JUst Judgment or Unjust Beatific Epiphenomenon

#~# I look over to this prescious woman, disrobed- suspiring* (I saw Kerouac use), perhaps expectant like I'd draw some formal map to these moments, this creative thing we thought we retrieved like no other...! I look at her back and see a man's back. Not just any man, but MINE. Now how deeply ensconced in my own flesh-felt rapt lost on whatever I could say someone should understand me through? Moldering like hay on fire within--feeling kundalini detached. How through with toxic talk-sick confused spittle belched laughable sublime bridge to the Other's heart, whose heart is but a trough of blood, that I throw body and mind to its banks til I am pulsing freely, reckoned, sweetly, lair convened, did this prison mind cease language-liberation thence attributable?
#~#On Who do you Think You are? I watched an actress--Jewish heritage--find the memorialized places whence her family trod (I suppose that's grammatically correct...) in eastern Europe, and then kin who survived haShoah=the Holocaust. I think ...to look across time into those images, see face's sheen, dogs terrorize, humor is illegitimate-- An inner voice arcs, "I'm sorry--I could have done something--I think on you now--what you leave w/me in this vacuum of of self-serving, would make me give that away, because it's just that I'll know I wouldn't give up on you, give up ever at any rate... ever." I see film footage - a child, a girl, one tremor of expression in a momentary glance out of her pale shelter...and fucking clearly it is the only vestige of what sadness mEANT. Just of a sense that Yeah, she willing to cry again, "please let me cry," she wonders. the tremor is indeed a rarified event; there's not enough spirit left in her mind-body for her to realize the still waters she'd beckon. Just give her the bread.
#~#Like I am the principal, I tell myself what we all endure - the work-a-day scholarly student of life, are the means to the ends of how I look at myself as before the same books. The books are fateful, I am the grim reaper, and the harvest is defined by the commencement of fruition furrows clueing me in from some house maiden in her spring rites, whose warnings are about just how long we have til we starve. This is information I hear from the lips of her sublimated earth denizens. I hear my bros & sisters and they tell me without authorial realization that she's condemned them. I receive their comeuppance plaintive cry, I realize the implications. I wonder how it is I got to know what it is that sues the sufferer of their vital norm.
^^My confrontation with letters--the deepest cuts now furthering comely acceptance of self, has impelled me to want radically One thing and only One thing to stamp my need to define transcendence once and for all. I keep anticipating this One thing as if my will would be triumvirated--spiritualized by authorial bodies of mind, body & soul-- by the Climate of the Greater Will.

^^IN regard to the world in its dormancy--the following is my take on a mind delivered to the first step up to the dream-scape::: I LIKE READING when my weary repose is getting the "better" of me. This feeling of sliding off the fly wheel rat......her than sticking to it, is quite an interesting box of rules to adjust to if only without the certainty of our measure of effort to make the conceptual feeling the author imparts actually last. So, I find I have an impulse of being negligent, or rather that the task is negligible so why persist? But, the pith of mind is still prepared to be manifest if I'd only look. Something like the sofa striking the bat rather than a thwack of the bat with its gratuitous purpose to land upon the dull animal of "the chair of thousands of deaths." I instigate the conduit thought-field and where it leads as if losing my way from exhaustion is part of the multiplied direction... THe new yr in a few days, a so called Yr's end sabbath might be a direction to be severely adduced!!
^^*If there's hell below we are all gonna go... But really there is a tangent concept here. Hellish albeit. Just been reading the author for The Last Temptation of Christ. His auto-bio in fact, called Report to Greco. Dude it is beautiful. He considers himself to be X-tian, Communist, Buddhist (or did.). He was writing about these communities of monks on Mt Athos--somewhere in Turkey I think. Greek Orthodoxy enclave--Europe's first I believe. These guys believed--many of them I mean, in the cruxifiction, as opposed to the Resurrection. SAying: LIFE is Cruxifiction. Really bitter old Christian aescetics. But that they were so devout and believed in Stern Judgment was to my mind instructive. Thinking that mankind is on the road to hell, well in fact creates huge visuals for me--that seems like a thing to cultivate. So by doing that limits the veracity of the conception WE all may go there--X-tians are asked to Witness, to be Initiated--not merely believe--and Jes didn't say that, 'cept in the King James version. So I don't have to go to the vertex of a world of displeasure just because there is such a world, or absence of this one that I can imagine. Right? And instead compels me to imagine a reprieve as only the relics of experience may have us do (endure).
*^*Reincarnation or Channeling? Seems reincarnation is the samsara vehicle of what happens presently. We know we incarnate in this life, that there is one world, we live on the threshold of this imminence front--so I am as much Barack as perhaps Saddam Hussein only a few years ago. But not those who have died in this life of so many more years ago that their tidal wave has content but no form--has color but can't be said to exist... You die an existence, you don't die there again--doors close.

