There 's no place like space-memorialized

******** *******I knapped for an hr or so--my respite in the usual, while at "work" unhurried & mindless. I wake up like the only companion to today's dim sully weather, assessing in timelessness, quixotic in immeasureable unpierced being. Just the world lulling like conscious satellites, so vague individually, but proven in something curious, more revealed still in my approach like the enlistment in one broad character. I take exception that I am belabored in such standard silence, eternity covering its guffaw--the measure of mind pillaresque, just stately, doing the day's long ends with or without me. If langoring answers' gray sky--a time-keeper mollified--were realistic for intimating being rarely understood (and still understood!)--yet in myth's garment of climate's greater will, I can see no need for redound authorship in this spiritual freedom. ******** *******I am intense, but once balance is redound, true nature, subtle, moth to flame, butterfly to monarchical thoughts and none of the appeal to victory, no self-profession. Gandhi, spoken in the guise of cinema, still offers confidence? while responding to whether he is ambitious. In stoic purport he puts simply, Hopefully not, so exposed my instincts--I am not entirely reproven, and I am elastic there. I pretty much like this time of yr. I think by not being pissy about it lent really a jewish equivalent. I shouldn't have to look for it, but only in accepting a sense of euphoria, like people's aloof sunder of more simple times. It really made me realize when and what it is to be relevant if I try to be critical of people. People might better be offended under different religious expression. Sitting out the days at home & anticipating a reified fellowship in this time of yr, 2010's Thanksgiving was the last shore in bellowing seas, the last toast to Mom within this life, whilst Christ-revelers out encouraging societal norms--I'd rather quietly listen to The Baobab Orchestra - Bul Ma Miin. (last night, I did revel) Reading & tribalist embracing, my fixation on time's slaking well in this dispensation, I'd record a motive in mind--I thought about reading but in the presence of an-other who flies the proverbial thought-kite. Kite flying, conceptually borne in space above our heads (would be) like the room in full regale of perspiring efforts in the balm of unity of Thought. But, today I can't reconcile that anyone is interested in the illumined notions of space I alone see--these power-spots are the poetry of my kicks. The manufacturing of confidence... it is in the end everything the world owes us, meaning everything else that seemed like love, and victory, and foundational and mercurial, was just a new ember to keep one vital. If we live we love, but live we must. ******* ******What is alien in ever provincializing one's temperate identity? Conventions merited thru accretions--the border is patrolled as enlistment of culture from without, while its guard discovers a society thrum, nothing of the city too hot, shitty city hot adjuring of social living is best, tho' resolving exiles anyone's whose askesis had been nowhere is splendor & light of solitarian self-profession. Who else is out the door first, love or death - who else is this imminent in a statement of presence than the one as close to the outward fact, as if, and long enough to change the hero, find himself the literal millionth of a million--there, realistic, shrouded-empty, airwaves interred. He's reachable--and reveals his expectations, rather intellection--the silence to enumerate, you would. Of course it is recommended to call our distortions or salient diminution something language would emote! Its content or desired symbology--the self-aware flotilla, born monstrous, creaturely, is the wrath of those painful intimations, not the glory, and is a spectre of the primordially creative. ******** *******Probably more than a "hmmm," connotative, illoquence timely, thinking thru what fuels my brother's appropriation of Kaddish, Ginzberg's, marauded eastern europe what-if-I'm-a-jew in there somewhere mapped onto here in Newbury, Ca. an urban arbor to distinguish it from urban jungle in and around it. The book lies where normally a bedstand would be placed. Mark's kayak hanging on the wall, this small 1 room crib w/ only enough living space immediately around the futon. The room let out to 2nd floor patio as if to inspire a note of relevant earth, yr around it's easy to imagine he'll leave the door open. The Pacific craven over every bit the immediate ground beneath us, garment in qualities the water would inspire, mainly appertain, in this proud land--think Native. Not a sigh--Zenzberg. An electric sigh--lightning cast but into the newly light-availed emerald sea--the seas plurb & murmur is subterfuge of language--a sigh of aum. ******* ***** Night's sound ravers, of whom S. Joplin in lucky media I was audience to, this man's look looked dusty, made me feel dusty - old, I suppose. My very name was supposed there as a 10-11yr old--I had to. Evolvingthrough it meant Getting turned onto soft music, as stages in life go slow jazz izz without the news slo-current physical success once was - my last seen geist of silences--unlucky in the face of the beat, feeding it while changed by it w/nothing enlisted so much as yesterday poorly represented need for it, I'll thank Wes M. It was to me that things yasss every color in white light, imagine one does or does not actually see, but is mindful, laterally all-knowing under white-noise vibratory properties--all colors seen in the former, all sounds & soundlessness--that night paint is heard in the latter. The music isn't mild in phonic praxis and loose desgns on intensity, but elects the tote of more to rally, requires a rancor in meditation's strange ground to be nature's alien bee-catcher's climate of the greater will. Impressions would have the listener believe in long distance runner thwack life-living footfall, heart-trot of truth--it's Full. *********** ****Art is whether or not there is a scream in him wanting to get out in a special way.” ― Chaim Potok, My Name Is Asher Lev Picasso said : "Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist." Fantastic, literally fascinans, because the sport of rule conscious world prevails upon is the agonist spirit. But if the present moment is seen as precisel y a beginning, and in all beginnings all things are possible, a rule is negligible with our first impulse. Potok's favorite painting was Picasso's Guernica. I might see a thread with raw feeling he invokes, a "scream" needing to get out. ******* ******The Prince woke in a forest lair, glyphs in ones just-so wanting of toil-mind opens, and ease is barely framed--this animal habitat of an anonymous sensual beast, place verily used, and rarely confused mind event in such an exacting cause for need of repair. The next night's journey in potent thoughts content, he found himself alighted from a lake seacraft and into gauzy dusk forest know-nothing up to a fawn lying petra-faceted at his feet. Not-to-touch (a sensitive spectral shore, thoughts prone) but by the tip of his shoe so that sublime mask unused-to, silent pant, his and the baby deer in moment of the same wandering query, its mother is near... The Prince is particularly obliged by the morning's arrival expecting the dream adulterated by season's source, a day's lens, unreserved by summary author, sees the drumbeat-like 12hr daliance the dreams discourse, vulnerably dispatched. Humbly recorded in his heart, the angel who once said, you'll be up here tonite, & finally nods in cherubim witness, the world is served, spirit-body goes, "what" - not inquisitive, just pointing at her. Explanate, damn cool, the aum tat. ******* *******Happiness is a warm gun? The warm-gun wasn't as shined-out to renew identity in this kind of manic grasp. I stood in the corner of the garage facing the road in my nephews shoes. He took this perch often smoking, wishing, crying, & more remote from his Nanny than I was in the duration of this pocket of time. Her banished benevolence and her path cessation of permissed stillness is somewhere when I could smile, but I'm out of the rain--her ancient message is aerobatic, unbodied, and not fluid. He's lost and getting philosophical in his thuggery (in jail)--I glean