
because all memories of city life,
industrial clanking easily slides though.
We are not here as visitors, we are here.
We are the here! Together with the lichen,
we move, our wildness ever the same.
CRISP MOUNTAIN AIR
Crisp mountain air makes meditations crisp.
But this crisp air has blown a thousand miles
here to Wisconsin, down from Arctic glaciers.
The mind, it rises up beyond the grasp.
THE TREES SHAKE WILDLY
The trees shake wildly, southern winds
breathe fiercely. The leaves of May, so young and soft,
breathe fiercely, gulping, humidifying the breeze.
My life joins you, in the wind, in your breath.
My life no longer mine, set free to breathe.
The trees shake wildly, I shake in my roots.
My skin toughens, creases, braced hard against
what tears me loose. Already flowers fly
and cling to mud. I feel older, worn;
I feel wise, experienced, elastic,
and ply the fierceness of the breathing mountains,
oceans, jungles, animals, humans.
My own breath in this hallow has returned.
Everything in this hallow returns to itself.
Waiting, beside the flower garden
we sniffed a hundred roses, while a breeze
from the lake chilled. An afternoon inside
the shelter of an open windowed car
was intimately warm. There was no where
to go, and we weren't in any hurry.
I'd wanted to say the word "infinity"
but was afraid. The world at that moment
serenely moved on to the next moment.
But I refused to spiral down into
my heart of hearts, or open like a rose.
I WATCHED THE RAIN
I watched the rain drizzling slowly on
the river, I saw each drip. But on
the snow, I didn't notice dripping till
I finally saw the dry, brown skeletons
of autumn's blooming asters. Remember when
their purple petals penetrated within
the deep green shade. That was the time when, on
the mown lawn, you were laying, looking in,
and saw the purple of the aster in
the god with hot, perspiring, sparkling skin.
Blown yellow leaves fall, rippling red shadows.
By the shore green moss on rocks catches these waves.
And ducks pull weeds. Once frost-bit, flies bite gently.
Loudly blowing through branches, northern breath
shakes bones. My body ripens, sweet fruit
for many creatures. Acorns press my foot,
oak leaves crackle and cushion. A marching band
blasts silence, but a calm water fills my head.
WHEN THE WIND PICKS UP
When the wind picks up, waves pick up; and hills
grow shorter, losing leaves. Soon, being ice,
the waves will stay, unmoving; and soon hills
will shine a bright white in the winter sky.
SNOW PILED ON THE ROCKS
Snow piled on the rocks; and from the edge
of rock, ice creeps into Yahara river.
Snow piled in the crook of branches must
confuse the birds which already started nesting.
Snow piled on top of crocuses in bloom,
white covering over yellow and lavender.
Snow piled over roads, pressed under by
heavy cars, trucks and feet that kick their way.
Snow piled, just snow. I don't have to make
it a metaphor for something foreign
to itself. The sunlit spring fields reign
over imagined whiteness with plain snow.
I walked through a savannah of oak trees
twisted, old, and now wisely teaching what
the color of deep reddish brown would teach.
The self referred to point became a point
of reddish brown, the color of those leaves.
I was that color and was nothing else:
and all my passageways of vein and nerve
and dream became that color. When night came,
and I walked through it's dark, black became
all that I knew. The deep dark wisdom of
the color black protected me from harm,
and winter's whiteness couldn't even ripple
the shadows in my porous skin or frighten
the freedom of my memory which sinks
deeper, deeper into wisdom, black wisdom.
TO MAKE IT BEAUTIFUL
To make it beautiful, all dualisms
have to unite, in sexually ecstatic
embrace, inseparably: the form and contents
in love, compassionatly, joyously.
The form is sometime given you, the viewer;
the content looked at carefully expands
and branches out indefinately, far
into the emptiness of timefull space-
lessness, or vice a versa, less and full.
Amazed, I too infuse myself right in,
and magically transform, transcontent.
Deep penetration, a tree digging deeply
for water down below, and light above
without the limitation of division.
A DARKNESS CLEARLY SEEN
The sun, bright sun in sky that never
clouds, never dims, time frozen, time liberated
from change, decay and nakedness, the kind
of nakedness called sometimes emptiness,
sometimes wide openness. And sandy beaches
stretch, burning any foot that nakedly
would dare to step, would dare expose itself
without the shadow of an animal
or plant, without the shade of death's wrapping,
without, at least, a darkness clearly seen.
THE LUMINOSITY OF SHADOWS
The luminosity of shadows in
your world makes my eyes spin. Your eyes, though,
like jewels appear as if they'd captured time
and froze it to this instant, now. And you
bore, staring through my eyes to light my mind.
We've dreamt a dream about the same river.
We've woken to the same mid-May morning,
tittering between spring and summer, and
found we've already drowned, and now our frowns,
no longer pale, no longer swollen, transmit
clear luminosity with a smile
grown like light lotusing from some dark muck.
WHERE DARK AND BRIGHT CONTEND
Somewhere, where dark and bright contend against
each other, fearing a contamination
of greyness, fearing otherness, fearing
for personality, awareness wears.
The non-negating affirmation is
the source of all creation. She's the one
I've lost myself to. She's sky within, within.
The non-affirming negation is
the end of all destruction. She's nothing
I've found myself in. She's sky through and through.
Neither of these nor a third has ever
been spoken or heard. From the one and none
she's free. She's the sky that no eyes see.
No, the grey November sky is not
true grey or sky because what has a name
of color, number, thing, etcetera
are resting in our imagination.
Yes, the grey November sky freezes
the lakes and chases birds south and sends
us running from our imagination.
No and yes, resting and running are
extremes that ripe us from grey November sky,
creating sky for our imagination.
Golden autumn turns to winter whiteness,
But searching what's left of autumn, no cause
is found to witness. Has it left with the gold?
Where is the meeting of two thoughts?
How can calm thoughts meet the anxious?
How can what is, meet with what is not?
Tired of anxiety, I marvel
when another anxious thought appears.
Who am I to think my thoughts are stillness?
Here sky is clouded and somewhere sun shines.
Some things are never doubted, so it seems.
Anxiety and peace, let go. Doubt and belief,
let go, let go. Let go and watch
the ways of sky. Watch and simply know.
READY FOR SURPRISE
Ever ready for surprise, I jump
into the moment and every other time.
The past and future instantly become
companions, cause-effect without between.
And then, too, space is not a here, a there,
or that unnameable between these two.
Space is not between abstracted twos.
I am surprised, I do not hope for life.
I think I could be dead, but am not dead.
Alive, I do not know what's not alive.
WE ARE WE
How can someone conceive the duality
of doer and doing? Done and done to? Can
the sky itself weave blue with what is blueing?
The distances between the self and other
have been insanely argued. Here, birthlessly,
we're awkward thinking openendedly.
In seeing what's between, we are we.
CRAZY WITH AGONY
Guilty of the fear of "no", I let
your harmful wishes go out to accomplish
other's pain. Letting go, I am insane.
To say "no" depends on saying "yes".
And to say neither depends on both.
Holding still within the roar of stars,
I hear your every wishes painful birth.
You're all perfection bloomed from love's flower,
so to this you are doomed never to die
till all has bloomed. But all has bloomed, just look.
Your friends are crazy with their agony.
Help them with eyes full round, like sun, like moon.
Letting go of all that's good, all evil
flies away. When summer leaves begin
to yellow, why grasp, wishing they would stay.
WHEN POINTING TO AND NAMING
When pointing to and naming inner space,
all of a sudden someone else owns it.
Where did I get ideas of an "it".
What's going on? It seems I don't fit in.
Greater than a god, than any god,
I am. But not the god you think I am.
Thinking has nothing over you and I.
Thinking moves far beneath. We live relaxed
and smash, distilling all thoughtways for our drink,
for our and us, for mine and me, for it and
what it is that an it can it to it.
Without whitened clouds or silvered rain
of dimming age, the sky of clearest light
above brightens, and calm ocean below
mirrors without horizon. Then together,
clouds grow and waves ripple and thinking moves,
splashing up shapes and words; we swim with fish
through currents, feeling either cold or hot,
depending on the depth. Deep suffering
pervades not severed from enlightened bliss.
Not severed! Who am I to sever? How?
HOW FAR BACK
How far can you be found in memories?
Find the one the beginning sees, and throw
it to the breeze, let it fly away
as free as sun through summer leaves. I know
where all thought shines supremely nought, and where
so many thoughts rot in the manured history.
Remember the cool sheen while hallucinating,
and flash a warm hand before that sober thing.
Memories, that's all we have, all we
can hold and call our very own being.
HOP IN SEARCH
A squirrel hops the trees in search of nuts.
I hop from thought to thought in search of mind.
I bite this thought and that, unsatisfied.
BESIDE THE RIVER
Beside the river, wild grasses, drying
from a long winter, rustle in the thawing wind.
The sky without a cloud seems motionless.
I find a piece of straw caught in my hair,
and slide my fingers up and down its length,
and bend it, sculpting it into zig-zags.
Aquinas bountifully harvested
some million concepts, then he called them straw.
May I be half as profound while I judge
my own thoughts, sitting here beside the river.
Thinking, thinking so much about silence
I don't know silence, all I know are thoughts;
but when the thinker leaves the room, I hear
the door close, and don't think about the door.
Between wood and my ears, the violin's music.
Between paint and my eyes, the paintings art.
The beauty, does it float between, joining
all things with me? Or is it somewhere else?
Silence and darkness, where do they exist?
Beyond all things? Behind myself? I squint
my eyes and strain my ears, but find nothing.
I hear a baby bubble subtle rhythms
as far from nonsense as the wind in trees;
as far from measured brain waves, meditation.
Most of the time I spend listening,
not speaking. Soon I hope I'll do neither
or, at least, do both at the same time.
Even now while I listen, your words roll
out from my mouth, given for your own ears.
While he speaks, even air hides in the shadows.
Soon nothingness, no sound because no air
to transmit though. Just silent nothingness.
But he stands in silence on the verge
of sound transforming into transparent light.
Words, however sung, in the end, fall flat,
but like fertile soil when thawed by warmth,
spring a forest full of buzz and babble.
All these are echoes of the sunlight's warmth,
both your words and mine. Don't worship words,
silence eats them as soon as silence wakes.
Words live only in dreams, the forest shadows.
Aspiring to love, offer this special silence,
with open mouth, with open throat, offer
this openly. Then ravenously eat your words
before they're spoken, feasting with all others.
What are things if not just food we sense,
and words if not just food we offer ears,
and thought if not just food for memory?
WITH GROWING AGE
With growing age, the want, the hope to change.
What's wrong no longer's sung; instead a church
of tarnished silver spires through the sky,
and silences the burning throng of thoughts
desiring change. It seems deciding what
and how to change, changes, has changed too often,
and now are startled, stunned to stagnant silence.
I can't continue toward the visionary.
The songs have mere nostalgic meaning; that
is all, a very shallow meandering
of days that seem like moments.
Stop! I scream
into a super multiamped microphone.
Exhaust all age! Deny experience!
Then singing will take charge of change.
on my 39th birthday
Now quickly learn to meditate in light
brighter than a candle, in the sunlight
while the full moon is bright on the horizon,
the horizon that is lost in morning mist,
where splashing ocean meets a blue, blue sky.