the blah-terraneans!!

I like these few band names just in their plausible open-community sound of it. The Soul Syndicate singing King's Highway, who are Dready because Times are irreconcileable to deal with tribally (hypothetically)--and so these acolytes say I-man is More Dread than that. Peoples just called the People--reducing their self-emulation to farce in one way, and in another way in a place without anywhere else to turn. Soul Vendors or The Israelites--Christofarians, name whose definition means Those who Struggle with G^d. Strive for G^d=Yisro'el. Names imparting being found as the millionth of a million souls, like there are more opportunities than soul resigning us to obeisance=soul seeking that which has no concept or word, so that is to say an Unknown--a thing that we can't say would exist. And the fascinans is utter musterion that one feel compelled to act in behalf of mention of the Absolute--The Provenance of said community, but never having asked for its prohibitive restoration. Prohibative in knowing that This is imminent is liminal, and motive a priori.


^!^Left my Korean Buddha at Alison's apt, back in the day. She was my second, but really the first. I parted ways with her, remonstrating the intuition of her lasting with me, as I knew the same for the collegiate thang too--I'd leave out and knew I'd not have these things followed thru like the world doing and going by me, people meeting goals & each other, moving forward....
I lived on Rebel Rd. eponymous in a way that I'd call it--soul rebel, because "the sun shall not smite I by day, nor the moon by night." (B. Marley is where I heard that--suppose it's biblacy) I woke up coming down from the sincere mountain of the life - 3yrs of it, I spent with Alison - & the tally of where I'd come from dissipates just as the availing path forward was ackwardly precipitous. Ackward, bound by momentum, but contrition in my heart that I wasn't deciding. In the basement barely looking out to the backyard--here on Rebel, the morning of the dubious past and irrelevant future, grappling with the tether of dream-time, I got punished in receiving the day's beginning--light brandishing an awe in my face, too ill-consuming, and literally I heard bird calls emanating from my bird gullet. Freaked me out--not even laughable now--but will be after I read this here in a few days...
I was reading about the Indian girl, in The Subterraneans=Kerouac enthusing motive.

You seed your soul - that's what you shall reap. The coldest varietal of denizenship--me in this habitat--had Valerie sitting there as unassuming as my being innoculated in more desperate climes. Nothing to speak on around us, only glossy fracturing light that I wanted to cut me. If I'd been to hell, the static-dust and cold coming on to this Winter, had colors just so, and Valerie sitting right in the midst of hell's declination. I saw her there waiting--seemingly saying as bad as I found things now or as a mark against my fate, she is THere alas.
::
If someone's doctrine for self-actualization be answer enough, we may also infer I want to recognize that it isn't OF just one condition that you meant to share it with me. The answer here is not that well thIS OR THAT gospel is dynamic, and you would have never supposed only one door to that Light. You may, but under the sacrosanctity that Self-Actualization goals are shared is like the dust in our hair never washed til we change our hearts, and passion & praise has what is dear in its clutches because its content demand approprotion...give it more where it is lacking. So, I wanted the mechanics of your belief's letters to What-up & scatter but as star splendor, --the dust at our feet, however is as upon a well-trod land, we fill up every available precinct of space memorialized with our martyrdom of time--its dispensational floe yielding to effort's recompence: our feeling received in the LIGHT of Actionable Cause. You have One, sir--I want to observe that as I can, in my way, perhaps...lazily too, but in moments that allude to spiritual endeavor so that Compassion is our vehicle and is arguably thru our episteme exchange in weirder moments than that, so to speak if notions about the Light-Fantastic are complex and are observably releasing the dross rendered patterns in our more self-serving mind back to its source. Not all of which I can capture--lazily man...too bad perhaps or really a languid pattern to listen as my response becomes hopefully more eloquent, or rather just in hopes to respond: I & I & I got to fulfill the Book--and there are G^D-Fearers, People of the Book etc with different ledgers with which we feel G^d may finally oBserve us in prescient awakening thusly, knowing & assuming it happens ALL of the time...evolving.