sparks from his impossible rebellion fire, his confidence manufactured and not from his mired intellection to kill his fooled heart. My body gets stunted there in the moment, barking out of garage guffaw, his centering cloud just-so, mine exhausting all the white smoke. I can imagine getting clear having been committed to him--he'd get contemplative, social, awake & offer me back what Marley, Dylan, and others did to make me change, I betted. He'd been shooting-up up until about 2 months ago. I knew he was eating pills for 3 yrs, I figure. He vaguely wandered and never good enough to experience the shrouded traveler doctrinaire way to present himself, albeit in no-book, but instead in apparitional appetite, making my emotional availability like a conscious prop to a certain potent way to turn he'd rather excuse. ******* *******mentioned to Valerie--but fully elaborate here. The normal world is missing you. Frost on the ground, Mica Brzezinski (sp?) dazzled, Ozzie (our maine coon cat) and his bushy back-end--and his runt sorta sister, Banesa, shadowing the margins in beat cat anonymity. On the way to work I'm hacking and gagging as if you ought not see me like this, and prising a day out of a domestic life we're sharing, just not actively? Standing out in the garage cold blah here at work my little squirrel friends in sensory flange, the one of my mind's eye, once reflecting the mania of alighted daliance in its denizenship there in my old neighborhood--rampant in my mind as I look in at perfect trial of unity. People with lives all damned by foolish personal drama, on their way to school & work, but that you're more complete, like that, and knowing better, could answer them back in conversation I'm just not heady-enough in my aversion to understand. After a shower this am. pulling on my clothes, my splindly legs need the heat of the otherwise faint inner-sun, just cloud head-high, resource scanning, persona-acknowledging of those folks groomed in the horizon, their salutories a bit amiss in my feeling that they welcome me at the gate of the dawn break. I dream of waking up in a dreamt room, doorless, appetitic, hunter-gatherer intercepted--you want to go from here, I do to bring back something as if to a point of concentration, and don't know how to stay or even enlist how to come back... ********* *******I met myself in a dream, it was all night. I am the its ambassador to waking reality. The reap of twilight's glad stay rt as dawn lays its diamond hand cobbled kabbalah, washing the salt from salty brow, is the power unknown in soul ubiquity. If we dream thereby we must exist. To exist then whence that energy promoted reflection upon the necessary condition, there is a principle to existence. The lasting seance before I was to move out of pattering landed gulfs of power-spots--these places of sterile resolve & gravid change, I had brought a 19th century edition of Flavius Josephus' "Antiquities of..." to a place whose biology was as similar to the agrarian grace to that of Dad's born haunts. Thorny brambly roadflush wall now has been removed, and naked skyblue water tower, what I'm leaning up against, has a view to clashy well-trafficked city limits. In cool dew, I rode my bike out across here Ogden's field once coming from Wesley neighborhood into Parkers Mill toward Beaumont where I lived. Into the multiple acres of corn rows, I didn't feel my youth in as much agelessness, winter's night w/ certain rein on surface met, the sense of anonymity and room to breath in the loamy, suspiring farm. A scratchy corn leaf cut my pinky and leaves a scar apparent even now over 30yrs later. A bogey from my attention-expecting over-stimulated mind seemed sourceless but night personae affecting--not ever actually seeing the old man who owned the land, I couldn't warm up to interlocution in some babble of excuses like this evening's reconnaissance could be exacted for anyone other than me to embower shrouded traveler solitude. Probably 15-20 minutes thru purple skies gate of night, but satiate like the droning water tower, circle 4 references the break in silence in my advance out from natural egression to the near suburbs and belch of normalcy. ******* ********Its potency shouldn't be mocked, whilst what myth raison d'etre confides is crowd consciousness/open crowd, challenged by alleged dispensation, yet thru uniform pronouncement: A myth is the fodder of ready psychologies--perspective is no-direction-home, since there is the thereness of only a relic of our compulsion. That I give deference to disambiguous cultural victories, begins or ends--the journey is an enlistment of impermanence. A world-to-come mimics reprehensible margins, one feeling suspect of dreams reloading. ***** ********When you find yourself impossibly no longer mindful, it is because your thimbleful of consciousness is yet to be pierced by the needle of sentience awaiting in objective reality. Old garments are shed like old bodies--new bodies are donned as the appreciating veil of existence! ******* *****I am intense, but once balance is redound, true nature, subtle, moth to flame, butterfly to monarchical thoughts and none of the appeal to victory, no self-profession. Gandhi, spoken in the guise of cinema, still offers confidence? while responding to whether he is ambitious. In stoic purport he puts simply, Hopefully not, so exposed my instincts--I am not entirely reproven, and I am elastic there. I pretty much like this time of yr. I think by not being pissy about it lent really a jewish equivalent. I shouldn't have to look for it, but only in accepting a sense of euphoria, like people's aloof sunder of more simple times. It really made me realize when and what it is to be relevant if I try to be critical of people. People might better be offended under different religious expression. Sitting out the days at home & anticipating a reified fellowship in this time of yr, 2010's Thanksgiving was the last shore in bellowing seas, the last toast to Mom within this life, whilst Christ-revelers out encouraging societal norms--I'd rather quietly listen to The Baobab Orchestra - Bul Ma Miin. (last night, I did revel) Reading & tribalist embracing, my fixation on time's slaking well in this dispensation, I'd record a motive in mind--I thought about reading but in the presence of an-other who flies the proverbial thought-kite. Kite flying, conceptually borne in space above our heads (would be) like the room in full regale of perspiring efforts in the balm of unity of Thought. But, today I can't reconcile that anyone is interested in the illumined notions of space I alone see--these power-spots are the poetry of my kicks. The manufacturing of confidence... it is in the end everything the world owes us, meaning everything else that seemed like love, and victory, and foundational and mercurial, was just a new ember to keep one vital. If we live we love, but live we must. ************ ****" And Arya elaborates a messiah borrowed & alighting our congregations, this anointed, by the divine garden, the flesh in conversation with Good, a contract Higher. In comical martial graffitti, the populism of it, a billboard with painted prescription on what harbors end-of-days scenarios: An Iranian comes up and taps a Pal on the back, says, ole Daniel, (the prophet) the qadi (means "judge") of time made available his Excellence... The Phoenicians, the Assyrians, who else but our original nations show the Quran orienting, divining our license defending Al Quds suffering nascent abridgment, but who else will prevail? **note, Daniel is not named in the Quran. (think: Apocrypha) That in Susa, Iran his memorialization is redound and ancient. Fascinating, provincial like you bunch of heathens, ha!--there is been and ever will be biblical mission, biblical propaganda, and the implicit thing w/committed scheme thru belief, the failure of self-actualization as goal like it applies timely, lest it become universalized. One's struggle in Belief systems makes the least of the rationalist's query into the acsendant's confidence--yet instructive in elements of myth, defines different sensitivity, characterized without dissociation a Creator or a principle would have otherwise been revered by the "other." To be blunt, one's Christ need not abideth every poignant moment of release, as to say what is Nativist from without.