Meditate while the morning star,
Shakti, Quezocoatl, Venus, Buddha,
shines, shines not palpitating, not hesitating,
not shaded by a cloth, shines cleaned by sweat,
luscious in summer's heat, clean as the wind.
And as the wind, flow enlivening the dull,
liquefying the hardnesses in mind.
And flower fragrantly full. And flash.
IF WE ARE QUIET
If we are quiet there is not a pulse
or spark of nerve we can not feel flash.
No light escapes, losing itself in night.
I heard the autumn leaves in the north wind;
I heard them crackle when they broke or bent.
The night outside was dark, but stars inside
exploded, galaxies spun all around.
Long gazing at a white wall, it became
a dazzling grey during a snowy autumn's,
or was it a winter's, day. The morning sunlight
slide from wall to door and hid all thought
of working for whatever, or something more.
When sitting on a river rock, just size
enough for myself and some biting flies,
I contemplated hate with focus on
my swatting hand, my killing hand.
Around the rock, the clear, dark river mirrored
sky piercing cedar and carried cedar scent.
The river itself mumbled over red
lichened rocks, on toward the setting sun.
When my hate blazed, I swatted wildly
and splashed red drops, each drop reflecting sun,
to chase the flies and cool their stinging bites.
Sitting with crossed legs in bright spring sunlight,
sitting as long as a gopher sits
above his hole, I calmly wait, then stand
shirtless and walk barefoot on tender grass
where honeysuckle petals fall. Then kick
dust clouding this vision. Beneath my feet,
the earth is wide and flat; beneath my feet,
the earth is springing grass and honeysuckle.
I stand erect. I feel energy from earth rise up
my body itching the top of my skull.
I feel energy from earth rise up
my longest hair, and through it's pointed tip.
The energy leaves, sailing in a cloud.
WHAT IS MINDFULNESS
What is mindfulness, when all I think
is a distraction that continually
attacks from a dulling imagination?
When there's not love and hate, and when the net
of interweaving thought unravels, then all marvels
like the glisten in the rainbowed dew
which refracts, reflects and re-evaporates.
To be beside a good friend goads me out
of myself into the open, the possibility
of being a good friend beside all things.
A cold breeze on a bright midsummer day
through buzzing prairie grass, doesn't frighten
the mosquitos or the flies. They are still hungry
for blood or skin. I'm in the open field,
I am the field, just the same as they are.
It isn't logical to think that only
tall grass spread vastly under still vaster sky
defines a field. The breeze, it too is sentient,
a cold that's hungry for the warmth. The breeze
does not obscure, but reveals me, opening
a field of possible experience.
I know, I realize that taming thought
will open mind, my mind and let all other,
all other minds, dissolve in freedom. Call
it love, the mutual melting into
wholeness. When each in each has reached the peak
of perfect harmony, at this time, moments
will stretch as far as farness can be stabbed;
and fully stretched eternity will shrink
down to the size of a small grain, a bit
of food. And then this food will be dispersed
and planted as a crop for all to live.
For your sake, you, all others, I remove
myself, to give you space, wide open space,
not space in any way conceivable,
but universes in which obstructions feel
as hard as rainbows and as clear as thought,
your own most personally intense thought.
Going down deeply to the flowers root,
the dark, and from there pushing for the sake
of bees and gardeners and butterflies,
just for the sake of life, one's own sensation,
one's own appreciation of breathing
drinking, thinking, singing, especially
singing, just letting go of everything,
all pain and joy. And then we start to grow,
both blossoming and rooting, totally
entangling ourselves with other selves.
"All for your sake", I've said it always late,
too late; I wish it were an impulse prior,
producing word and vision.
I've worried about
you, who personify all living cells.
I've worshipped, too, your openness to grow,
expanding without pretense of control.
Today is mid-September 'ninety seven;
all heaven melted down in summer's heat
and blossomed purple phlox and golden rod.
It's for the sake of these I wash away
my self within my self, those odd words joined
imaginatively in the purest mud.
It's for whatever happens that I do
not want to miss, it's tenderness. I sit
and watch a golden wave rise up,
a silver wave relax, and black shadows
slither into the light. Nobody knows
what to believe or speculate. We're free.
When submerging self into the other,
then arises inner sweetness, peace,
and outer spiciness, so many gestures
projecting every possible expression.
Expressing with one word, I say love,
not I love, only love. Love merges with
the open, and is as far from nothingness
as from expressing with lips tightly pressed.
When the other submerges into us,
then arises inner galactic explosion, fire,
and outer oneness, a universe alone.
Wisdom opens itself from opening itself.
Praise to all wise beings with bright eyes
who don't see anyone or anything.
Praise to all stupid beings who see clearly
all whirling cells, all writhing thought of praise.
Praise to all those beings who are free
of all this wisdom or stupidity;
and praise to all those beings now enslaved.
The perfect person was discovered each
time I relaxed. And each thing when looked at,
began to glow. And each thing I saw seemed to know
that I was looking, also loved my looking.
For each thing loved attention; when attended,
began attending. I watched. I am watched.
For a weak body to feed strength, what love.
For it to house a million germs, what love.
For it to be dust blowing in the wind,
to weigh dark in a cloud, to pile up
a mountain, to explode in stars, what love.
With summer fully green, and many colored,
thick with so many flowers, rainbows caught
in crumbled rock, the worm composted soil,
ripe summer words I sing up to the sky,
beyond the reach of rainbows which I see
redoubled, arching over arch, as countless
as the night's haloed stars, the godly eyes
of beings burning fierce with great compassion.
FROST THE SCORCHED
To ever feel warm enough, never
too hot, never too cold, never an ache
for something else, for anything, not just
a change of temperature, for any change.
To ever feel adolescent health,
surprised when hearing complaints of suffering;
in wonder, wide eyed, wide armed, wide lipped and
wide, open-hearted, hearing hellish stories.
To ever want to grow up strong, to ever help,
to burn, warming the cold, to frost the scorched.
So many people pained from knives of hate
that kill their desire for peace. So many dogs
tied up and waiting for their desired human friend.
So many rocks split open to the sun,
with microbes shrinking from desire to live.
The root of my desire retracts, inflaming
the sky. My head no longer thinks. All thought
turns to food for desire, desire for desire.
THE ONE PAIN
In the heated night of words that bite like bugs
abundant after rain, I do not wish
for winter quiet, but that all bitten bodies
be eased from pain, knowing all seasons as one,
knowing the one pain present in all seasons.
I, myself, with myself am now content.
I can not find or know myself because
I'm totally gone, empty; hopelessly
I'm stunned. I know the world aches in my stiff back,
in ancient oaks, in sunburnt grass and most
in that Rwandan child who, in war,
embodies all imagined aches, who is
our warring, dirtied planet's sign, who is
our father, mother, our realized one, who is,
who has come now to go with us, to stun us.
In contradiction can we be content?
So I contentedly spit on contentment.
Why have the religions taken charge
of guarding, even from themselves, the seed
of every conceived systems obliteration?
Taking urgently the love of all,
there is no time to fear or to complain
in any limited ritualized refrain.
This urgency of boundless love, this need
obliterates any speculation;
this urgency of no inherency
instantly reveals eternity.
Religion imprisons inside, science, outside
the magic circle, the atomic center which
when focused on ignites the eyes with joy,
believing frozen forces do exist.
The inner truth devours sea, trees and sky,
vomiting worlds gloriously hypothetic.
The outer truth devours sea, trees and sky,
shitting out gods increasingly atomic.
Released, the bubble, a ball of colored light,
in dark water floats up and vanishes.
The in and out is gone, always has been.
I am one whose life spans a bubbles burst.
All of the gods impermanently shine
for one long moment, then rot in the slime
of the imagination. All diamonds
crumble slower than a flower dims,
obviously. And the gods are counting time.
I leave the caves of darkly painted worlds
with mutating gods, and walk a bright
snow covered mountain, vanishing into clouds.
When snow blows across my eyes, I brush
it aside, and the night is one blaze of starlight.
Passing from everyday physical
routines, passing into mythic realms
where mythic bodies hold artistic visions,
which I believed more real. I've never been
so scared, and never been so happy, as in
these dreams. And passing into wakefulness
in dreamless sleep, there's no one to hold vision;
but there is holding, naked, pure holding,
which I believed least real, then the most.
I've ever been so blissful there, no where.
MAKE AN IDOL
Make an idol of experience,
worship in a wild dancing trance.
There I am the child, there the boy,
there the young man, there the old, old man,
there I am spirit, catch me if you can.
It has been said a trillion times before,
it has been said before the first microbe
swam a watery slime or crystal creaked,
growing from the ceiling of a warming cave.
Ducks swim slowly in circles. They must be cold.
And I stand huddled in a heavy coat.
Relaxing without comment, I'm deluded.
And always finding ways to make the world
conform to old thoughts, I must be deluded.
And always finding ways of blinding, new
exotic ways, I am exotically deluded.
Shivering, shaking I'm shot into summer.
When dying, memories within the bone,
muscle and fat, within the creases of the palm,
within the charges of the brain, all fade,
all subtle dualisms fade, dissolve.
Nothing holds, nothing, but then something
desires again to hold, and I'm deluded.
The harmony between an act and lack
of choice, the pure seeing, pure loving, the freedom
of deep faith without wavering doubt, leaves
no time or space in which to be deluded.
Ever ready for surprise, I jump into
the moment and all time. The past and future
become instantly a companion, love
itself, so much itself, complete and pure.
And then, too, space is not a here, a there,
or that unnameable between these two,
or in-between all twos, that dream abstracted.
To feel, not just with the body's senses
and memory, but with a striking symbol: art!
And not just art, but with the subtle, with
distrust for both the sense and symbol, with
the heart! Gone, the three dimensions sensed;
and gone, the two dimensions pointed to with
the breath; and gone the single dimension,
the heart, the point in inexpressible sleep,
our empty changeless, lightening flash of self;
and this too goes, goes, goes when we open up
our small black pointed eyes to all of space.
With concentrated connotations, art
sears, setting flame to stars. All radiance
absorbs all other radiance, so light
within our knowing knows. This is a truth
that is not true from any judging point.
No point is bright enough. Breaking the egg
of luminescence opens up darkness
and empties into all encompassing space.
This has been said by friends and enemies,
said again and again, but different each time.
TO STAB A SNOWFLAKE
To stab a snowflakes center, stab before
it melts, requires equal delicacy.
Under the two edged knife of life and death,
of being and non-being, I chanted
for you. I yearned for you and yearned for you
to yearn for me. Can chanted yearnings stab
enough, like one bright snowflake stabs enough
when gliding through blue sky, it cuts one flake,
then cuts another flake, as gems are cut.
Or do they melt too easily? I was
a snow man shivering tearfully in the heat,
with words glistening from a pebbled grin.
There was an inner glisten, too, lite by
the inner heat of yearning. And into
this inner space all frozen patterns melted.
I chanted toward the sky and smeared my words
on clean white paper to be hid away
in boxes. Stabbing the sky with my tongue
or stabbing paper with a pen, I knew
that I was dying. In the time of one,
or one plus countless moments, I'll be dust
gathering in rain clouds or feeding trees.
These, rather these, than gathering on the white,
dark smoothness of some paper in a box.
Rather to do nothing, that is, all things,
than to create a new exotic pain.
All that I rant about is sex, the union
of multitudes, of blacks and whites and grays.