I look back and sense having been ejected from one 10yr span of life into the next that has no even mellow steady flow like my incarnation previously. Sitting in a bookstore there in Fl. over the T.giving holiday the academician personas I've trusted like yellow withery pages in its throes of hero-protags, are actually gray pulp matter and still I am seeing every other color thru some convenient lens. I sometimes have to be reminded that I give myself over to a life of study. Images are fluent by this convention, and I gather them so that when my body is in agreement with my yawn of effort--it won't otherwise surprise me...

^^^Falling falling in the seconds a feeling elapses like I am being pulled aboard some foyer, a chamber perhaps--stone deaf but sensorily felt like a pure auditive allusion to the present line of jive. Sound-scapes are interupting any authorial body, because the presumption of having been called to stake my presence. **Neighbors dog arguing with the sounds of my mower in my mind's eye--an interlude of grass cut which I want it to go like that, but it is like that. He doesn't achieve toil with me, but snaps at my finger--I let him bite me. I knew he was frantic from grass-cutting blades whirling mischief, and my hand was not its provenance... Clamped on my finger for a second but in a toothy kiss.

!#! I love some strange equinox when I fish for just how wrong I am. My own worst critic--I am not. Rather I look to hear someone deny my verity. In that flight of concept denied, it's hopeless to meet my own motive anyway. Their vehemence is enough--makes my yeah's yeahs. Mundane bridge to awareness.

!#! If you say you have a life, you are miles ahead of me. But in my self-professed insignificance, I get a full-spectrum bird's eye view. AND: in memorium, many we have lost--I am thankful for a flimmer of hope that possibly we are still only talking about ONE world.

BURN your books you've written-+-in the Himalayas

Folks get all incredulous that we may make room for them at all. The sense of it is that now perhaps they would likely need to do the same for you. Up near Ellenville NY, Catskill Mts where my aunt's bungalow colony thrived, then later nose dived, I spent 3-4 weeks hanging out in a sorta seclusion, but w/minimal familial interaction. Visiting w/Didra my Orthodox cousin seems only to anticipate a certain "in" with which Jewishness would be made the point of reference--as she sees it. Anything else is non-negotiable. I had this movie's CD soundtrack--the movie is called Little Odessa. Has Tim Roth, Maximillian Schell, Edward Furlong and two others we'd recognize. Anyway, the soundtrack has Judeo-Russian themes, opera, folk music, somewhat klezmer sounding in one or two songs. I tried, yet succeeded to give this music to my cousin. On her part that she finds herself giving out Jewish persona, to vaguely imagine this sense coming from the other direction was only apropos because her starting point was her propriety--a view to higher ground without the surfeit of nuances that any unreligious person could consign. Her look distantly to warranted purity was deliberate enough that I could meet it. To be the target of that--would actually be disconcerting, and something I had avoided...