Hypnosis from the over-hanging sunflowers

Once while Jimmy Carter was being interviewed, instead of terminal sense of tarmac blanched political uncertainties, I was rather pulled into framing americana theater looking literally past his TV irreality into silent-gong of this family room, disappearing vantage points. In a sort of enlistment of media and cult of personality badgering, the silent room's corner becomes an easy time signature, a point of reference that makes old rhetorician a sprite past the strange receptive langor of hallowed home. In my quiet self-observation, he makes for an encompassing discussion, a stolid space for his personality like he's graduating from shapeless mass auditive thrumming to formative unhesitant bono vox. Literally watching what I see has space compromised but non-anthropomorphic in the guise of his appreciating illocution. Sitting at the feet of giants may be part of the right descriptor here. Not my appraisal in serious hero-worship, but a swathe of general discriminations, a worldly power-broker whose weight is behemoth excersized. His storm-surge of sober ethics are determined by relics the unassuming masses live-through, lazy & detached by foundries in eclipsing fealties to poplore shed ignorantly and with watery content: to be different from that was only to admit his candor. ******** ******To discover why it is I found myself anticipating inevitably habituating here off of a particular corridor, yet yrs later, merely was a murmurring glance past the traffic lights at the top of the hill--Burroughs' images filling-in a bleary assumption of unremarkable transit. Memories like the ones from the pyrethrum-peddler in The Exterminator sounds out what I knew would pass, his mellowing preachments of average souls plaintively pained in the normative awash thru the current of more illicit deeds mindfully heaped in a protagonist's not really ever-going-home-again. An effective visual is of one lady speaking about her then passed son but now is object of her roseate reminiscence. He had come thru that very "door" whose sky event Burroughs describes as framing the son's imminent return. The green of the go-light is hiding while I sit prone peeking past the sun-visor into a piece of the sky dominating in places of relinquishing intensity. Not seeing was assignations enough that I am magnetic and the steel was nigh--a strange feeling and intuition had me the claimant of a future I hadn't yet devised. ******* ********Fydor Gladkov's Cement, of Socialist Realism content, was apropos distraction in a desert niche post-university life--the gravity from schools left far behind isn't a more courageous becoming in as much I'm then inundated from a greedy sentience--the prodigy of self-discovery in solitude. Flotilla of spirits eliciting spaces in nothing's sanction, I felt emptied of characterizing my academician career. My power-spot in the garage fluid in luminary noise, radio silence pregnable, thudding on my cunga, percussion justice is beat mercy and freedom, precipitous in asana-gestures, magic carpet-thrum laying on a more nihilist's ground zero expectation, studies' alight toward school's kaleidoscopic first motive upon this student. A heady mask of some particular instructor helps to postulate a star's radiant necessary accompaniment in a clay mind's self-scrutiny, a strange notion to be a piece of solemnities of distant lights strung. Red is the compliment of beauty in Russian society, but for me it was the color of a hesitant glance at my face after having determined against easy vanities for a number of months, until then. The "looking-glass" however was just space--a parody moment that had I looked upon my cadence, air would reflect an unlikely expression. I remonstrated and watched what I saw: aloof, more outside-theater orienting self, and crimson face makes me suspect of unknown "golam" independent-me in dusty ancient expression. ******** ******* I feel I'm still dreaming in a space on the firmament earth tabernacle meant for florid or sullied bloom against forest languidly sustaining the more wrought ecosystem. The expression out of earth guffaw reaching sun revelry in its vital mass alliterates like self-taught exquisitely lost design to be put upon what the elements will say with flora. Life sheds self-report, she executes volleys of existential consequence as poignant as exultations to serve ones escape from it. In the valley of tongues, psalm-fooled monist self-consciousness of a stone deposited in silence, with words tarrying in the plurb and verb of identity yielding, wanderer's soft-machine makes subtle a refined place withwhich illocution is reckoned by conscious-prop--the light of moments revealed, a sort of there-ness in what is other. ******** *********** It was a shock of that much energetic--it was that much light, yet where certain spectral shore allays the more refined waves, subtlety is left there - And I am left to a lateral barely justified recondite luminary comfort. Mind haunts if only in enough light to turn dreams into reality, the gloss & richness to deny point of concentration, making a row of the sensual & illusory unreined & appreciating objective reality. N. Young captures blindman running by the light of the night, steppin'-razor questioning some dodge and thoroughgoing toward conscious satellites, the present moment, says to me what stillness in approach to the field of experience, is by the same yield this pitch of mind, shadows or no horizons, thoughts-pivot to remark on the same breadth of lucidity. Blindmen see; a book opened up minds into its natural element in unlikely libraries; primacies are suffuse with folky redound, whose well filled of tarried sands-if this place is ones prodigy of special existence painted in glory, then meditations alighting to its very Source has memoria the consequence of language replaced by likeness. ******** *******When one is helpless, a feeling it may be apparent I cultivate, is for spiritual moon and distant fingers, and alas there may be no quality; perfunctory is hat fit and worn by what you are seen & understood by thru convenience relationship proffers yet illusorily, salutory moments are more accessible. Kafka knows exploitation & servile reality of ones daemon. His father in caricature has all that may be feared like big floats taking notice in the watery guffaw of earth's magnanimous wont of mercurial libations quench. The son is drowning in it and while already suffering in his dire last few moments that his father judged his doom by this contrived initiation--this alien method only to learn and swim--infamies of absurd reconciliation is breachment measurably the the pain of ignorance in less certainty on his unconscious impulses, now in objective reality tremendum like compassion's last cry in lightning vox self-report squelched. ******** *********The trafficking auto-wreck of horizons met, avails the easy qualia that one chromo-value of those vehicles would be only possible of this calvacade of mass transit. These flurries of hauling hell-bent rides if not ill-content in my iconoclasm, speak to radical identities just not there. Not there, but elsewhere. ********* *******An elliptical beginning-ending where he or she topples the effect of authenticity, the thing providing the concourse of change, and merely call themselves the tarmac of the long-lonesome highway--where else are we transcient, but not pedestrian. Numbness, graphic stella to an impenetrable apophasis, can be solid state, a sort of available space in limbo for belied presence, where to claim stable resolve. The grim reaper waits in the recesses of your mind--your dreams are his sieve. Pour it into the waking state--dream alive hard and fast unconscious impulses... ********* ******Beyond Rangoon can be found on youtube--Spalding Grey is briefly in it and its good cinema. Interesting part of this world... Know this about Burma, Myanmar, according Finding George Orwell in Burma, a book about that society, these folks read, and a lot in English. But it is because their technocracy is pulp and writ. Whereas here we tout poplore and need rights begged for and agonist in our reluctance to be prone deliberatively by those who shouldn't have that social executor. The answer is speak to the absence in our passion, place it upon the meritable conscious map where the others' indefinite chorus allows for its reverence. Imagine an inspired world-view pro-west, but has that whole psychologically rather adept eastern meditations flexing all the antiquity evanescent standard, superable and concerning those nodding east, but right there and silent & beautiful for them. ******* **********Really beautiful: think a little, but not too much--say little, mean it all... There is something else at the center of the universe, you are first out of the door, the project of your worth. Characterize yourself with dreams. Stop thinking of you. Draw your mom in her eternal complexion--find her heart bisecting the universe like all the rivers destined to enter the same-sea of mindfulness. Leave family and gods behind-- the world of silence either compliments your youthful patience, or clamors like tarrying stones, staggering in your fate by the still waters with a pretense of no known beginning. Think on your impermanence. Reflect the trees. Distinguish your exile in sky aerobatic recession. Think of G*d anywhere but by identity telos. Deny Creator-being if your will to live is memories of common doctrine. Because remember, what came recommended to you, and if you assume provincial antecedents, your privy is to consult w/treated and amended "practice."