Where could I possibly construct a line
between or point of contact. Where do nothing?
People and principles beg for respectful
sacrifice. What hasn't had its martyrs?
I'd die for life and nothing less! I didn't
consider myself, other selves or things
as objects in an ordered quality
(good, better, best, bad or worst),
but as subjects in chaotic quantity.
When pictures of people and principles
had been unframed, then even dirty walls
were masterpieces arisen naturally.
When in the black night sky, framed in black and
spot-lighted by the stars, all life arose.
I, then, respectfully had sacrificed
myself, and was reborn in quantity.
I AM NO WARRIOR
I am no warrior, I have nothing to fight for:
no books, not even words enclosed and passed on
through human memory. My people,
they are the seas and dogs and grass. My people,
they tell me how they feel. If they're afraid
of enemies, of those who do not see
their consciousness, of those who do not see,
then I see with them, with their every sense.
I do not fight but join with them in love,
increasing natural strength. And then the ocean
storms against polluting cities, and
the dogs rule urban nights, and grasses break
the pavement. I've everything to fight for.
Wandering oceans of civilization and
stealing what can be stolen, a buccaneer
of words, of memories, of symbols and
of anything that's treasured in the mind.
This is my craft. Ashore, within my home,
my shell of plastic, glass, aluminum,
I rest marooned and catalogue those goods
which I had stolen. I put them in a box
and call this box a poem. Here listen, here
for you I give, for you I've placed my life
in danger, stealing. I, if I alone
lived at this edge, this beach and watched the waves
of books, movies, recordings, computers
flash colors and designs, I would get bored.
My gaze would drift out to that white horizon
where effervescent haze joins sky and sea,
where dream joins wilderness and civilization,
that in-between, not clear and not opaque.
And then, my gaze would cease to be my gaze,
then nothing would by mine, or anyone's.
No stealing and no giving would be mine,
or yours, and all would be just as it is,
belonging equally to each of us.
I'm proudly harnessing wildest nature,
building a sand castle on the beach.
Reaching out after the receding tide,
my hands chafe, scraping, pushing faster than
designing thoughts. But then I pause and stare
at one grain sticking to my finger tip.
With thoughts harnessed, the beach is proud of castles.
WHERE DOGS HAD PISSED
Although the lake remains frozen, spring moves
in the southern wind and in the creak of oaks
and in the howls of dogs. I howl too,
and yearn to hear an echo from the far shore,
but echoes soak into the soft thawing snow.
I curse the quiet, hoping to hurry spring.
But when I piss where dogs had pissed, a warm
I am a dog, I am the piss,
and especially, I am the barren oak
who, thinking spring had come, stretches roots
for that hallucinogenic drop of nectar,
I am whatever I am
imagining, and am everything imagining.
Riding the crest of inspiration, light
shines in a liquid form. And when I sip,
my body grows transparently. Soon all
seen through me glows. And I see through myself.
SOMEHOW I WANT TO WRITE
Somehow I want to write while hearing waves
in rhythm against the sandy or rocky land,
and want to see those waves, the alternating
crest and tough. Music of sight and sound.
With flute and sax, he blew me down into
personal intricacies, melting paths
of brilliant colors and geometries;
and intimate bodies, umbilicated
mother, father, brother, playfriends, lovers.
We, right then, with ears attuned his way,
elongated, blurring down, down, down into
personal hells (aren't hells so much mine),
personal heavens (heaven so much everyones),
and the dark brightness, bright darkness,
the waver between ecstasy and void,
the out of head and heart, the depth within
the deepest place. Then suddenly, as if
nothing happened, the universe pulsed with
his, his band, the bar, our blood, and I
was there as I am here, listening.
The universe in harmony, the music
of trying and failing so hard, the two
together and embraced and in deep love.
Experiencing tears our ears; we give
our ears to those defying music, all
kinds of amazing music, more and more
revealed as the rhythms of trying
to stick to steady off-beat moves, trying
to lose ourselves in a beat, trying
then losing, and then finding the music.
Hear rocks, hear winds, hear waves, hear animal music,
hear OM. Then hear so clearly every groan
of the old, sick and dying, the one
I am and everyone is if we listen
in laser guided wars, factories, temples,
bus stations, hospitals, our very own homes.
Then hear A, a drenching, soaking rainfall,
and the ever present light of stars,
and the electron trailed map of thought,
and the fresh unocculted, open
unpreoccupied living ear. Hear HUNG.
Each thing changes each other thing. So what!
What is remaining of that geometric
sculpture, that snow flake admired, remembered
now? Nothing but that at that time I was,
I was so agonized by thoughts of death.
Coltrane, Beethoven, Lennon, where are you?
Where is your music? Angels do they echo
your refrains, and do they strain their ears
to listen, not to rhythm or harmony,
but to the music? And I know silence.
I know not information, knowledge, wisdom
nor enlightenment, but I well know
each thing changes each other thing, I know
the music. Yes! So what, so what, so what.
On moonless, cloudless nights, the stars shine brightest.
And on a journey like the stars, so bound
by smoke and fire, by the twinkling on
and off, I view the sky, an eyeless self;
I view the sky of wish fulfilling jewels.
And on and off the ground I step, shuffling
in rhythm with my breath and beating heart.
Behind the rhythm what? Behind the stars
what is obscured? I ask and ask and ask.
This is the laziest of tasks. That's how
a practical opinion curses. Now
I have another whim. To hear the sky,
to listen as if it was near, so near.
On warm spring nights I hear the shoots pushing
up through the dry brown autumn leaves, I hear
leaves move, and after rain, I hear the worms.
We can't consider clouds too much a friend
or we'll be lonely for hard flesh to press
against. If lost in clouds, listen to wind
to lead back down. The music of the mountains
that harmonize, pressing sound to skies,
pressing open for nothingnesss to fall
from anywhere out there, gliding down
from universes not detected by all
our normal human senses, senses that
refuse a labeling, a category
that is the glowing cloudless person,
someone more than an image, someone we
discover without our imagining,
someone who is similar to who we've known
before, compared in parallel, but shown
as variation on a cloudy theme.
OF TIME AND SPACE
Knowledge of time and space? So much to know
it's easy just to lay down, laugh, then sleep,
forgetting that there was a question. No,
it does determine how we wake, if sleep
is just suspension as it often seems.
Wake up with the same thoughts, I slept with.
Knowledge what's that? Another question, one
more difficult unless you're cute and sad with
ennui, the I-don't-care, I'm-half-asleep,
a half-human. Not to know a thing
about even myself, how can I care
about the rhythms of a cloud in sky?
I woke in darkness counting. Money, debts,
folded my face into well handled lines.
I sat up like a public statue, stone.
I should have shed blankets, but instead
I crumbled, losing hair and skin and mineral.
I opened up a window to a field
of autumn yellowed grass, a granite boulder
and fluttering, uncountable leaves.
Anxious for the woods, I shove through traffic.
Then looking to the open sky, I glimpse
one falling leaf, as yellow as the sun,
and learn a slower, much more even pace.
Suddenly, blowing through a loosened mind,
bright leaves spontaneously somersault
in a burst of spontaneous sunlight.
Late on a humid morning the sun sparkled
on leaves. For the sake of everything,
I'll be without my own dominion.
Do I own the sun or the leaves? Can I
lose this dominion? A million leaves
in the light are a million greens competing.
THE LINE BETWEEN
A calm river reflects deep blue sky.
Yellowing leaves drift equally to all places.
The autumn leaves pattern rocks. Then patterns change.
I see rocks, arranged by gravity.
A vee of geese shadows, changing patterns.
A drop ripples calm water, a perfect circle.
The ripples enter in and out from thought.
Round eyes see so clearly. A perfect circle,
a perfect art reflects round, blinking eyes.
Inside is the circle; outside, the circle;
and invisible, the line between.
All of the gods impermanently shine
for one long moment, then rot in the slime
of the imagination. All crystal gems
will crumble slower than a flower dims.
All of the gods, this way, are counting time.
The more impermanent the work, the more
it's serious. I play with children in
the sand, creating architectures from
luminous grains, each grain a little sun.
We work with undistracted seriousness.
And of us children playing by the lake,
some age quickly, some, with smiles, slowly;
and some laugh, reversing all that flows,
and leave behind a hollow light filled body;
and some lay playing dead, and some play killer;
and some feel played with by, and some play with
their bodies death.
But all the children were beautiful
before a sperm convulsed with egg, and will
be beautiful after they harden with the sand.
And some, they see what now is brightly seeing.
Looking into myself, limitless space surprises
and stuns. All stars inside could not be counted,
but stars could be divided into sets
for a prognostic knowledge. Stars, if let
alone, just to be known directly, free
from artifice, freely wild without regret,
horrifies the laws of happiness,
the laws of probable solutions, bets.
I've loved my laws, my lines and circles, so neat.
I've loved and yet have known that they were nothing,
nothing, nothing more than momentary means
of pleasure, not permanent dreams of heavenly hope
in egotistic gods. So who am I
to be more bold than one who views a star?
So who am I to be more bold than one
who, limitless in space, remembers all
the light of love when sperm met egg and birthed
a day that had divided star from star?
The seers, they knew the secret knowledge.
They watched the stars, and watching saw the place
a star would set behind, and knowing
this, they knew time, and they defined what time
was, past and future sacred time, what time
to plant and harvest, and they knew what time
could do if we surrendered to duration,
starring long into ourselves, discovering
what they already knew. It hides from time.
Frustrated with equations, I daydreamed
of zero, and heroically zero
destroyed frustrations, all frustrations. But
zero became a prison, so began
to count one at the end of countless zeros.
The end, though, wasn't in this lifetime, but
in an imaginary one.
could be lived by an adding computer
if cramming it and then uncramming it
with ever greater speed fulfills my life.
This greed for speed twists up my nerves like wire
and wrinkles up my face like rotting plastic.
TEMPLE OF MIRRORS
Inside a temple of geometric mirrors
the god remains far, far away. And only
by following a geometric knot
a mobious path, do we come near, so near.
The far god is pure otherness, and only
when we too are other, other than
we've thought, do we come near, so near ourselves.
A ONE NEEDS MANY
A one needs many to define itself,
or one needs none. The none and many join
as one when many is viewed webbed together,
obliterating each distinction. On
the other hand, the hand stretches out and begging,
please, oh please, love me, this me right here
uniquely feeling pain that knows no bounds
imposed by thoughts. This is the hand of god.
Some curl their tongue around the single taste.
Can the whole salty ocean's taste be held?
Some, they familiarize themselves with the vast
unbound mandala circle. And some, they
so realize dimension in the sky.
In innerspace as in outerspace, all
floats weightlessly, floats freely as a leaf
loosened in autumn wind. When deeper, broader
awareness moves, a thought moves like a speck
of dust or a last star in pre-dawn light
or dew on a grass blade. Then up and down
means nothing, all is space within a space.
THE SKY IS NEAR
In innocence, I'm free in boundlessness
Who says the universe is bound? I've found
that I'm not anywhere defined.
I'm not a word of any language, not within
the neural net, and not a traveler
through time. The past, present, future lived as
relationships of hope and of regret.
In innocence, I see clouds in clarity.
Clouds, where do they go? The sky is why
I live, with little fear. The sky is near.