~~
The thought flourish from Kerouac--maybe more like homunculus languid reality floe--that there is "snow" around this preponderant image in iconographic setting--he says snow!--his now departed-from the earth's melancholy locked in this atom-ic cell--a picture not delivering his friend's essence, like, static unsustaining the currency of that love **THAT LOVE INDEED is the point--is taking place in Mexico City. And in similar ways that having read Patti Smith's liner notes in Radio Ethiopia, is the "undoing" of contemporary unwelcoming from all identity having become a commodity there/or anywhere and leaving very few memorialized spaces where I could accede to--to run around imagining...the intensity behind the slumber of perverted godly images--but rather as magnificate! This intensity is one thing--his proliferate consignation where mostly most of us can belong is thus!!

If you burn a book, it shoUld be your own....feel a meaningful restraint than to shadowy & hearty thought--in the valley of the tongues tonite. An expectation is realized, but by this tableau-bound author where his intent is provident. And my opinion that I wouldn't have Dostoevskii's dank student or dispossessed doing-what-one-wilt man becoming demon of his self road written in certainty for me head-scaped in his studies back-when IN my grasp now & again & anew, is been rebuffed. (so, again I am appreciating Fydor D.) Myth --as the layers of alliteration bespeak of hand in hand transcriptional freedom IS not time & place, but is practiced reason. The spiritual narratives of the Alteros Yamomamo Natives in S. America are indeed myth--but at variance from the west's convenient false measure of its import-- to me--it is not myth's ploy to expunge lesser cultural acumen as the sarcastic poets froth over, but only they the myth-teller's lives are exemplar at its vertex (peak). The Yamomamo haven't that media to afford such breathless spittle. That earth denizen speaks of his world on-going--myth paints every day grasping for a lunar (painting the heavens spiritually truth-baring) sabbath of generations uniquely accomplished of eternality, as his gods deign succor.
~*~You better get out yer grave. Your friends don't fuck around, 'cause they as dead as you. You better reconcile to be brave, getting it together in any kind of weather is a leap into the sighs glances & whisper of the climate of the greater Will. Bukowski said he was in better co. waking up in a cemetery every morning--the night had been strangled by duppies (doppelganger). If more than one it could be reason enough to feign interest in a mind of multiplicity. The first observation is that we are fragmented--the mind is. So faced with (1) doppleganger--it might cold I Up, 'pon that bridge... If G^d is oNe (not 1 of, but unique!), I want to fall abysmally thru the wilderness tabernacle ......since the proud land is merely trying to meet each step as we expand across, lumber onward, it does my gait like giant leaps are imminent yet progressively. The following is with a sense of what this entry may mean. **Bukowski seems - thru the eyes of his frustrated hero - to be chased by a doppleganger. And it is his fault perhaps, but he really... is compelled to face that part of himself--the distorted look in the mirror which is a pain very close to the bone... Maybe a serene showroom dummie, Foool on the hilll transparency making him validate the least of his self---meaning "appearances." There is something lovely about disappearing if only into The Good or The Beautiful (or as he did into the Unknown mystery of the hereafter), because usually the problem is we see ourselves too clearly and it is without our knowledge of self intact.

**Zazen=sesshun=sitting=asana...Dude told me that he wasn't willing to change something he had well recently relished written. I said language is transformative, not that we aren't vessels for the only thing given away, but if "liquid language (is) awash" the speak easy breath of word is water w/undeniable attribute of mercy, and water is the vehicle for incarnations of everything seeking time's relevance. Showered of the thrill that we capture relevance, language to measure adulating over its supine lethargy, is language in the surmise of the Other.

