By the Lamp, opposite of the burnt Wall

Caviar from that big lake in Iran, a sign of affluence yields to thoughts reaching toward something--nothing better to do than climb for the upper echelons of people occupying the cult of identities, adjacent to the mind-sore (hurt from the reading of the predominate excess) existence of mine. Four Hindus working: they have four places of shoe-cobbling, two on the ground, in this cubby of the bazaar (Mumbai), & two in the berth directly above--only room enough to sit/ shared livelihood/ tools of the trade all lying around. One Mind. Knowing that I find a society with a god, who has no heart, is a ditch full of blood to which I throw myself upon its banks, before I can know what is right, because the sufferer has a man who drowns in his eyes, and he/she wants him to stand up & salute. I exalt in the salutation for the Sun. A Jewish woman swarms her hands across the candle light (touched her eyes), it ripples like stains of ritual for which for her there is no exclusion. Lighting my incense, I pretend I attend to a fire at which I am chaste at its perceived violence, and find ways to demur from the hard shine of daily toil--breathing in the black smoke, exhaling the white.

The BROKEN transcendental Bridge & the Dream

Substance abuse indicts behavior, behavior that can not adapt because these people's will to get-over has to be reciprocity & not their own initiative. They are measured by what seems acceptable by those to whom they relinquish control. If the Greater Will like the rhythm of climatic, seasonal, cosmic sense of things is as the personal Will, that of the grazing deer, his/her dormancy as contentment in the hollows & meadows in a pattern of survival, is any clue to those of us whose eyes haven't yet turned toward nature, help can be sought looking out windows--the blue skies fragmented, but then coming asunder. My chimerical vision was an ultra-mundane one, surreal one, because it may well have had the Salvador Dali melting clocks & the hearth it sat upon was open to the yard and sky beyond; the fire becoming the one thing between me & oblivion--the fire is the feeling & I was chaste as I demurred from its perceived violence. Walls were merely slightly opaque windows, and the world was in its ultimate Unity.

JAZZ - seeking the inflated TEAR

When the band (Red Fly Nation) was together, Joel the guitarist/vocals construed direction typically at least from my convoluted perspective, which is this--as I see what mattered to me then. When would many times listen to various musicians' product as the session went on. Which as I couldn't perform myself, there was no leaning on any erudition that of the way things could or should sound like. So when things would dwindle down to discussion, at least then I courted sensibilities, "I am now amongst!" This was expectation. As the iconoclastic cultic expression evoloved i.e. we'll do better than our predecessors, I would link to the last remorseful confusion--this is what I knew I projected. So maybe now some Jazz was playing on our jam-box, & this is my reprieve. Jazz, with its distiguishing instruments--one can find what each of these artists means in a kind of voice, & I'd imagine the map of digressing emanations: drums up front, bass pondering expanse, sax like birds calling me outside. ** Surmising the plain hearth, I gathered the concept of having sought release w/ the musicians I ran with, now years ago. The mayhem-tree (I dubbed) down on campus seemed to be the transition in place, of place, allowing me to yield to the currency of norm, which I now objectify for its strangeness--its a good thing, I feel--nothing to prove. Now there is nothing outside of me, drug or otherwise, which would leave me gainful of expression--I am movement, life's grand reward, a positivist's momentum. Why I sense my concealment, at all, as it has never changed, is almost beyond realization: I could be scaling the exterior of life's edifice, a house, wanting to get in--or already confined to the "bamot" (immemorial, worshipped space-literally " in the desert"/ hebrew) with expectation on par with the cosmic--either way I am buffered by exaltation. When Kabbalists are acceding to higher chambers of belief and knowledge, it is due to their concealment that they can bury the heart of the "other-side" into mother earth & define their opposition to it. I am the convergence of wanting in and getting out.

The TALE of the TREES

The tree as a fable of the mind is given its story when we see it rush by our car window--immediately personified, & given its dignity as we jest that it is a reflection of us. I am literate so long as the impressions I sought just this one time led me to embrace this mystery. The yellow-green-brown matter looking like a lack of pulse - and at once circumambulates from its core as we have witnessed through time, remains in a master's teaching what is ever to be sentience on earth. Krishnamurti seems satisfied that the no-struggle to find ourselves the observer would lead to the dream that is life. The threshold is the awakening. And the tree changes its mood as the observed i.e. the yawn of the day gives out currents of shadows, twitches of its limbs from wind, & a nod toward the sun.

the Harder They Come...

With my cult book in hand, upon the floor exuding a punch in the gut surrealism, as if I laid before the stars - X-mas-like in orientation, this particular evening sought oblivion. I was outside home in the cold/cool garage. The psychology of homeward-existence is having found your way entering through a door. I only smelled the moldering earth. From the floor in the back of the garage, lying on a blanket with musk of dog on it, I smoked cigarettes lighting them from the electric heater I put in use: vibratory-properties of source-heat, like life itself and the irony of extinguishing it with my uncourageous smoking habit. The black of dawn or the dawn of black night was my witness I sold myself down river. Like a Beth-El moment I wrestled with an angel--my thick heart of stone, because it got the better of me, telling me I can't go where I ought to be, and the garage as time-memorial, which as an idol I respected because it wrested control of my thinking the patterns of traffic speeding past from the highway close-by. Because of immersion-moments like this, I at one time watched a fog drift & lift, like the gray haze of day leaving a note for its cause, and rising into the atmosphere. I'm left half expecting to see objects relinquish feeling gravity's pull--the sky is the limit.

In the CATSKILLS mts., in a place we call the HIDEAWAY

I see myself in utter isolation, utter anihilation, where at an I-IT moment I reject the field converging on my inner-peace--everything within my presence, and let go. I'm jailed--there is no reachable new environment I can go to anew. Then, so as to not feel abortive I conceive of the struggle, - now it is I alone & the Thou of presence received. My passport is tattooed upon my person, a veil which allows incognito surveillance of higher chambers where I'd meet a transcendent "being." (--verb) The iconoclasm of self-hood is acted upon & I am the current of the experential, the death of symbolic me. G-d is the insignificance of me. Imagine the dank halls of physical confinement: Papillon's story. He is hanging by a thin web & he alone sees how he is pinned. Like a green limb, there is no exclusion or objectivity to his source (of self-realization), he'll turn in upon himself. The imagination is the symbolic universe and it takes over & nothing is real. To evade his finitude he splits into two: the pain is acute & wrongly he imagines surfeiting the struggle into, again, the realm of representative relationship, but it is his dormancy. The sleep of the just is to whom he projects his loss of freedom, those who have died on the trail he is finding, the void of time.