The edge of where we rest isn't far
from where the atmosphere bleeds into space,
bleeds known into unknown, the unexplored
inner where unconditioned means a word
can not explain. Because this was already
said, and because this was just pointed to,
what further might be said could not conceive,
that is, could not be gathered on this side
of what we've named the edge. The edge rest here.
MORE AND MORE
More and more love moves aimlessly. The mind
can not be aimed at, mind can not be found.
I can't say I love this or that, can't say
this more, that less. Sometimes I draw a circle,
in thought, and say here is the center from
which I am loving. Sometimes I do this,
but this is limiting, a less and less.
OUT OF MYSELF
I was out of myself! out of what
I'd ever thought was inside! out of what
is now-a-days the unchanging, the DNA!
I was ferocious, hungry for a vision
that no star could limit, that no object
could imprison in sensual reason.
No, I was not human, was not limited.
I sat, walked, slept outside the circular,
the group with their set ways. I was alone
and smiled half a smile, the kind pretending
I have never been inside. But inside I am.
I've arrived, a human in all appearances.
LEAP OUT OF HUMANNESS
I dive with humanness I know and sink.
I sink behind the Mother's ripened breasts.
I sink beneath the dancing sperm and egg.
I sink deeply into unknown beingness,
then leap out like a fish, and splash the world.
COMPLAINING WHAT IS
Complaining what is simple is too hard,
I want something more complicated like clothes
with buttons, zippers, bows. Pure nakedness
is plain old painful northern breezes on
the crotch, rough rocks scratching the butt, and someone
might laugh. Let me hide under what is worn
traditionally with modern modifications.
Let me hide far away from what I am
exposed to light, to eyes of penetrating
light, light so fierce, it could be labeled some
kind of lightening that aims to put me down,
to bury me, as lightening aims toward ground.
Let me hide under dirt, I'll put some dust,
some ashes from cremations over me.
I'll glue it with my perspiration, with
my piss and spit and shit and semen,
or rotting vegetation, plastic or
whatever science can soon engineer.
I make it all so complicated, but naked,
that's simple, all I have to do is stop
believing what some other people think.
IT SEEMS THAT NOTHING SCANDALIZES
It seems that nothing scandalizes now
-a-days, we're dazed by TV, dazed by songs.
We've seen it all, we've heard it all, it all.
How can you even draw attention to
a throbbing muscle, throbbing for the hated,
the enemy, the ugly, the revolting.
Your energy is overloading, soon,
soon, soon, make room, open up wider, wider.
Shh, listen to the water, do you hear
a distant slapping. Oars, a duck, a fish?
Forget it, it's just another scandal, one
you'll never even read about the last
refuge for tediousness. What can't I love.
WHAT CHANNEL IS IT ON
Instead of from the heart, only from stores,
Instead of fighting my hate, only others,
Instead of flesh, only a digital projection.
Where is the passion? What channel is it on?
THE HUMAN INTERFACE
The human interface's functionality
is vastly upgraded by interactive
potentialities within the arch-
etectual design, he said, and then dynamically
down loaded code, that, though it didn't crash
my browser, overheated my processor.
I prayed my server would save this humble
client who is measured only in megahertz.
DETAILED DATA STREAMS
Detailed data streams can't be controlled;
a bug slips in, no matter how well coded.
Against the wall of skin, how hard the heart
tries holding year within a year of cold
hard facts, the history of experience.
Right now, even right now, it slips, the bug
of forgetfulness. And only ripples on waves
spread outward in the stream of sunset gold.
IN THIS, MISINFORMATION AGE
In this, misinformation age of a
bright blinking internetted televised
vision of capital investment,
the truth will make you rich, and riches tell
the truth because persuasion's power sells
whatever you will want, will want, will want.
To hell with information, I've enough.
As poet, I want metaphor. Just for
the fun of it, the depth of it. Tidbits
of bites just dust the mind, but metaphor
hooks at the core. That is the reason,
that orders blissfully all the things of body
into a whole, a hole my humanity
can love, can love, can love, not wanting, not
because, as if by inspiration,
I transform into money from writing.
THERE IS NO MUSIC
There is no music that's not digitalized,
not synthesized. In modem madness,
no one is making sweetness, only plastic
productions, gelatin suspensions, ooze
that's frozen. Zen, he said, means sitting still,
rock like, dead like. And I said, yes, pretend
you're at your end, you're dead. Let this flow down
from being just a thought in head, let feet
know it. And then get up and dance to music
completely artificial, the pleasure of
the fake, the pleasure that's eternally weak.
The boys across the street play ball. The trees
toss leaves, their own body, into the wind.
The sky shines clear and dry. A row of clouds,
tinged purple, guard the western meeting of
the sky and earth. All minds like balls inside,
completely focus on the ball that flies.
The playing ball catches the light, all of
the light. The light catches my eyes. I catch,
depending on the interlace of light.
PLAIN GRAY STONE
There never had been a color more intense
than those red oaks beneath October sky.
I reached into the lake and picked out a
plain greyish stone, and on a whim declared
it the all-wish-fulfilling stone, the Mani;
then on another whim declared it dirt,
a hardened dirt, and flicked it with a finger.
When plopping, everyone who had a wish
was satisfied and the oak dropped blue leaves.
A hawk emerges, gliding from a cloud.
The cloud is still. The hawk is still, not flapping.
But sky is lifting from my lungs and frosting
the window glass. I turn away, blinded,
but do not turn away from dream, I merge.
TOO MUCH FOR US
Too much, too much, it is too much for us
to wipe the sky with clouds, to calm the ocean
with wind, to still the mind with analysis.
When we were at the furthest star, we were
inside the smallest cell.
at red dusk, we stop talking and share the silence.
All is a joke, we laugh aloud and falling
leaves round us crowd. No more to say, we read
old books, and molding leaves beneath us talk.
The mountains wish they were young hot volcanoes;
the valleys wish a marsh to pour a river.
Consoled, they vibrate with my imaginings.
I change the shouting neighbors to singing children.
I wish quiet! Then listen to my breath,
a mountain river tumbling over lips.
ALLS FROM THE SKY
Aware of magically manifesting clouds,
they do not dim, they do not distract awareness,
the watching clarity. The open sky
shone golden all the afternoon, and now
shines purple-black, the color of your eyes,
the color of the center of your eyes,
your naked eyes. And purple-black is the color
of the lake we sit beside, watching the shadows
of waves that shimmer stones. We are aware
that everything we see falls from the sky.
Rain drips from black bare branches into puddles,
rain drips creating rings with centers calm,
a calm reflecting calm white sky. A calm
mind fills with ripples and all thoughts drip in sky.
Water drops like jewels drip slowly down
the face, the neck, the chest, the loin, the feet.
And nakedness becomes adorned with rainbows.
Rainbowed dots travel in all directions
through veins, and explode into music, into paint,
and expand into devil, into saint.
That dry old shit on stone in falling rain
is a prayerful poem in eyes washed clean.
EACH OTHER'S MOTHER
We quench each other's passion with our kisses.
We quench each other's longing with our tears.
We shine each other's body with our sweat.
We fertilize each other's farms with our piss.
And we pretend we were each other's mother
holding very close and feeding our milk.
TO REALLY CHOP WOOD WELL
To really chop wood well is difficult,
as difficult as ending all the sorrow
in all the worlds. Usually when I
am chopping, I am thinking how I'll be
warmed by a fire. Distraction warms
only me, while yet the world sorrows. Wood rots
in pain. To really live's as difficult
as to transform chopped wood into a violin
and to perform a music in which to lose
my self, in which to lose all sorrow, all.
BEER BY THE RIVER
The river of time becomes a great burp
told while drinking beer within her moments,
while watching rhythmic waves, and rhythmic thoughts,
repeating thoughts that slur over themselves,
that alternate a mantra with a curse.
Om Mani Peme Hum Damn Damn It Om Mani.
All narrative slides down, becomes a grunt
in the sound and silence of slurping beer.
And then attention narrows to a point,
a crest of wave that's on the verge of whiteness;
and then attention widens to moonlight,
sparkling blue, ever changing patterns.
And then attention to the river, a river
plain and simple and completely beer.
THE MYTHS OF CONSCIOUSNESS
The many myths of consciousness are worshiped
with stimulating drugs and rituals
and psycho therapeutic entertainments.
The many myths of unconsciousness are worshiped
with depressing drugs and aimless beliefs
in black, emptier than dreamless sleep.
Between these myths we swing from cold to warmth,
from darkest sleep to brightest wakening.
Of shadows, there is much that we can say;
but of light, words lose meaning and only sighs,
that may become a prayer or mantra,
come close to meaning anything at all.
I MAKE BELIEVE
To give up everything, but one or two?
To live with joyful meagerness, then die?
The one, called hope, the two, the lucky hoper?
Or instead, to die before one thing is?
If dead, the confidence by which I count
will be loosened from my hold. Am I
not to worship every number known?
Are idols weird? I bow to farts. I groan
considering blind faith in computation.
I lower myself below zero to love
what's high, and everything is higher. I make
believe I am at peace and am a self.
ALL BOILED DOWN
All boiled down, no essence has remained.
We're stunned and stare, alert to cosmic lies.
We can not even ask, "where has it gone?
Where is the residue?" And so there is
no question, "what is it?"
with all the passion of both the myths,
of art and science. And we gambled all,
our youth, our money, friends and family;
we even staked our sanity. So now,
alert with all of the intelligence
of leaves in sunlight, we just move aware.
WHY CALL IT STREAMING
Why call it streaming consciousness, when sometimes
the waves seem to go up and down, without
direction, and seem sometimes glasslike stillness,
without horizon. High in consciousness,
looking down on the landscape, I don't see
a timescape moving this way or that way.
All of our myths collapse. We have no story.
No path. Even the river doesn't seem
a river; waves in golden summer sunset
don't move directed left or right. I sit
with out direction, all intention airy.
HOW HUMBLE, HOW LOW
How humble can I be, how low can I
throw myself down. I search for bottomless
black holes, so deep and dark that every sense
is sucked in. Light won't radiate, and sound
won't echo, and wall or floor go untouched, and tongue
and nose suspend all movement, and my thoughts
of past or future possibilities
cease, stunned within the awesomeness of what
is happening. This is the humblest
way I can be. How I can be? I can.
I LISTENED TO THE VOICE
I listened to the voice, my own I think,
that speaks in dream with surprising, lulling motion.
This seems to be the deepest, truest voice.
This seems to be a voice, but no sound's heard,
except by me in dream. What am I talking
about? Am I by saying "truest" de-
nigrating you, what you might say, whomever.
My pain! My pain! It won't be told. If told,
instantly your ears would burst.
Diseased, murdered, dream it, I've been cursed.
Troubled because I love my likes and dislikes.
Troubled because I love them skeptically.
Troubled I see I am and soon forget all else.
Having written many words about my troubles
my ears and mouth and fingers feel dirty.
Then seeing dirt as a potential garden,
a flower blooms in psychedelic sky.
YOU ARE AFRAID
Because you are afraid of the unseen,
let's lay in dry, tall grass and there explore
the boundaries of fearful possibility.
That you have built a million bombs and pointed
all of them at Our Mother doesn't make
me afraid? I am dazed to see Our Mother
inside your every buzzing, living cell.
Do you remember when your boundaries
were fields of entangled autumn grass
beneath which insects crawled, above which clouds
puffed into clearest sky? Do you remember
mineral bone on mineral bone hitting
deep within the hardest part of heart?