Lanquid totalitariso; poesis becomer topoi poplorist

***********The dust particulated on one of these dreidal candles is like traces of sinaitic sands, "just" features to sand media of chimera signatures. Kerouac's alighted language found mystics in another arabia, as other as a mystic unsealed, redeeming the once fallow whiling-away. The taxed eliciting box of time grabbing clock arm--history's wept orgone & the dao's vapors, our daylight for suss ing it, jumping-off of some sun's arrival in a world seen-through to mine. Clemency from that power it has over purusha, leaves of grass like haughty sundering elements in the present moment, just-a-moment. A star of david shaped one of mom's candles, mandala-esque, could perform on a frozen sea-- a self-same desert but with its entrails presumed a modus vivendi: what is found at its surface is adjured from hollowed depths, life in its most mercurial assertions. Seawater & dust--we are, magnetic earth, and fire to divine human perspective in silent smoke fluency as the ill-shared ancient mouldering reverence. A choice to thread the youthful notice of my "certain" skies "then" in thrall, bouyancy, smiles denials at survival ...embracing silence instead of confusion, but confusion & ambiguity rather than torpor. Sighs and glances, white-noise mischief, then a gradin approaches portal memory 'flect, blue-covers' skies throve all in a glimmer to frame an unnamed slumber--the dreamer now its ember's last hush. ******** ********--the loading begins then roseate upside attention, thinkin' don't leave it unsaid::: The Atlantic gets Pacific reputation, even if seas of serenity is the suspiring thing over our destiny. Without the news article intentionally framing a conscious hint that the Atlantic ever received the woes it belched from its bellowing aerobic pierced desert, endlessness capsulated in yawns of held breath before its power consumes, only spoke of splash, plurb, and verb of life still ever becoming, and a place for it to dream organically again. Water as baptism by fire: Abraham sat in Nimrod's furnance, flames licked without license to deny an angel's message. Prayer is fire, but the lotus is its enticement--the fire becomes a splendid cool bloom. Pain = analytical meditation is rank in appeal if existential crisis is become the lost director of thought's maturity. Salience = restored in the recessive attendant, objective reality uncolored to sample its deference to record the ascendant's vitality. Let's slash the abatement of benevolence with our machete writ! Out of an arising one of two doors, both shadows, one mind appearance, the other the hollowed potency consequence to any excess of Belief or Misbelief, whose quality announces delimitation--peace found not-only just around the corner, & cloud 9, contemplation is rational goal. *********** ******* I want a car that reflects all the lights. I want to take the trafficked this-world's denizens and reverse fates in our travelogue: I will meet the horizon, and this time nothing deprecare bore out of necessity, is a plain of experience rather where vessel alights toward moments of release--a blue-dome imminence is the truth nothing adduces. A horizon hangs the sky flowering discrimination of star approbation--our lives are stellar as its necessary accompaniment. Sentience is its unseen appendage, a star's reach and radiance thru mind appearance. There is no word for heart in my heart. A vessel contains anything but itself. Occasionally there is no verb for comportment to cross waters. My mind has no dialect if I were to tell but memories of sighs, glances, and whispers. The first verse temporal & green was image, the clay smell in the neighboring garden, "hallucination" and primacy in the deep aside. Flowers of constant summer observations, dust mote mortar to the more immense tabernacle. *********** *****A soul, this physical person--the ole guy succouring the fruits in respite, holding up the wall, supposing his work-a-day ethic, sisyphusian daliance professionally. A soul's garb handed-down, and the inheritor by two examples I know, wear deadmen's uniform. I'd say actually--and one of the dudes shared a smoke with the departed before he carried out his would-be identity effacement. An inane choice of assignations who we shall be in the experience of the cloudy migrational loam of society, earth-denizenship receiving memorialized spaces with more earth. Bldgs around us, but the ones in our dreams ignorred, there is everything to believe of white noise vibratory properties these bldgs become if salvation is lent upon any nomenclature the mind proffers. And images can't be anthropomorphic, in as much as sense discovers formlessness all too often. ********* ************Spare nothing but thoughts on enjoying life, the World of Silence waits with approval. Knowledge is sweet; the world is exclusive in its moderation. If one is born of joy and revelation, then appetite is untrialled while the ocean's report is known wholly by the path's thrum into origin's parturition --the radical puddle shed from her earth's garment of cloud's dust & water momentarily exiled. Your last best step at the place you've left behind is ok to jump from, and the last step before you committed a trespass, is another. Leaving yourself in the mindset - as to say behind - is easily spreading yourself too thin. Projecting those moments forward takes active thought. The paradox is the guarantee one sees past moments in the present--yet the imminent fact would have ronched the well-being of our history, where folks maintain their continuity, but not transition. *********** *********Israel rt before the first Intifada. Black turkish coffee under a banana canopy. In front of our usual field, a fathomable ardor under these West Bank desert skies, an unfortunate rat is kicked to death and displayed for ant comsumption. Raining langor and management's prohibitions to amble near the plantations perimeter. Rain and Palestinian lorries to haul a yield of spice plant cum mutant fruit. Week follows week, in all 4, signs in self-reliance & a skittering calendar, a day in each per 4 harvests in November's rain, lends day floes clear otherwise in 6 day intervals. This all seemingly an ironic coincidence. Fauwiz, a Palestinian farmer here to work for Shmuley like me, being in natural camaraderie with we pilgrims and slackers, led me out to a hanging banana bunch, say an 80lbs bunch, with its purple pendular unopened flower, thick and sap filled, to perform its circumcision and place its balm on my machete-cut thumb wound. My fellow traveller and I share Kent cigarettes to squat in repair under a banana leaf during down-pours, to smoke, and query a fertile crescent's missing sun. Subterranean modalities fuel a travelogue found as an ultimate sieve from the place of all my changes. ******** **********The tree outside my window strives vertical and is ornery with outstretched vagrant limbs, reluctant and elegant, impossible to sway. Silent coves in thousandfold orientations in sky architecture-- mollifies in this neighborhood haunted and w/lavender laundry olfaction. The woody trascendent, sentient what-if, leading to blue-dome sunder of a distant star-cousin's cellulose entanglement...in eudaemonian smile. It is observer-self. Here and now it is an integer, the Who of my unconscious, recognizable but not valid intellectus revenue. Lauded but not granting any sensory spoils usual assignations--truly iconoclast, the void within seeks discriminations just by being eclipsed. The "witness" one is evolving through finds observer displayed like margin's guard and in Indonesian shadow marionettes. It's too easy to say inevitably it looks all auyervedic, self-healing, when thought-image is music, shadows tied to voluntas and blood; the sounds jurist would otherwise want similar wane but fluid antedote to meet a fiery escape--thought angels elliptically dispatched. A listener hears prayers by prayer-rugs untravelled function say the blindman's hidden writ underneath it, its use only a shelter from present moment inclemency. But then rock n roll is a gospel Confession. And the East, man--the sinew to the blues you can't eat, is my key of renunciation reveling in the musterion of an exilic ethos. ******** ********When she's gone, then what... Once what gratified