**Being restored to a state of knowing: any author, my words your words, media flurries--like it is a vomitorium only to go relish again the victuals of my sensory greed... Even subtle appetite fulfilled like tea-head, dust in a cup--"forest of life underfoot" to quote Patti Smith. The village quorum at precinct edge sifting loamy thoughts, dust kicked up, indecision where silence is resumed. Blood silence & the medium is sand--letters drawn from learning in school ledgers written with tree-sap and charcoal.
~~kAFKA says, It's still OK just living at home. And perhaps his feeling of denied anthropomorphism, but rather as an insect, or in a letter he wrote as becoming bodily like a snake with finesse enough to slide past and into wall crevices, had the absolute consignation living-with-father & family as a necessary escape. His embrace of diaspora ideology and Jewish insignificance, may have sacrifice of self at one's father's hand--like Abraham and Isaac (the akeidah, meaning the binding of Isaac) prescient in view of the melancholy reality that has transcendence out of man's accord... Abraham's Get Thee Out verity, when he left home, trappings of identity et al, and family may have an implication more conventional than thoughts over self and self-annihilation kAFKA otherwise convened. Obviously things in the industrial complex and sweep of history as before him may have subsumed exile as the apropos alternative.
~* Is the spectral shore, meaning mind's furniture, symbolic? If thoughts feelings and actions are allegory to higher ground, whatever that-that sense of peace may be called, so if we FEEL that at our seat of awareness that it is the chair where we have died a 1000deaths, then certainly we become more sincere about the regard for consciousness= ours or anything's!! But symbolic life is the only contending of truth with which we suffer... if we put down the menu and just eat, then how do we reconcile suffering w/o enjoining relationship with the fEElings of its conspiring, expiring, whatever IT does TO us???

A yoga interested fellow says the following in quotes "...self inquiry (?) it may be pertinent to learn to ignore feelings and detach or become numb..." My response was: Well, to this I'd say we move into consciousness and into relationship and when this is not possible or the price is too high, we might have a view to what it is that we can't control: LIfe is out of our control, even as much as it is a transcendental bridge to awareness. It is the material void, 3/4 of what we see seems submerged, like hot icebergs...the essence eludes us. The mind wants an actionable cause, it is the hardest thing to do to compartmentalize "emptiness." To court the benumbing of our condition. Abso--fucking--lutely.

#~#Lepids entombed in crystalis underneath a bridge--two communities sundered by the divide. Or on a veranda door jamb, (Nabakov...) and recognition of parent's concern to have prodigy survey such happiness. Mom on one side, father at the other, a door antediluvian - the wherefore of mom & dad's historicity mind current as entrance to the new day...and the exiting door yet as Unknown and as locked with which samsara keeps us guessing if meaning will avail ! "Vapors to vapors," even the least of ourselves in the wake of exemplars to good enough or not Identity cosmogony, all is vanity--as Solomon calls it... The orchards of Jerusalem, the 6 yrs in the deerpark where Sidhartha attains the name Shakyamuni denoting his "seeking." The knowledge of relationship as relics of impressions that clearly aren't the ends of man.... If immortality is our becoming appearance--mind appearance, didn't the riven parent's tenure deny our exile as iconoclasts sometimes with which presence-ceased is the report of idols destroyed...

Subject: I don't see one religion thru the lens of another

I don't see one religion thru the lens of another. Being a Buddha is not saying emulate a Christ figure. In Buddhism you want the Greater Will to witness you, see you in reverence and sorrow, propitiation. Messiah is to intercede, be a witness, suffer your consequences. One would observe Him. In Hinduism gods are subject to impermanence as any acolyte would--I wonder what they think of my path's disappearance?
Rob & I got bit part jobs for a movie filming in the Sinai desert, in Israel's southern most region. Dressed as bedouin enduring pretty cold middle-eastern Winter's night, in inappropriate dress, we just swilled coffee from early evening on & not getting much in the way of supper. Rob scored some scant hashish pieces and I rolled it up with some tobacco--what a ruinous high especially as observer of a crowd of whitenecks, so to speak--feeling every bit as out of it, I guess I'd call these British street urchins--a bunch of slackers then literally stuck in Israel, lots of street hassle standing on corners making trouble. Seeing these boys crawl out of doorways, no shoes & sometimes a rucksack, but usually not, we all converged on the Peace Cafe, where we had come to get hired.