Do you remember body evolving
from mineral? And wasn't that such bliss?
ALL BRIGHTNESS DISTRACTS
Reversed, all brightness distracts shadowing
the moon. I had not seen the simple motion
of a brain brimmed with boredom. Thirst negates
the answer, any answer to the question who
or even what am I, I dangling from
the claws of devils when I'm full, so full,
so glutted with myself. Today, the first
snow falls; how fortunate I am to stay
at home within the walls of my electric home.
The ducks outside, they suffer, moving stiffly,
and stifle laughter; all their movements short-
en, holding heat within and under feathers.
I'm hungry, not for dry old bread,
that food I toss into the air; what gulls
don't catch the ducks fight over. Whether or not
I'm entirely made a human, I
don't...can't...how could I know? To ramble
on, this is just an exercise in trance.
Dark cloud, by day you dim the world, and
by night reflect all light. Dark cloud of faith,
when it is day, your shadow obscures what
seems endless endeavors to grasp and hold.
When it is night, desire can't find shadows
dark enough. Faith, your act is contradicting.
MY MESSY MIND
My messy mind I have considered sacred
and so profound; and my shit doesn't smell
to me so much as other's does to me.
But it's not sacred like one man, I knew,
hospitalized, who rolled it into balls
and hid them in a dresser drawer. He
was that way; I, though in my vanity
am not too very, very different.
Compressed or burnt, I was a ball of light
rolling into the shade and never let
myself lay still. I dreamed of stillness,
a place where I could calmly shine
in all directions from a place of rest.
But each year I grew dimmer, more selfish.
I dreamed that I could be preserved, bottled;
then dreamed I was, but when the bottled ball
was looked at in a green and purple sun
the sparkle was not recognizable.
I confess I've created the distinction
between my breath and a cool summer wind,
my torso and a canopy of oak.
By understanding, I've destroyed distinctions,
I breathe a human breath, sometimes softly,
and sometimes spin tornados on a distant star.
Confessing, I am sad. But understanding,
I smile with all possibilities.
My promise to ever change, may it never change.
I'll be whatever for you, each atom I'll arrange.
My promise to ever change, may it never change.
I'll be whatever for you, each atom I'll rearrange.
I'll be whatever for you, each atom I'll rearrange.
Said twice this is a ritual refrain.
There is no way to start cursing, not
until you stop to prove validity
for your grimace and say damn it, damn it.
There is no way to stop the hurting, not
until you stop to prove validity
for your smile, and not say anything twice.
When problems pounce before me, I prostrate through them.
They are the pavement of the path that leads
enlightening, they are the pavement polished
with my hands and feet and face. Only the path
needs polishing, nothing else needs a thing.
My hopes are pure, and my regrets are pure.
To these, and to all thoughts, I bend and stretch.
I bend and stretch my thoughts till they become
the pavement for whichever path. But pause,
please. I am my own biggest problem, and
so I perceive myself there in front of my self.
And too the pavement follows my stretched body,
the path follows protruding vertebrae.
Tenderized by beating tensions from
the nerves, allowing them to stretch completely,
expansively beyond the boundaries
of body, reaching to someone, to even
a near by rock; and then to infiltrate
and soothe. This wanting throbs and beats the mind,
the individual process of knowing, until
all knowing almost melts, so stretched.
The golden maple leaves of autumn drop,
thickening the river to the ocean,
where sun rises a pink and gold.
Standing on golden earth, I offer all
pulsing within my golden skin. I offer
hardening, flowing, swelling, twitching, flexing.
Piercing every golden thought, I offer
with the sharp sword of insight, my mind
imagined in the rising golden sun.
IN THE SHADE
In the shade, yellowed by autumn maple,
a white stone under clearest water shone
and fed the slight remaining green with light.
And when I too absorbed, the sky grew bright.
When lifted upwards into infinite light,
then all is light and all is well.
Aware, not wanting now to leave, I fall.
BY ADORATION WE EVOLVE
By adoration we evolve, we spiral
into what's or who's adored. If all's
adored, we see clearly light and feel bliss.
This is an exercise. Because we live
and lust for strength to help the blind and sad,
we exercise, expanding-contracting size,
the macro-micro game. This is the friction
that sparks, igniting lights, making clear what's here.
My joy depends on you, you who depend
on countless years of cultivated beauty.
I am the vulture queen of open heaven,
the soaring Mother of enlightened beings.
Don't let appearance fool you. I look like
a scruffy middle-aged American male.
Look upon me with luscious, naked attention.
Sujectifying, all is me hauled in;
objectifying, all is other, shoved out.
Subject, bliss; and object, luminosity;
inversely, precious greed and precious hate.
If driven to despair, I better kill
myself right now. Kill quickly. Now. No time
for plans, for doubt, for regret, for expectation;
there is no time to eject consciousness.
So what if I have practiced mystical
disciples for zillions of zillions of years.
So what if I have drunk distilled nectars
and caught the light from furthest galaxies.
So what if I have manufactured the weapons.
So what if I have worshipped the clean shaven
vulture god, myself, the very queen.
IF YOU WANT A GOD
Now if you want a god, I have the one
who sprouts eyes, fingers, fangs, tails, whatnots
faster than all creatures birth.
If you want this god, die yesterday.
I open wide and there she is, the goddess,
white and naked, sitting in the snow.
Neither of us feel shy or lacking.
I toss aside what few remaining words
have clothed my thoughts, no word is simple enough,
no word spoken in this world is naked enough,
no word in freezing winter is warm enough.
Words have clothed my eyes, pretending meaning
in shadowless transparent weightless snow.
Then, when a bare black branch falls, a black word
with more than enough meaning closes in.
IF EVERYTHING IS HOLY
If everything is holy, what then does
unholy mean? All of the snorting pigs,
the buzzing flies, the rattling autumn oaks,
the softly brushing summer grasses all
of these are they as equally holy as
a broken television? Through a smashed tube
I watch the holiness of broken glass.
I watch the gods of Africa and Tibet,
and watch the common oppressed people of
all countries and the squashed mosquitos and
the poisoned viruses. They're holy and
the fear of them is holy; and hope
is holy; their dualistic play is holy.
Going beyond and staying by is holy.
Distinctions and the lack of a distinction
is holy too. I am not someone who
can say what's holy or unholy. These
are my unholy words, and of my words
your ears fill noxiously. Because you are
and I am most unholy, all's unholy;
our conception of unholiness is holy.
THE NATURAL COURSE
Our air polluted by the burning toys
we bought last week; our park lawns by
the turds of pets we own; our water by
the pastes for brushing teeth; our warmth by
the ruins of gopher holes; our language by
these, my obscene complaints; and our space by
the natural decaying course of things.
MY EGO'S BIG
My ego's big, as big as New York city,
as the USA and China too,
as worldwide commercial dominance.
My ego is so big that it includes
your ego. I've devoured you with lust,
the lust of any mythic god or goddess
with swollen genitals and a third eye.
To be confined by limits, self imposed
is egotism, pure in essence.
Such purity demands I lock myself
away, so far away from anything
that distracts with enticements of freedom,
with poems of visions of gods in space, of all
that metaphoric limitless excitement.
Because my vision of myself was great,
so very great, I could not act with others,
I had to act alone. I was an eagle,
I flattered myself, and needed vastest sky.
My thoughts screeched shrilly, echoing from clouds,
the clouds, my friends, the clouds that came and went,
that best were gone to leave my thoughts alone,
to hunt for grandeur without distraction.
What I loved to hunt was what was small,
and all is small since I myself was great.
What I knew was graspable, for I could grasp
the hunted with ever greater technology,
with vitality of muscle and of nerves,
with wit. Too often, though, the clouds distracted.
HOW ARROGANT OF ME
How arrogant of me to ever judge
myself a better than a Hitler, Reagan,
Mao, Saddam, Longdharma, Gengus.
Each thought of how they're evil is my thought,
as much as any other thought's my thought.
But they are unapproachably other
than thought. Compared to other thought, the thought
of germs, those people lived quite like myself.
Comparisons I've made just prove my arrogance.
WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN
What is the difference between to praise
or flatter? Gods, they do not need either.
I'm ignorant of what I'd gain, unless
it is the magical intoxication,
the transformation into a god who
is praised or flattered. Do not flatter me
unless I am beyond, not needing praise.
And yet, I am beyond, not needing praise.
MY EGO HIDES
My ego hides beneath a prayer, hides
behind desires for fulfillment, hides
before rapturously beautiful
late summer depth of color, depth of green.
A white, dead tree in the deep green forest
absorbs and shines with early morning's whiteness.
How can I not completely bare my witness?
Naked I'm hollow. My halo flies to seen
illumination in the other, flung
by prayer that is free of named desire.
A white tree, jagged at it's broken peak,
black lined with cracks, dotted with ants and streaked
from lightening fire. Transformation fills
up every break in space; nothing hides.
I DO NOT FOLLOW
I DO NOT FOLLOW
I do not follow after beauty like
a fly will follow, buzzing round some ass;
I do lead beauty, saying let us go
together, this way through a pathless field,
then through the bramble at the forest's edge,
then through the forest to the ocean's and
the sky's bright glare. Why go this wild way?
I do not ask this question of some thought
defining beauty, but I ask the field,
bramble, forest, ocean, sky. And they
do not speak words as from a human tongue
or words translatable into a tongue's
The symbol of all things,
isn't it unknown, so thoroughly unknown,
yet obvious. Not there, not here, not between.
I breathe freely and catch my breath with eyes
wide open and with hands relaxed, not grasping.
I do lead beauty into bright black space.
I do lead by not thinking, because thought
is just a dusty path where nothing grows,
where nothing's worthy even of a name,
not even ugliness.
Yet I confess,
I've begged to follow and so have been lead;
I too confess that by going this way,
this way which is so obviously away,
I have been entertained, but that is all.
All paths, at least, lead into the open.
Going into the forest where a path
guides, following the worn where yellow dust
kicks up, arms swing free, all movement steady,
all answers clear, believing traditions.
Or going into the forest where no path
guides, following instead the shadowy
and scratchy branches, following instead
all curious questions, not believing new
imagined forms of culture, law or art.
Going, I'm pulled toward what it is that pulls.
Going, sometimes a small blue flower bends
my back forward, or a vast blue sky bends
my back backwards.
Sometimes there is a story
in a wind sighing through thistle bush,
in a river rubbing over granite bluffs,
in a brain thinking through philosophy.
The story pulls the same, always the same:
all goers are only goers because they go.
Going, I go my way, you go your's, no!
Going, I go with you, always with you,
beside your path. Only staying are we
alone. Unmoving we are not detected.
Going continually, going nowhere,
to where a vision can't fulfill the eyes,
scanning for the eternal memory,
home. Circling the world continually,
discovering the open ended circle,
empty of anywhere except for as-
piration. Aiming to return, we can't
because returns occur in parallel
to memory, in spiral rings, like shells,
like onion skins. Unmasking dreams, we cry
when nowhere's found; peeling our surfaces,
our depths first fascinate, then terrify.
Then home is found where answers meet questions,
where speaking mouth and listening ears unite,
where searching eye and mirroring things rejoin.
NO MORE PLACE TO GO
If I look well I see that the wind
and the light have bent a blade of grass.