and gracefully replete, roseate so many times behind eyelids, yours validating unknowns in whiling tree-stands, has a thousand skyprone yrs of contemplation, when what was written within her is without her too--a cntr from without. Believe yourself, she wouldn't have known you so easily with release, say meditation, her vital ebb is likely where this man finds himself tethered--perhaps the cold light of thought was ornamented & sourced by her and self-preservation (thought's control) would be better esteemed by thought's angel. In times of her nature revealed, only you knew a life's guarantee of mega-transect makes conscious satellite of her placeless & unplaced fate for you. Consciousness is not owned, not its content. You're actually atrophying now to make room for you again in volatile I & I of agonist state... You're there, still--before her approach tho' some self of her is never met. One is tailored to only cultivate her myth. He just please him, telling himself an honest cult of self-reliance has her muse evanescence rendering this or that woman of her aulic eponymy in the book of dreams. ********** *******Having fought in Angola this friend once a soldier in South African army discovered a "terrorist's" fate for me. Only shaddered reflections work for me like prosthetic comportment. It doesn't seem like the same sentient greed to better my confidence, but inanimate liberated forms (thought graffitti) promising to restore me 'pon a cntr from without. The accused baptizing his consequencial self in a stream, I think. The one of extreme african environment, and suffering fount--this heralds what inner-scrutiny is in langor to that of midnight star-gazing--how it embalms neo-tree architecture, its sky thrum. Thoughts like tarrying stones are engrossed by a surface struggle, shimmering awhile like his lucidity, he is seeing jetsam as if the overstanding sky would still be obfuscated by distance. This jetsam coalesces around his hard guffaw, a smile recorded as if, but the sky-line now so apparent on the plastic surface of cool stream, is close, very close--the imminent threat was almost known too, the world squeezing in on him now. *********** *********I want a car that reflects all the lights. I want to take the trafficked this-world's denizens and reverse fates in our travelogue: I will meet the horizon, and this time nothing deprecare born out of necessity, is a plain of experience rather where vessel alights toward moments of release--a blue-dome imminence is the truth nothing adduces. A horizon hangs the sky flowering discrimination of sta r approbation--our lives are stellar as its necessary accompaniment. Sentience is its unseen appendage, a star's reach and radiance thru mind appearance. There is no word for heart in my heart. A vessel contains anything but itself. Occasionally there is no verb for comportment to cross waters. My mind has no dialect if I were to tell but memories of sighs, glances, and whispers. The first verse temporal & green was image, the clay smell in the neighboring garden, "hallucination" and primacy in the deep aside. Flowers of constant summer observations, dust mote mortar to the more immense tabernacle. *********** *******Spare nothing but thoughts on enjoying life, the World of Silence waits with approval. Knowledge is sweet; the world is exclusive in its moderation. If one is born of joy and revelation, then appetite is untrialled while the ocean's report is known wholly by the path's thrum into origin's parturition --the radical puddle shed from her earth's garment of cloud's dust & water momentarily exiled. Your last best step at the place you've left behind is ok to jump from, and the last step before you committed a trespass, is another. Leaving yourself in the mindset - as to say behind - is easily spreading yourself too thin. Projecting those moments forward takes active thought. The paradox is the guarantee one sees past moments in the present--yet the imminent fact would have ronched the well-being of our history, where folks maintain their continuity, but not transition.

Reify the leisure in the suns arising

I was up between 5:30-6. The cool am air was black and ambient like a few moments earlier when I was sleeping under the same caricature of dawn & pitch. Even by a few minutes til 7 o'clock, still as dark out, I'm looking out across the road to the old lady's house while her trees allow a heady nod of tiresome chimera. For a moment the continuity was mantram comfort--mind murmurs of stimulation remoteness & unconcern. The day tho' by its hastened beat still has a poignant absolute before the talking heads in cosmopolitan bivouac show the waking life's foundering time, the frenetic temperature of impatience in its popular throttling. A halloo seems in order - would have for me - the reflections on answers to a manufactured duty, how our world permanently gives a deft account on who it is that peeks thru dormancy to its very dismantling--is the reawakened reification of a sun's leisure. ***** ***********primal dance - abstract gait - aulic wrought reverence, poeses topoi on poplore 88888888-------living, living, going, going, ronching on bionic rats. I wish I could write that in Judeo-arabic. It would be a ghazzal. Nice Arabic word for poem. I think quoting folks consistantly is bullshit. As austere a definition for 1 can be, is to remove the blinds of your reluctance. ********* **********My roommate, as street-prone an individual as I have personally ever been committed to, so to speak, mentions the numbing experience after chemical romance, its affect, was a "check-out" langor and the case of submission to an alienated mind. I imagine the starfield that combusts when one bangs their head, but in the dreigh moment, in approach to a certain loss in expectation, a conscious prop works. The congregate of would-be swirling birds, jammed in a readied conscious betrayal, looks concretized, kind of similar to cooked marrow, white and expellant from sentient greed intensified in extreme barriers to attention. Even without the normative architecture of attention, a question in the nerve is lit, "How do I get back from here?" allays the glazy eye imposture of "knowing" abut in the field of heavy loss of control. Still, this is good enough--a critical dialect is been stultified, thoughts stabbing thoughts, killing the economy of mind, so the enlistment of mental nomenclature where contemplation may regularly alight, is going to again be found in the project of one's worth: like the revenue of time's birth--the despondent midnight-raver's rarified form 'pon the shores of release, an inverted control over attrition toward time's unlikely evasion. ********* ***********The dust particulated on one of these dreidal candles is like traces of sinaitic sands, "just" features to sand media of chimera signatures--Kerouac's found mystics in another arabia, as other as a mystic unsealed, redeeming the once fallow whiling-away. A star of david shaped one mandala-esque could perform on a frozen sea-- a self-same desert but with its entrails presumed a modus vivendi: what is found at its surface is adjured from hollowed depths, life in its most mercurial assertions. Seawater & dust--we are, magnetic earth, and fire to divine human perspective in silent smoke disbursed as it mislocates the ascendant's reverence, like prudent instinct his being received in a state of self-knowing, paradise to the tune of an unexpected caricature of who he once was. Reified in vigilance, a primal gait, fragments of an encounter, the first vivid steps with worthy feet, the ground meets us likely surprised there is no horizon--but only momentarily, there is in fact only moving, becoming, going into relationship, as to the ends of stars' apertures, buried, interred in blue dome, as one can be a star and his limby radiance around you, baby. ********** ********"You Can't Go Home Again" motivates me. Our eyes in Confession's meeting in the reason of lamp light, an inescapable night gotten to as we lurch out of a day from its alliterative dangers. The day of time--sorrowing; day of vast intervals between sabbatical. The sheens of light unperturbed, solid as dust mote so avoidant like a creator's eye sealed upon his world eye skein 'pon appearance derm. The day wrested for respite--the