The Present line of Thinking is interrogative from Jazz's list/tilt Prone

~~*Malamud's* Pop recites a few verbs learned in nightSchool after his immigration here. Lights a cig. Melancholia is the report of his visage. Rosy-colored mourn: his progeny feels a Winter's sun every bit in its deflated ill-capacity; the three oranges of Prokofiev's symphonic delivery roll across his pillow in dull dust ridden brownstone. An ocean above making satellites into these celestial rooms emptied of our respite; noble work the give & take of places you ought to be.... My office is, my office is, a hotch-potch of prevailing motives in ambulations thru work-fields, I transverse as if its geometric pattern gives way to no perimeters. Rather I cut a path like the thrum of yarn.
*Malamud actually means "teacher" and naturally to unwilling students
**^**This native american dude (part N. A.) hanging around Common Grounds flipped out one night, not on drugs, but very lost in his wooden eyes in his manner--thusly out of relationship, most formidably the one of I & We...--his I & Thou is likely quite profound. I spoke to him earlier that night in that cooler evening of this Fall/fall coming on. Literally he disappeared from my periphery, and to turn on him & to suppose why seemed utterly the wrong thing to do. Then. But, next time--as I gainsay weirdness--so a thing like this will happen again I'm willing to bet, then, like I say next time I'll watch the pillars of consciousness=his, & mine as I dissipate in the mirror, yield to the magnetic draw I otherwise withdrew from in this occasion. A friend characterized this guy's mindblow-out just right. He was speaking his inner-dialogue, rather than translating it to deny the remoteness one so easily recognizes as the distance qualifying relationship. His eyes are currently before me--they're welcome, have no foreboding...he was taken to Eastern State after a few weeks jail time for observation, probably took it for what it is=stricken w/unfamiliar self-adulation. Kerouac untethered my eyes sharp rapt vista tree canopied moment from sight's unrest otherwise under streetlights, for me. This the untranslateable retreat to lightning vox fiery abdomen, the Dharma people's tApAs, is the sHsHsh of making a fire, which is unlit when symbolic currency feels dear. Now he's out on his own recognizance.
Probably won't see 'em again.

^*^I'm strong, but I want to be weak. I'm the yr's sabbath, but I want to be the week. I want to awaken, but losing vague accounts of affirmation. I want to be a fern, but stand in extreme clime as acacia. I stand against pillow army invasion, but can't haunt memorialized space occasion. Don't like spirited nationality demarcation, most are Eurasian. This is sad, I'm felicitas & thank G^d for making me mad. Anything smacks of consciousness awry, my body tells me everything that's true. The measure of physical soul, the mediate surfeit of angst, is mind's recourse into strewn anthropos; her lavender key in every hill's loom, maternal episteme to laud--she's Kerouac's broom.

~*~don't know how useful this may be, nothing really to turn off
I've seen both of tHem, and there is only one of me now. I have some friends and they don't fuck around, tho'. I thought you knew how inclined you were to suffer me and appreciate how much better you'd know them-- The flash of big Os always portends colors, and colors are the content of form. If eternal forms were present, I'd thank Valerie to look thru me with wooden eyes, because her trees are the people, she's the denied sky with the turning out of earth. I am a wanderer not wanting to find her anymore than wanting to seek with her. Firth's perimeter moldering makes excellent proud land to transect to determine origins or to change fate. She's the climate of the greater will, and the liminal starting point is imagination listing like transcriptional nonexistence (think the allusion anything mechanical provides=spokes going in the opposite direction; the valley below looking escalante' because an outcrop segregates your view from quickest way down--before you, and what is lost in its distance strung). The wave up, that color form portrays, my reflecting on the still water with which we sit nigh, makes the voidant compassionate body the consciousness the Other Shore/Ultimate Reality or G^d met.