This is the way I walk when wandering,
not following the paths of deer or rabbit,
not following the paths well worn by humans.
But out of love I follow even worms
until in love, there's no more place to go.
I've power to smile at weeds, or is it with,
cracking the asphalt pavement. The road revolves
around the town. I'm torn by wild wantings.
I want to grow in the middle of sky.
Follow who or what? Some will say
this person, some this powerful god
this principle of loving other beings
as, or more than, children of yourself.
These many ways, the jungle of appearance,
snarl up with vines or snakes or paths of logic.
I never know! My self, afraid, can't know?
I DO NOT NEED TO FIND THE WAY
I do not need to find the way, the way's
found me and dug a furrow through my soul.
Now,on the flattened openness of me,
a hoard can travel to the personal
heaven of blissed out lusty chaos, life
in max. And when they get there, totally
deranged, they too will be a way of ways,
a way within a way, within a way.
The dark red sunset veining through the clouds,
grey, softly layered and rolling into themselves
as folded legs in meditation roll
projected energy into myself,
projected many masks upon masked self.
The darkening mask of red maroon sunset
and blackening, vanishing horizon on my back
connect by a wet road, asphalt black.
The road under the face of the moon
looks round, perfectly round without equal.
The road to pleasure, under limitless
clear sky, feels all and glows on all
in return. Imagining this clarity,
right now the west grows black without a self,
and I withdraw from a masked self. Now naked
I open for the greatest pleasure. We
both, naked stand together naked with
the naked muddy youthful world of spring,
the naked emptying, gliding, glowing,
the naked ordinariness of animalness.
I've had enough harmonically designed
and archetecually designated withdrawal.
Today, I want the freedom of the wind,
the freedom of a whim. Today, caress
whatever surface, penetrate whatever
and reach the core that shines the eyes, that opens
shadows on a mountain peak ringed round
with fiery stars. Today, pure openness!
For nearly all of my life, perhaps all
my many lives, I've played caging myself
in myths because myths, perhaps all things, want
to cage. But I have had enough enchantment.
Not to conform my thoughts to thoughts of others,
new thoughts are free; not to conform desires
to ancient habits, any whim is free.
Not to conform, but just to form, and then
dissolve like faces form in clouds, and then
dissolve like language forms in wind, and then
dissolves in silence. This is how all "hows"
dissolve. Today I show my face to sky,
today I listen to the music of the stars.
How have I been unique? I'll think about it,
though it'll take time. It'll take alot of time
inorder to appreciate all things,
all moments, all that seems to come or go,
that seems right here and now. I'll think about it.
Please give me time perhaps a lifetime or two.
I do appreciate your question, but it is
impossibly difficult. There is no thing
I'll arrogantly dare to speculate
has come about and is right now unique.
When free from secrets there's nothing to hide.
Is it a secret that we are right now
enlightened? If saying that we are or aren't,
we hide something, some hidden doubt, some fear.
The totally accomplishing way is
to lie and cheat, to wildly break all rules.
Because dreaming beings, all hungry
and noxiously overfed beings number more
than the synaptic pulses in my brain,
than all of the electrons out in space.
My every impulse, if it were a prayer,
wouldn't be enough. So I don't hold to or
rely on impulses, however bright,
however sparkling bright a myth or art.
I've radiated and absorbed all light,
I lie. I've blessed all beings and stole blessing,
I cheat. I've no inside and no outside,
no boundaries, I wildly break all rules.
Impatient with methods, each method when
first head is practiced and passed by. I had
been a breath-watcher and thing-namer and
word-chanter and form-worshipper;
and a soft fleshed Tyrannosaurs Rex
who dances on the ruins of glass and steel
sky-scraping temples, whose right hand flails
atomic bombs, whose left cups polluted oceans,
who's necklaced with the severed heads of children,
Jews murdered by Nazis, Tibetans by Red Chinese,
Indians by White Americans. Children!
I am a child, an impatient child.
And patiently I die. I am death, I
dissolve, dissolve inside of everyone,
in every sprout of grass, in every dewdrop.
See me on the hottest summer morning.
Programming personal beliefs results
in a predictability; but death
by passes plans, insulting even dreams.
Beliefs sing with infinite melodies;
and listening we hear also a silence.
Believing in opinions pasted down,
trying to make them last one moment more,
what waste! I do not want to savor how
a thought tastes after it has rotted. Now,
philosophy and art and culture are
mere sabotage to an ex-static heart.
I am addicted to an ecstasy
of words, the multitude of meanings spraying.
But, when this ecstasy turns to depression,
words lose their meaning; watch them spin through time.
A burning stick spins round, I hold the cool
end in my hands, and when I throw the whole
stick in the fire, I throw words and silence.
Addiction limits, compelling movement.
Yes, I depend on friends and am a friend
with thoughts addicted to thoughts of dependence.
Years mirrored in moments, skies mirrored in jewels,
God mirrored in empty mind, the infinite
the sparkling net mirrored in a full mind,
Mind began and never dies mirroring
mind always was and will become quite dead.
Mind was in the sleep of god mirroring
mind now is in our personally confused dream,
Mind has always been set free mirroring
mind will gradually become set free.
The mirror smudged by a greasy nose, a face
closely, critically, vainly looking.
The mirror cracked by a curious hand, a tool
minutely, scientifically analyzing.
The mirror splattered by soap, a ritual
to purifying religiously practicing.
The mirror scratched by abrasive chemicals
ecstatically, pleasurably itching.
The mirror fogged by a breath that's held
or nervously hyperventilating.
The mirror sealed in a factory plastic wrap,
naturally, freshly, dust free remaining.
The mirror shattered by throwing it across
a snowy field, a dewy morning lawn,
or a night sky on a mountain top.
For years, for years, for years, for years, for years
other people mirrored who I thought I was,
or dreaming mirrored who I thought I was,
or writing mirrored who I thought I was,
and so I sought out well framed mirrors, good glass,
good friends, good dreams and good words, good this and
For years and years I thought that thoughts mirrored
who everyone and what everything was.
I was caught inside the thought of mirrors.
To see my face inside a mirror, I stop,
To see your face that's so alive that it
moves faster than light, I move faster than light,
I move softly touching on your thought.
Then there's no reflection, there's pure seeing.
THE ONLY CERTAIN REFUGE IS
The only certain refuge is, is not,
has nothing to do with the word. That "is"
believed in by another "is". The "being", I
is not. Also is not. There are a countless
number of "is nots" which when they're looked at
mirror each and every other like the lack
of "is" inside a mirror, but so much are.
The skin stretched wide for sun, mind for space.
Skin deeply coppered, mind darkly blue.
Free innocent with infinite intent,
free to find food for body, food for thought.
To draw a picture on the flowing water,
to draw a lotus with ever opening petals.
To sit back resting on my hands, admiring
within the center of the drawing, then
to see the sun sparkling, the sky reflected.
Wonder. New visions continuously, seamlessly
unfold, like flowers blooming, flowers falling.
Wonder, without a need. No referencing
to what I personally have experienced prior,
to what I pray for, propose. No preference,
just the picture profoundly spreading in profundity.
New and fresh, ever new. To know this, is to know.
As smoothly polished mirrors let all be
just as it is, so let all be purely
itself, reflected back the future showing
the past, a pure showing of what's been.
Feet stamping to the bombs beat, hands searing air,
songs breathing radioactive heat, breathing
through every pore; and every pore's a world,
breathing, sounding, speaking the wise words
that atom bows to atoms everywhere.
Make an idol of experience;
worship in a wild dancing trance.
There I am the child, there the boy,
there the young man, there the old, old one,
and there I'm spirit. Catch me if you can.
When dancing, dead to lies which had prescribed
I must not dance in any way by chance,
I dance as free as anyone whose vision
is exhausted. I dance until the dance spins out.
Intoxicated by a distillation
of a mashed ego, I dance "I",
one arm caressing, one slashing, and other arms
accomplishing whatever arms accomplish.
I dance inside your shoes, I dance feeling
your corns and warts, I dance with your fatigue
that aches up to your head and beyond in prayer.
No different, you and I, we drink ourselves
from froth to dregs, from swooning faint to the
sobriety of ego tasted raw.
Before storm wind and rain is deep dark sky.
Before strong breath and words is deep dark mind.
Then dust billows, limbs sway, hair tosses. Dance,
dance quickly to the lightening's flash, slowly
to star paths; dance to bomb blasts, dying breath;
dance to morning sunbursts, baby gasps.
After winter months of darkness, the willow branches
swing into light. Each branch dances in turn,
each cell ecstatic with chemical might.
My righteousness fire dances round your wrongs.
Fire desires such, such, any such.
Fire insanely hallucinates an entertainment.
Fire dries the fallen autumn leaves,
crisped by a frost that never melts, because
the power of frost blows from the judging heart,
the depth of self conceit, where DNA
uniquely burns consuming such and such.
The fire ignited from the myth of space
rubbing in friction a thing, the first thing,
The fire ignited from the myth of mind,
thinking with friction everything, and charring,
The fire ignited is! I feel our pain!
Our burn scars turn to ash and blow away.
Ourselves smeared with ashes of the dead,
or ornamented with the bones of friends,
or swinging the severed heads of those who've skimmed
a moments calm, or wrapped in our own skins
of rage for pained existence, or tangled in veins
of hope dead-ended millions of times, or ruined
by body weight compounded by an ego.
All of this nightmare vision is walled in by
the radiating corpses of slain gods, by
the radiating light of dashed ideals.
PASSION BURNS THE CONCEPT
No waiting, passion burns the concept, all
conceptions. Waiting, that is a conception
abstracted from our sleepy boredom; boring
it was so often, even while we flamed.
I guess the flames weren't hot enough, the flames
were tricks, a quickly burning alcoholic brew
we didn't really drink, just touched our lips to,
before we lite a match; wretched excess
we totally avoid because we fear
our soul will burn; I'm not talking hell,
but heaven. Love is fire hotter
than any anguished great imagination,
dreamed head, cracked heart. I can not even wait
a moment. What's a moment as a measure?
Sure seems too, too much too abstract. I can
not wait, no way. No matter how I try,
it takes a kind of patience to grow callous.
THE GOLDEN FIRE
The golden fire of the autumn licks
the clarity of blue, clear sky. My brain
bursts open for the warmth of color, for
the taming forms in color. Leaves lift me
and nothing matters but the flame, the warmth
I share with forests dreaming now. But soon
they will no longer dream, but sleep in winter
sleep, dreamlessly sleep. Now, though, fire flashes,
desiring not to fall into that depth.
Then hate rains down, grey sky weighs so heavy.
The soil absorbs. I walk and stamp it hard.
EMBRACING YOU, WHATEVER IS CONCEIVED
Embracing you whatever is conceived,
perceived, the web entangling what's awake
and what's asleep in dream I hold a flame.
You know that I am water, an ocean
of consciousness. Wave slaps against a wave,
a violent friction, faster than a fire
transfiguring into a breathing gas.
THE HOT AUGUST
In the hot and humid August air
when the grass and forest have grown thickest,
both in density and depth of darkness,
I think of dependency: how it thickens with knowing
as breath is felt, filling the nostrils
and widening the chest and wakening the consciousness.
This density of August depends on me.
Angel, whose sweat shines, reflecting stars,
your naked human form shapes my ideal.