creative, "passive" in its unchallenged revenue. If there is a thought, then there is the principle to thought, the simple beginnings. If there is ... intelligence in the world, then there is its beginning, the intellect. For every condition there is its potential. This simplicity is known as G-d, according to the rationalists: If we dream thereby we must exist. To exist then whence that energy promoted reflection upon the necessary condition, there is a principle to existence. Though it may be beyond a dualistic approach as our minds accord, still one may necessarily expect a principle behind that value. But Prime Mover still remains only a wish. "Value" is a strange word--is only luck if what is implicit in Belief accords with Right Action in the acsendant's reconciling impermanence. Send your impermanence-in-denial regards, I'm sure the dead'll understand. Their ineffable station in the existential loam seems to be the mean of what to "understand" could ever offer out of Greater Will. ******** ********As austere a definition for one can be--his or her self-professional possession of conscious crowd, would-be awakened, is to remove the blinds of their reluctance to discriminate pathlessness in the crowd's repair. Foundational impulses and intentions redound with or without what is implicit in Belief. If my essense may offer something exciting paths of self-profession, it may be parcelled in empty gifts of soulful plateaux, presentiment of self fading in ellipses of path's end: there, there, or there. ********* **********I was up between 5:30-6. The cool am air was black and ambient like a few moments earlier when I was sleeping under the same caricature of dawn & pitch. Even by a few minutes til 7 o'clock, still as dark out, I'm looking out across the road to the old lady's house while her trees allow a heady nod of tiresome chimera. For a moment the continuity was mantram comfort--mind murmurs of stimulation remoteness & unconcern. The day tho' by its hastened beat still has a poignant absolute before the talking heads in cosmopolitan bivouac show the waking life's foundering time, the frenetic temperature of impatience in its popular throttling. A halloo seems in order - would have for me - the reflections on answers to a manufactured duty, how our world permanently gives a deft account on who it is that peeks thru dormancy to its very dismantling--is the reawakened reification of a star's leisure. ************* ******** I felt I should've shown deference for Valerie where otherwise I had not. I tend to stave off the mystery, or the draw, while getting what makes it opportune fulminate. It is my attempt to be intricate in all the artifacts of my well-being... I thought about the two most influencial women in my life last night when I took a drag off of my cigarette. Mom in her own way remains untallied. When I ex haled I tasted incense in my mouth. I imagined Alison's breath channelling thru me. In dreams they've both, Valerie & Alison, been emulated in musing dynamic, how my interests would enliven my brand of relativity out of headwaters thru symetrical sensuality these women allow. Alison not only thru past dispensation draws me into her maternal wisdom in remote sanction, but out of a completely different chamber in the cosmic house.A place of little actual daliance. Almost but not quite negligible because I sorted out her influence in contemporary assignations, though Valerie as significant other's agency is subtle traditional rappore & of course in current form a solace in what I feel I need. Rather they are a furrow in the same garden assuming the season of difference, tho' I'm inclined to wander from its access to the fruit born of both their qualities. Mrs Abraham-Lakes with the superable vantage, her reach through me is expression for my rapt grasp. If I know I approach the stellar nerve, light-vessel sound-angel to wander bank to bank, sensual poles of intimacy, making Valerie secondary, of course this wouldn't work. My sense that she is the substance in everything beautiful seems to develop "shared"-- the quality of her sauntering love where I lie alone with her but reaching for release as her star's gleaming appanage. From the very real etiquette I'm imagining verily all women thru the looking glass into her sweet earth agency... in the end beauty is elusively tethered to certainty how she is meant for me, Valerie... is still as anonymous in the love of a strange career in my fate. Valerie. Sweet Valerie. Anonymous? Think Ideal Mystery, exotic taste, those lips. This is precisely not waxing poetic over long time ago relationship. I think I'm able to develop a different sensitivity toward who I would have loved once--that I am in love now. And what that makes me imagine in the sea of possibilities, is my life moving toward a goal and reunion now. I don't leave myself behind doors of my past. Nostalgia is not what I accomplish here, I think. In the likely event the reader wouldn't know--Valerie & I expect a reunion sometime next yr. She's got out-of-state responsibilities...

Great Historian: Paul Kriwaczek

Before the news and after having nepalese tea & a last cigarette, I went out front yesterday to play my cunga drum. Everytime I imagine a stall in what I would ever communicate in percussion, the channel of something primary has an inept beginning itself. The second I placed my hand on the skin a single skyborn raindrop meets my slowly brown-spotted aged hand. The gray overcast was in filmy dust respiring provenance, again I qualify emasculation in bitter what-ifs--what if the air was something I knew about? What if the flush cool was ambrosia theoria, a garment of pillaresque winds to prove me stately & prone--not reduced to vacuity, gray melancholy and an infinite redound in playing to an unhearing blue dome? But getting full-up in yet a compromised bluey vessel, and my cup on offer as I know it, somewhere in its recesses the shadows make sense, the very sun's shadow, something more immanent - that it resides within appearance obfuscated - radiates with more truck than our emotional sun: the sun embowers me, and the sun is in its undoing embowered by a macro-cosmos. ******** **********I bet a good eau de parfum would be burnt oak leaves: porch-sittin' thought while reading a minimum of Jack Carol wic-wic wack's "some of the dharma" - a singular dweet, warble & knowing. I swear by a tree, gashing firmaments of black balloon memoria thing-actual. The trees look quickened with egyptian headiness, "void leaves" J.K's language, xenotropic with a thousand coves hiding the bark and toil response of tree ubiquity, which has spoken to humankind for a 100,000 yrs. En het enyeh: the castle of my eternity--pharonic in cool breeze, eyes cease, and all is wonderment. We the green ascendant leisurely never answer back--trees halloo, makes blue dome liMit wallow in preachment, circumvents the indefinite skein of moderation & emotion to which personhood alights. Manna fell from siniatic trees, an ant expectorant from acacia sweet tree sap. Propolis salve out of their veins, auyerveda slow night nurse smiles into the night to remember your new day sorted out in golden age boughs. *********** *********On Casten rd up in the Catskills one summer, I established certain train of thought, a sense of ethical levity in writings from Pumbadita and Sura, towns 2000 yrs ago in Babylon's vicinity, kehilla (Jewish community) supporting the first writers of the Talmud. A talmid is a student of Jewish ethical writings, "eternal" is the root word of "talmud, talmid". The other world-view experiement in tru th was edutaining Native American history, which was as spectral an event really until visiting Chaco Canyon, the wooded northern haunts incumbering and framing the natural world belonging to those easily closer to it than my cosmopolitan thought revenue could speak to. If I hadn't committed certain sovereignty to Judaism, that it would have performed in my mind as intellection's scaped-chattel & gray cloudy gnashings 'pon sacerdotal hearth, Native American to wax poetic in some kind of birth of another diaspora, would have been as peak in gainsay what transcendence couldn't have offered otherwise. *********** *******Post-Oxford intensive study: Once upon a time by the Red Sea. In Eilat, southerliest Israel, the