*~*The back of my mind looks like a crumpled grocery bag--brown, multifoliated, pregnant. The proffer of Mom's domestic profile is just like a sweet savor of chocolate eaten when the day's long ends are exposed. I carry the bags in, the supper eternality lurches forward a sense of purpose corrupting the sheen on my tiled basement bedroom floor. The digestion of NPR articles, Salman Rushdie books, & Potok books about core-cultures explicating the drift toward apologist values (like the doldrums in watering down--those values--to the contrabearing Other) about my non-orthopraxy is my dispensational whiling away days then. Those Others doing a community's biding, me with no authorial self-responsibility--no one to make complex the promise of spiritual actualization--like we'd integrate witnessing the mean of spirituality with no chimera makes my security an Acculturation of the Attainment of the Other Shore...perhaps in a glimpse, but weirdly temporally. I'd want that much more: the broken bridge AND the dream.
***Askin' the angels in my youth, was permissed because I suppose I got to ask for a reason. The angels around now thru lens of magnified spaces with meaning that elude, but merely giving me deference to ask, only ask--that entering the interrogative, would render angels' wisdom always the same acquiescence, just submit to the weary Doest thou love the Fog? Because if u fear, you hate it-- And if u hate it, you love it...
**‎10,000points of light: read this in a Jewish/Buddhist book. Sitting in the field of self-discovery: as close to touching the earth as haunches on the ground permits, I thought of a weird exile from the heavens, like people tear themselves from the limbs of star tincture, just to see who else came along for the ride. Seeing faces in chandeliers, everyone crowned in lights. The idea that we all are stars, is seen uniformally, yet one's light may have been emitted from a point of its progress light-years prior to the mediate engaged point at which their relevant presence is adduced. The shapeless mass as g^d's being may be defined seems every bit the consignment of inner-space conflagrations--it is considerably apposite to imagine that nothing evades being exposed to wholeness undenied...
**It is just that I am believing it entirely possible this chic knows when a dialogue ensues so late at night, and from across water, I'd have to defy the times when we pass-by & meet the sense that the normative presences are becoming the truck of a deeper aside. Seeing her is as sweet as the feminine flourish yet on my dreary sounding board, and what I want from her isn't accelerating. Not really my business because I know I show her the floors of consciousness that my pondering mind is acquisitive over til the closed crowd of selves personified need its vehemence, and my carrot reward demands that I'm the first out the door. She's not my woman, but rains down like the message from ancients--and I have to tell her I regard her present status as my career of my lessened persistence. The night we met when saying to her if thou wert as my sister is becoming languid blue slumber--I would've kissed her cheek, as I did, but at the more precise moment. G^d damn, I have a sister, and she's been coming, now she's over (this threshold)--I can't get enough, and I can't know to want more...
**I wish that this one self-expression, kind of asserted-knowing just why I know verbiage out of theophanic mind's vent in some other trumpet than voice's truck with my body vehicle could be heard. As in the convening of silent segue-way from one song (the songs generally are interoperable w/Coltrane's stuff), definitely something ridiculously numinous, where I find I am finishing the thought of the last syllable and lightning-vox note, with a precise cause. A be-causality--a causality--a casual reality I & Thou-flourish, me to the friend present & all the heights of minds clung unto that high chamber. A chamber of the just-so language of selflessness & identity kindly clearly but radically dispelled. It is self-utterance out of dream-body thus eluding, evasive, aquatic, and ultimately perfectly sustaining had I found the limb extruded from my center where "liquid language awash" -Wallace Stevens, was bowing off of the bough and reach of compassion in bloom...
**Have you ever woken up next to barren railroad tracks, endlessly prevailing of time's sequester over your dire need for convalescence? The other night, similarly, I thought it must have been someone out in the street as if I'd migrated there among them, but with the bird's eye view from my bed next to the window--looking out... and they were all the emitted thought energy surrounding the train-ing thru train-rail-rumbling my mind begins to follow and anticipate. The feeling was a sense of pink or lavender shimmering lamp light shone on my face, and the weird wakened feeling like someone standing over you as you sleep is the self-consciousness I can't otherwise steep in the conscious pocket, because since I am the one doing that--it is an especially compelling reason to wonder at the light then personified. Mummers thread thru my brow, and even in this surfacing, I deny not knowing just what is being said like it comes from Without--saying what is conveyed & having the complete script of chimera corrupted - putting words where otherwise just sighs had gotten my mind's lingua franca in the common denominator of thought's impute, as loss of my interlocutor is dawning.