And so I shape myself this humid day
in August. Heat enflames my abdomen,
star heat burns holes out through my eyes.
Angel, your gloss glows infinitely bright
and mirrors my conditioning, my lust
for beauty. View me swell, enflame
and blaze. This body's freed to move quickly
and pointedly and to expand vastly,
breathing out from unmoving depths of ice.
THE FIRE IN THE GUT
The pulse of heat, the fire in the gut,
passion, I want it, want it so bad, hot.
But "what it is" I'm ignorant of. An idiot,
I guess and guess creating symbols, myths.
The summer sun, here on this Yucatan
white sandy lavender watered beach, burns,
pulsing. The pulse balloons the skin up to
the sky. Soon I'll blindly see the god of heat.
On the white sands of Yucatan beaches
a foot print barely shadows in the shine
of the tropic ocean's liquid light that has
transparently met sand and colored violet
met sky and sensually met my feet.
My feet, then drank ecstatic juices, prana juices,
at once a coolness and a warmth. A wave
climbed up the thighs, the crotch, the heart, the throat,
broke open the fontanelle and sprayed
for all the mists and sparkling sand to see.
From the white sands, all foot prints washed away.
Deep in a tropic heat dripping like rain
and dew from trees, the body sweats and insects
delight in our taste. But we ignore
this body, aiming for the deeper part
of jungle darkness, and go down, down, down
while the soil softens and air thickens.
We aim for the empowering, the jewel
to save the universe, the holiness
of absolute tranquillity and life.
THE RHYTHMIC SPLASHES
The rhythmic splashes of the tropic children
in the warm river, and the bright red birds
singing in harmony with wind in trees,
broad leafed and towering, in hazy light.
Below the trees, in indigo shadows
green phosphorescent snakes sleep, waiting for
the magic incantation, praying for
lascivious insight into the joy
of love beginninglessly not begun,
the joy of universes perfectly,
pristinely free to live in rhythm, live
in wilderness, nakedly wide awake.
The waves of the blue lake leapt up away,
then bowed low and shallow, hallowing
the children and myself who walk in sand.
We whistled happy to see gulls above,
huge gulls before white clouds, before
blue sky. The gulls momentarily looked
at our lips, then bored, watched waves splash and
for a fish's eye. The lake, like one huge eye,
looked at the gulls as if some wave had splashed
far up and taken wings. In a gull's eye
reflected our faces smaller than a drop.
Riding the crest of inspiration flashes
from waves. When I drink light, my body grows
transparent. Soon all seen through me will glow.
And soon I'll see through my self.
splashes against the walls of my hot skin,
leaking sweat; and water outside of me
glistens over the surface of my eyes.
The water forms the flowing crevices
in willow bark. I follow these deep grains
up to the willow's tip, into the sky,
where white haze is the water's highest reach.
This highest vision, I have worshiped; and
also the highest, believed, points up to what
I'd worship. Also the lowest, my piss
that glistens on the dirt beside the willow.
I say this spitting. And say, I'd worship spit.
The water's path is mapped by following
my leaking path, the willows drinking path.
Water's path in inspiration flashes.
AS A WAVE
As a volcanic tidal wave rushing
toward land, toward death, I almost rise and fly.
Then I am flung, I splash, though not against,
but into the soft sand as into my
own mother. Now, her body, spread beneath the sun,
lays cooled. Before, deep in the dark, she bubbled.
Or is that really her up there, beyond
that cloud, or is it jet exhaust. Whatever,
I'll follow, dissipating into sky.
I go nowhere walking, tripping, falling,
while the ocean waves don't reach the beach,
never reach, because they are already there.
Roaring, crashing the waves curl and flower.
Then calmly die with a momentary shimmer.
My bare toes bury in the cool wet sand,
each grain welcoming the shape of every cell.
IN THE STREAM
In the stream, rhythms of cold waves splashed against
my chest, and in the stream harmonic waves
wrapped light around, and penetrated in,
tanning my skin.
When looked at closely, sparkles;
when listened to closely, each wave speaks a unique
hypnotic language; when felt intimately,
a chill distracts from all other senses.
And when most intimately known, a silent
invisibility cannot be touched.
And more and more the stream completely dries.
IF TIME IS A RIVER
If time is a river, why am I still here
sitting on a branch, bending over
watching it mirror open sky, as if
the river didn't exist without a wind?
Where is time without a wave? In space?
Sitting on a branch, a cracked old leaf, scraping
the bark, toying with each crevice, I'm bored.
Every river cuts deeper and cuts wider.
Every leaf falls. Every moment's here.
I danced alone to subtle music, waves
that rippled in the blood, my blood and your's,
whoever, whenever, wherever you may be.
Any rhythm can be heard in flowing blood.
Dancing to a river lapping a log,
to a tension in a muscle, to a creak
in a joint, to skin brushing over skin.
THE SUBTLEST DROP
When oceans enter drops, those oceans change
for those with subtle eyes, with subtle taste.
When all gods enter mind, those gods alter.
How gods behave depends on who we think
we are. Think! All gives itself to us.
But a drop won't and the mind won't resolve.
All time within the splashing moment dries.
While falling into sleep, I chant whatever
words string themselves together. Listening
to heart beats, visualizing ocean waves
or waves on small Yahara river flowing
across the lawns in front of our house.
These pulsings lull me and inspire me
and quickly spirits of dream take on clear form,
as clear a form as chanted words. And when
I sleep, I rest in silence, down in clear
deep water, under pressure, ignorant.
To let it go, let all of it release
in freedom, free from my controlling will-
fullness, desire, call it desire, to let
desire go on it's way, like letting wind
blow fiercely during the night storm, not wanting
a calm cool night. I wake and, with wide eyes,
watch ever widening horizon flash,
and feel rain soaking into my warm,
relaxed and thirsty skin. I let it fall,
all holding back and watch it wash down to
the river, and from there flow to the lake
and then to greater rivers called the Rock,
the Mississippi, then to the Gulf.
LET IT FLY
Let it fly without halting, hesitating.
Let it be natural, without artifice,
without someone letting be, have being, becoming.
Let it, without an "I" declaring "it".
Snow melts, softening the atmosphere,
layering in grays the distant hills.
Let it fly in our eyes, our luminosity
that pliantly shrinks and expands,
extinguishes and ignites,
exercises and relaxes, etcetera and a nothing.
Let watery snow shine, infiltrating fully.
Let individual snow flakes shine uniquely
with force, and alter universes like the wings
of the butterfly whose flapping guided
the winds that brought this snow, this snow
that causes our desire to go outside
and grip and ball, then toss snow up to sky,
the sky that lets it fly, that lets it fly.
Growing warmer, more river algae grows.
That I can say anything that anyone
can say, flows easily, slimmed by
the summer heat. I'm as unique as that
wave way down stream, unseen, about to happen.
Here and now, what does such talking mean?
The flowing into there and then means we
will flow and join our flowing easily
to what we do not know. We don't know
the mystery that's more profound than self
conceit, than self concentric ripples that
repeat what we feel so certain of.
The slimy truth in summer, so relaxing!
Relaxing boundaries between anything,
relaxing judgments that some thoughts are better
than what is totally black to consciousness,
or that some words have more inherent value
than the paper's clean blank whiteness that surrounds,
or that the black and white is better
than the color of glowing algae or bright neon
painted bits of floating trash is good.
After infinite years of war between
the black and white and all colors, not one
has won for good. And this "for good" is just
the point which, when relaxed, is good.
NOW, TO GO DEEPER
Now, to go deeper, deeper in and down,
is good, but is not good enough because
this act ignores the up and out, the town
your sitting in, the asteroid around Uranus,
the bird the struggles with a morning tune.
Now, please relax, and let awareness swoon
with every fluxuating living sense
or sense of life, or senseless stillness. Sense!
Ruthlessly penetrating the essence.
Relaxing the psychological sun.
Radiating, sparing no expense.
Resting in the expanse, neither mad nor sane.
INTO REDNESS, INTO BLACKNESS
While a red ball sun is setting, I sit
very still on a hill that slopes down to a beach
of pebbles. I reach out to touch the sun,
I touch and let it rest upon my palm,
then bring my hand up to my chest, near to
my heart, and feel heat sink in. Relaxing,
feeling stills, becomes a mere rutted track.
There is no trick except to watch and watch
the sun go deeper into redness, into blackness.
Spontaneous, seeing your body, my
plain body becomes pure; I see with my
newly reopened eye with light from your
blazing, unifying wisdom eye.
Spontaneous, streaching or creaking a bone,
the sound is song, your song you learned listening
to all things whirling in the vortex of
the super bliss queens open cunt.
Spontaneous, the first thoughts always best,
perfect because I humble all my judgement,
who am I that I judge, on what basis
do I determine where a thought begins.
Spontaneous, I'm swallowed and I swallow;
a rainbow light bathes me and I bathe all
as if it is the only thing to do,
as if it is what is. So many lights
reflect off shiny single celled wet skin,
shiny with traces some call life. I praise
all life and praise the nonreflecting darkness
that sucks me down, that sucks me into itness.
A WALK WITHIN THE SWELTERING JUNGLE
A walk within the sweltering jungle,
the rhythms of the insects, melodies
of birds and monkeys and winds rustling leaves.
Within, I lose my human self! I lose,
if I'm attentive, even animal
selfness. So many selves, I am becoming.
A newer, fresh self drips in every drop
of semen, perspiration, piss, rain, dew.
I AM BOUND TO WAVES
How strange that I am bound to waves, that I
arrange my words to rise and fall in tone;
and that without this rhythmic skeleton,
I'm just a mass of jell. To pass through hell,
the hell of stagnant and polluted water,
I have to blow or flow or shake to make
a wave. I am a slave. I am a wave.
The self and other extinguished like two branches
broken from one tree, like wood burnt through and through,
enriching soil for a seed to grow.
The thought and thinker well infused like two drops
lifted from one stream, frozen through and through,
cracking open land for a new stream.
When I smell a field of clover breathing,
I die, I am now clover breathing sky.
When I hear a bee sucking rose nectar I die,
I am now a bee sucking sweetest nectar.
When I taste cheap whiskey and dream,
I die, I am now whiskey flowing in my blood.
When I feel curses over garbage,
I die, I am now spitting angry words.
When I don't want you changed, but love your wanting,
I die into your wanting, forgetting mine.
I die and die. I'm filling up the sky.
INTOXICATED BY THE WIND
Become a part of wind with breath, a clouding part.
Become a part of soil with shit, a fertile part.
Become a part of me with touch, a warming part.
Let spirits enter in, dissolving in
the different parts, heart or throat or brain.
Or let your spirit leave, dissolving in
the parts of others, spirit into spirit.
Then as a spirit, other than you were,
pull up a summer meadow, pull down a rain,
and grow intoxicated by a fragrant wind.
Become what you are, have been and will be
no different. Become the meaning of
a cloud, a fertilizer, a warmth no different.
Again, again, the solidness of being,
thinking I am, thinking I can contain,
in all my vastness, the changing year.
But now the trees have all turned golden; leaves
litter the landscape, and light filters through
not separating a thing that would break trees
into parts, into individuals.
I raise my hand, and from the motion of
my raising, breezes will dislodge some leaves.
I love the autumn and autumn, too, loves me,
loves my changing. As far as anything
the thing I am dislodges, breaks into parts,
all falling as unique as any leaf.