Peace Cafe was nerve cntr to we europeans of every sort, british rednecks, rabble all and where I saw raw feelings in unjust moments & not being able to speculate on spending a shekhl, restoring monies still suspending me in unplanned chances of victuals being proffered later. I was becoming less and less sensitive to an essense until then revealed, now feeling anticipation supposing 'tis enough to know I was framing intentions on a gem-mind gone hellion and raiment-free to ornament intersection of well-being & the present moment. But, a tea in hand this one occasion, I went up to the one dude obviously looking past these moments, verifies he sees no one as resolute as his projection into the Negev. A mountain in intimate backyard setting looking into Amazonian terrain, makes a distant Negev mt an appanage of his butterfly consternation, the target of homeward aerobatic march one day soon, he submits. Into an abyss that made mine rejected - out of daemon aulic rhetorician, I feel I am told he's in the court of a king whose left no known anointed if the weapon of my lousy dispensation dispatches expansive truth arbitor--would-be assessors, in limbo telos before I can look past too. ******** ***********In a mild pocket of one winter, I dreamt a.c. outside my window inducing a glassy vexating wall, auditive chamber of chimera dialect. Within I felt courted in frictive origins, has me assess a field of possibilities discriminated now by the tool, yantra, the mosaic in mind media of a.c. mechination, sounding out random & inevitable stage where life performs as from the look and feel of where I le ap--this somewhere excluding too many unfielded possibilities. Mummer as opposed to birdsong makes skin-toned auditive hulking hearer spited in visualization method; careering fellowship with daliance and muses behind the unfolding week in liquid awash vesper glances leaves me attending horizons to experience the tongue withdrawn from a well of silence. ******* ************In solitude if allowing what excersizes my time there, language awash, anyone would speak to themselves more slowly. You will wonder at the languish to defend hearing, as it were, yourself, once the daemon rhetorician within leaves without assignation. "The felled tree" becomes, t-h-e f-a-l-l-e-n..., even stunted leaving mantra-slavery in ever more lapsed completion. If one speaks slowly inward, lapping up like waves against the mind's eye, he or she see more and more the illusion, illusion, that inner-attention is misdirected. The world in its mean ascension bade our silence and the mind is provenant. Outside my open window last night I listened to the gentle thwack of leaves falling out of the battle-weary front yard tree. I kept seeing one or two thought-parchment leaves getting away from wrested semi-permanence of their allied season's trifoliate taking their ornamental obfuscation in a bed under the tree. Out aloft streetlight high with more radical intentions, the avenue would trace the escapees agnosticism. ********* ***********While I smoke cigarettes, it seems to vent from my bones and teeth, rather than my lungs and sinuses. It is terrible to loose body consciousness that rarifies the event of suspiring. The sense that I am more corporate langors in mnemotechniques--cellular memory is merely the disruption from last night's last cigarette. To speak of Kaskurbeh, a Native American elucidator of tobacco use, is referri ng to the guy who first cultivated tobacco. Every night K's wife would ask him to go watch the stars with her to the edge of red rock massifs--imagining high desert here where they live is probable. The path to their awesome look-out has a stream, and as this native cosmic house-maiden crosses every night, K follows her yet to her demise: she throws herself over inevitably. He takes the carcass and drags her across some meadow or field, the narrative says, and her bones in the loam produce the tobacco for the proselytic enjoyment. The high is endo-skeletal, seems plausible in that her body basically deossifies and then represents the plant: symbolic death framed is sublime chaos, like a greedy earth eager to give-up its numinous succour, baring out anew an extremis repose... The shadow cast by trees next to this Lex corridor, looks like a draped grocery bag, denying contours of the produce within. Cars are belched from the crest of hill, beyond my sight, and are tamed by the empty rapt presage of the day. If my shadow was a mirror, mouthfuls of fire would dot it--out of them comes the pollution of my philosophy at the present moment. ******* **********" Vas makst a yid? - I thought of the following only today. Remembering Ohavay Zion before the move, and before that. Thought I'd share...really just felt like venting to the picture on the wall of Mom. I think the hebrew (signs, letters), if it copies and you can see it, should elicit the creative as deep aside: nothing there to haul but origins & poeses, and assure a schedule floe in what soaked a sense of Higher Ground for those reflecting, in this case that of study. While the exiled and its gravid implications to be exiled are prosyletic (warners), the exhorting with bluey spiritual language technology over tremendum, fascinans, and mysterium experience of kaddosh, קאַדדאָש holiness, I've seen more interestingly defined as "other." In my youth attending Hebrew class early-on, one afternoon Devorah (fellow student) was having a conversation with rabbi in Yiddish, ייִדיש. Yiddish is mostly Hebrew-Germanic written in Hebrew characters. Their calling back and forth with rabbi outside the classroom and in his office, and to my left Devorah channeling this ghetto language past me, white noise-cum-colored audition, language in its exclusivity of deprecare, to seek to avert, say, objective reality if it were concretized, consoled me in yet the ignorance of content. Still in my Yiddishe-kupf, Jewish head, ייִדיש קאָפּ then is the weird style of Hebrew being written from right to left, and the phenomena of alliteration in upside-down context - in effect recommending the "word" approachable & facile by any inversion. ************ **********In southern-most Israel I worked with Emmanuel, a Ghanese dude, in a tile factory, home depot kind of place. The African influence tho' mollified if only in foodstuffs, I noted from a can of South African pineapple, before Eilot, while I supped at the moshav, a communal farm--here I harvested bananas notably for sale to Palestinians in the main. In Eilot, down from the factory, or warehouse--whatever it was, a bleak jail sits where I heard what seemed to be yelling, maybe torture I reckoned, feeling subsumed enlisting the event of my liberation and youthful trek. Emmanuel seemed even more inculcated in some kind of limbo Israelis appropriated in that foreign workers like my fellow factotum only advanced something pragmatic but with equal force while dealing with their lambastic employers. Job 1 executed, leaves me to the streets and Red Sea shores where people-watching, Europeans vacationing mostly, lent the demographics of street urchins and wanderers to exemplify release. Elite vodka flowing freely was the rally point in libations--I mixed mine with Boysenberry juice--ended up thinking I was wrong and suicidal in my rare state of drunken swoon. Only after we get back from Egypt does the other illicit drug use begin, excusing the one hit of acid we split in Jerusalem. But, in Israel hashish would have gotten us in trouble--a more socially inviting and advertised indulgence--maybe jail could have been our fate, likely roughed-up while threatened with litigation and sent back to the states. ******** ***********My roommate, as street-prone an individual as I have personally ever been committed to, so to speak, mentions the numbing experience after chemical romance, its affect, was a "check-out" langor and the case of submission to an alienated mind. I imagine the starfield that combusts when one bangs their head, but in the dreigh moment, in approach to a certain loss in expectation, a conscious prop wo rks. The congregate of would-be swirling birds, jammed in a readied conscious betrayal, looks concretized, kind of similar to cooked marrow, white and expellant from sentient greed intensified in extreme barriers to attention. Even without the