I CLOSE, THEN OPEN
I close, then open up my hand; withdraw,
then involve, involve with all peoples,
plants, rocks, involve with this our planet,
our flying ball, our gravitating ego,
involve with all beyond and all within,
involve fully, not distinguishing
what is too thin or what is in the face.
Uniting all with flaming vivid eyes,
uniting cigarettes with prayerful praise,
uniting beer with semen or with blood,
uniting grey brain cells with rainbow lights,
uniting, then dissolving in the heart,
dissolving desolation, then and now.
Obviously noticing everything, noticing
my hand and those who've held my hand,
holding the place of deepest, tightest withdrawal,
then opening with constantly straining muscles,
opening, aching for a steady open palm,
a palm that begs and shines, steals and heals,
open in the beginning and in the end,
open in the middle, filled with vision.
Closed to no thing and to no one, taking
my relative meaning from any thing, from you.
Relative, all mother's mother their mother,
all lovers love lovers of lover's love.
And I, with open mouth, consume myself
in every food; all entering exists as food.
And I, with open ass, release myself
shitting in dirt; all exiting exists as food.
And I, with open genital unite myself
spraying seeds; all ecstasy exists as food.
And I, with open eyes cry many stories,
with open nose drip in sickness, with open pores
sweat in labor, with open toes walk sorely.
I, with open heart, imagine a withdrawal,
then involve outwardly fulfilling dreams.
I, with open mind, only with
an open mind, open everything.
One cloud, my ego flew into the sky.
One cloud, and like all clouds, like anything,
my ego drifted off and vanished. But
my body just remained behind on earth.
My hair entangled with some climbing ivy,
my lips joined with a rose, my feet with roots.
Then clouds rolled in, black clouds, and hail fell.
My ego gloried, smashing through the leaves,
breaking off twigs and stinging squirrels as
they ran to hide. But my body, too, was stung.
Feeling all, I gasped, and strong winds blew.
Reflecting off the slow rippling pond,
waves of purest light roll up the underside
of overhanging willows. Gusting winds
knock leaves down to the water; curled leaves
catch the wind, and sail. We are laying
on a pier, resting, absorbing summer's
fading warmth, absorbing too the warmth
of these thoughts which vanish as clouds vanish.
I ALLOW WHATEVER
Exiting the house, walking barefoot
across the damp and cold, grassy field,
under the night sky in which clouds layered
black, grey and white, roll over each other,
and over all the memories of day.
I allow some to stay and some to go.
I allow, calmly, anything whatever.
Because things vanish we can speak of them
as if they were beside ourselves remaining.
When vanished, we see the bright light of knowing,
and see the stars before our birth, and see
ourselves eternally encompassing
all space, or shrinking, hiding in a moment.
When vanished, we see less and less until
we do not recognize even ourselves.
Time flows in liquid space, life flows in blood.
All flowing dries and leaves behind a path.
All flowing eyes change into hollow bone.
And glossy dew on stones dries in the morning.
The dreamer loses consciousness repeating
the routines of day, routines of work;
or the dreamer grows in consciousness with fresh
discoveries of night, discoveries of play;
or the dreamer is free of consciousness of day or night.
If ignorance is just an ocean rising
and falling, rising and falling through every moment,
then history is just the ship we sail,
and history like any ship will rot.
THE SECOND THERMO LAW
The second thermo law degrades each time
we think of it. But life goes on and rhyme
is added on to reason for progress.
We humans musically echo the apes,
as our ideals of enlightenment echo us.
Contradicting law, we hope to be law's lord;
not contradicting, we hope to be law's servant.
We hope to do or be the one done to.
Contraction and expansion is the way
of spiders spinning webs to catch and prey on
the light of stars, to watch them shimmer, ebb.
PERSONAL AND UNCHANGING
A country strives to obtain or to retain
an identity, personal and unchanging.
When I want to be like this or that,
so many views fight, forcing unique points.
So few of autumn's leaves remain attached,
but do with brown juices ever slowing, slowing.
This reddish maple leaf has a nature like
it's color, changing in the coolness.
An image of a god so easily dissolves
when closely, examining the autumn leaf.
My closest, dearest friend turns hot, turns cold
while I acclimatize, turning also.
The November wind blows north, swirls south
while the birds soar this way, swoop that way.
When I am dying, knowing I am dying,
will I be watching television somewhere
sterile, a hospital, or will the dirt
grind in an open wound while the sun
eclipses the noon and wisdom rages on
collapsing evil governments, freeing
all animals and forests from the fear
of humans, like myself, so unalert.
But what can I do now, while kicking
up dirt, making dust clouds, praying aloud,
so that I do not worry about how
I personally am going to die.
When I am dying, when anyone is dying,
let it be a tree in autumn brightness:
yellow to purple, each leaf an individual
under flame blue dry clear open sky.
When I am living, when anyone is living,
why wonder? Let it be in every season.
In every season life. No reasoning,
imagining what is beautiful, what and why.
When I knew I was dying, I threw myself
into the cresting sea of autumn leaves
and rode their spiral motion up and down.
The sun was bright that moment, glossing leaves.
The sun was so bright that I closed my eyes
and concentrated in a formless trance,
then opened wide my eyes, wide as the sun.
The greens had bleed, had melted, had equalized;
and flowers were glowing, reflecting in each green.
Hardly anything at all was special.
Knowing I was spiritually dying,
I wanted something special. But only
when I gave, did I know I was living.
Then my eyes embrace the purple of
one leaf falling from an oak. Enough,
it is enough that one leaf glides, cutting
through blue sky, breaking off another leaf
which breaks off other leaves. It is enough
to rest, then, on cool molding soil, the soil
that embraces all and closes eyes.
What's outside, a bright yellow autumn birch,
is outside only by a logical pact.
Confused, I think I am infused with birch.
To be one with a birch's yellow leaf,
I've prayed, stamping, crying with infinite
intensity. I've watched the rhythmic flutter,
and was hypnotized. The wind, is it you,
who chant these images, these images?
Who chant, shaking the ground until even
the subtlest logic flutters, breaking away.
Prepared for changing rapidly, for death.
Prepared with nothing in mind, nothing held to.
Prepared to freshly live. Prepared to
effortlessly break away and connect
with every spontaneous perception.
Birth is the going to look; art, the pausing;
and death, the closing eye. Beyond,
beyond going, pausing or closing is
being beginninglessly pre-pre-prepared.
LEAVE NO TRACE
To sing, to think, no, to feel dying
without opposing life, without desiring
release from pain. The body pampered by
our parents, and the ego, by our friends,
does not dissolve without some agony.
The breaking of connection, and the joining too,
excruciates. Connection now with darkness,
extreme darkness, connection now without
distraction from even the dimmest living
kaleidoscopic mandala of color,
the blue sky framed by rainbows or by dreams,
drifting like birds or clouds that leave no trace!
The song we'll sing after this moment's dead,
we've sung before. We've died before. Before!
So many moments live always before,
though rarely are remembered, though are
when very, very still, so still, in fact,
that this very stillness itself is death,
the weightless weight, the opening, the pause
for silence sung. We love to sing. To sing!
And how we love to die, when dying feel
a coming better death, a better song.
All things I think I am, mere roaming prey.
And like a hunted prey, I'm caught and cooked,
I am mere food. I thought I was worth more.
Then this thought that I should have been worth more, is
She said, she hopes the world would end, exploding
humanity because problems hopelessly rend
the wholeness of a forest, field and sea.
He said, he hopes and hopes again that peace and love
will extinguish all problems of inhumanity, until
utopic togetherness is no longer wished.
Another said, he saw that the pain and joy
of eating and being eaten would never end,
so could not agree with himself or anyone else,
unless they spoke words that they also ate.
I focus closely on the inside, backside
of my eyelids. My straightly postured spine is
a flaming arrow tipped with burning semen,
aimed at the searing wound of world pain.
Then flies as quickly as thought. Then I
lose focus in dimensionless, all light
consuming sky, and vanish, and unbecome.
PUPILS SO DILATED
Pupils so dilated, no whites remain.
Eyes totally black, black and glossed, shining,
reflecting back myself, my eyes. All thought
reflecting back upon itself; all thought
in memory flinging back as I tell stories.
But stories, go nowhere because boundless
space stretches through all dimensions.
My future hopes are as lost as the meaning-
lessly meandering past hopes. These hopes
can't flash their vision, the present is so urgent.
Extremes of time are now aborted by
enlightening eyes, eyes completely black.
Sitting firm and looking straight into
bottomless black eyes, thought trips into
bottomless and empty space. What is
your mind? Where is your mind? Who are
you? I, I am, I am. Each conjured word
or gesture, idiotic stammerings.
A mystery unfolds while looking in
your eyes, your eyes like flowers. Why do I
look straight into your eyes? Why do I wonder,
then, who I am?
From petals on the right
are razors cutting every thought, and I'm
cut to the center from which thoughts arise.
From petals on the left is soft cool moisture,
and I'm intoxicated, lost in fragrance.
Thinking there is a true and cosmic flower,
and thinking here are eyes that see true eyes,
I am confused. So I confess I need
clearly perceiving eyes. I need clear light.
The center of an eye, though always black,
sometimes shines as bright as death, sometimes.
I've stared into eyes that reflect all light,
and stared into eyes that absorb all light;
I've stared into eyes that reflect or absorb
even the thought of two eyes meeting, not blinking.
I've met with eyes of icy stillness, and
with eyes of equatorial waves rolling.
All eyes are watery eyes, grown from the flow
of sexual rivers into sexual oceans.
I've met with eyes far brighter than a day.
But who can squint enough to see if I
exaggerate? Or who can penetrate?
Looking slower, looking stops completely.
Looking, looker and looked at are not three,
are not one. Everywhere are conscious eyes!
Nothing, nowhere escapes from it's own eyes,
yet from it's very eyes it ever flies.
THE PEACOCK THRONE
The peacock throne I vow to sit on. Why?
In order to discriminate all poison,
to drink all poison in and piss out nectar,
a juice that burns fiery red with passion,
the passion that is art, logic transformed.
There is a story stating that the peacock
can drink all poison and remain unharmed
and that the more it drinks the more it sees
from it's shimmering tail's eyes.
THE VIVID AND VORACIOUS
The vivid and voracious, gaping eyes
that hunger for a flaming color, flaming
display of solid self, please close them, please
for just on moment; and then see what sees,
the seeing power, the seeing succulent
and simple single cell, the stare in all
directions, eye pure eye without a body.
For just one moment do not manufacture
a map, a memory of paths to things
named, things that have been shaped from shadows.
And every patch of light, so vivid by
an iris swelling, reddening the white surround.
Doctors see the cells of white blood, dead
and swimming, when they look inside with a,
a burning light that sees and judges my problem.
And every patch of light is too profound,
too overwhelming. For example, the glare
of moonlight through a window on a dark
blue rug felt painful, even with eyes closed.
That's just the worst. But visionary pleasure
shone in the lights strung for the holidays:
tangled webs of red and green and blue
swayed in blurry shadows, and the windows
were bright hot angelic yellow squares.
The medicine, "which may cause schizophrenia",
did just the same to my imagination.
Whatever healing image I would conjure,
would not be as remembered, but was twisted.
ALL AND SINGLE
All day an all gray sky, then a rain drop
slaps my eye. A spark of rainbow light.