normative architecture of attention, a question in the nerve is lit, "How do I get back from here?" allays the glazy eye imposture of "knowing" abut in the field of heavy loss of control. Still, this is good enough--a critical dialect is been stultified, thoughts stabbing thoughts, killing the economy of mind, so the enlistment of mental nomenclature where contemplation may regularly alight, is going to again be found in the project of one's worth: like the revenue of time's birth--the despondent midnight-raver's rarified form 'pon the shores of release, an inverted control over attrition toward time's unlikely evasion. ********* **********The dust particulated on one of these dreidal candles is like traces of sinaitic sands, "just" features to sand media of chimera signatures--Kerouac's found mystics in another arabia, as other as a mystic unsealed, redeeming the once fallow whiling-away. A star of david shaped one mandala-esque could perform on a frozen sea-- a self-same desert but with its entrails presumed a modus vivendi: what is found at its surface is adjured from hollowed depths, life in its most mercurial assertions. Seawater & dust--we are, magnetic earth, and fire to divine human perspective in silent smoke disbursed as it mislocates the ascendant's reverence, like prudent instinct his being received in a state of self-knowing, paradise to the tune of an unexpected caricature of who he once was. Reified in vigilance, a primal gait, fragments of an encounter, the first vivid steps with worthy feet, the ground meets us likely surprised there is no horizon--but only momentarily, there is in fact only moving, becoming, going into relationship, as to the ends of stars' apertures, buried, interred in blue dome, as one can be a star and his limby radiance around you, baby. ******* ***********I'm late for winter--tho' it could be framed as per a desert-scape, the Sinai as I read about it in Walking the Bible, by Bruce Feiler, is a desert of an entirely different animal. I'm elaborating on a pretty evident reason why manna was thought to be the astral-substance attested to in the Old Testament. An ant remembers its wasp life. The green ant dreams under his mere acacia tree as exclusive to the ant so desperate a tree for less the prodigy of its desert's possession. The potency of and martial exuberance thru the crystaline sugar looking-glass the ant eats and finds its wasp ancestor adjured, is a shared feast. The wasp came and stayed; now a tree is in no permiss of continuity, incumbent only in a sky's monist state. So, there are other skies, but the acacia lives in enfeoffment-- its manna tears, and demur muse, giving-up to the Most-I or Sky in loci all or nothing fealty. Clemency in a tree's welfare, she awakens only in distant suzerain compulsion--but it is her awakening. It is the ant's becoming. ******** ***********I didn't cipher the direction the thoughts would come. Something intuitive over feeling had me look past rosy-color's subject to rather not so receptive-a-feeling as mindfulness that this color is all media to all subjects and artifacts of self, its media 'pon which I am written. Down streamy cusps of plashing visual waves, I only knew it was immanent. The author was ineffable, but I know I am he re yet inimitable. Identity approbates that these thoughts makes subject the approval of thoughtlessness, daemon martyring the closed crowd white noise-cum-colored audition, in his exclusivity of deprecare, to seek to avert, say, objective reality if it were concretized, still consoles me. Language so the vehicle with clarion but violent engine - thoughts accession in its abstract gait, or concourse , a path meeting the weird style of Hebrew permutations but ones choice in any ideographia meets the sentiment. Hebrew being written from right to left, and the phenomena of alliteration in upside-down context, because the reader might do this in large measure whilst what is read mitigates an essential mind - in effect recommending the "word" approachable & facile by any inversion, has a world of conscious prop, the frisson of marvelly self-awareness. ****** *********I figured out what I was trying to accomplish here looking into the finished skein of a puddle in my driveway--my face 1/2 a foot from being drenched. I did think about it. It was kind of a portal to china or in its place everything and and everyone to look as it were down on them on the otherside of the earth. No negative sense like I got some objectivity, but that folk seemed few and thus corralled in one visage. Dylan makes an interesting comment about there being no more folk, and that is made way for "poplore."

polygons and the razor's edge

POLYGONS OF LEPID'S SURVEY, WHERE HE WOULD LAND: I felt sure in some sense that memory espoused better than vapors a thing hidden in plain sight, withheld in the redound presence mine with the mission of its acquiry. I knew it was there and felt sullen not all of this plain of experience was objective (leaving little to expedite and sort out?) and still alighted to summary feeling more proliferate. The spry essense (nothing avails) and expense to go to find a lighter in this case ... sitting right in front of me, and I couldn't see it, sussed and not revealed. And so I reached there, my arm jagged as if pitch lightning furrows out of my head. It was there. ************* *************Eat the glass. The mask had cranberry glass vase-like quality, not chandelier like--like a King presenting his magnificense--but a vessel w/coloured noise & white noise in it maybe. Biting something from a perfect surface, as this glass! & then harvesting blueberries out of conscious clouds. On may way and going for well-being now past. *********** ************Sometimes not so terminal, and still::: I told her in the media of mind whisper, that daemon attendant I wondered about when it knelt in her lair, I spoke more usually to her than you selecting from my menu open. The same smoggy witness couldn't wallow in intercession long, I saw you as any caricature self-reflective, courting the same world's trampled path. And you're at this bridge in the reach of elusive authenticity, an oceanic-interred relativity, an open nerve born out of it & rooted into your heart's trough--primarily hidden of sensorial entanglement: It is awesome that you care--a roseate sun committed to our shadow's yawn. I ask in dream coloured noise, lofty issuant light mummer 'pon my brow, "How would it feel if I killed for you?" It would be something in me. Unfortuantely I am strained with that ability--I imagine you've been as statistical as ubiquity in the same-sea, auyervedic dispatched to sterile and neutral emotions... ************** ***********I'm adjured thru valiant ends some cult of self-reliance--in other words, I am cultivating the box in the stow of now, at the top of the stairs. (non-institutionally) Sign of diminutional mind getting past mind regarding sentient greed is a glyph of distance strung, education from the absurd teacher finding you, then method and discipline--timely mythos, numinous in the wield of thought's control & its inadequacy: sign, education, then discipline--these are the tripartite hearing we ought to give what language technology locates in things like G*d, the Existential, & as Gandhi recommended experimentation in consciousness. Knowledge is good, and practical knowledge isn't understood at the face of critical "meditations" of one's Belief as being negative (criticism), just because it defies the subject-you have become to see it (Logos, mythos, pistis--its enlistment. Knowledge.) in observably self-professional terms. If self-profession is threatened, look at the razor's edge that alighted you-the ascendant to standards to give no stay of those real & phantom dangers. The danger now is objectivity toward m0re change. ************ **************4 tinkers, a pair and their tools above - another pair seated at street level with their sundry berth closer, closer to the current of human market place. 4 cornered repair to alight personally if intentions seem clear, 1 looks over accruing contemplation and concord. These Cairenes in elegant & animal behaviors while sharing libations & victuals--think continental breakfast (black chai) and foulle, usually fava beans, what food is eaten tastes like senses aweful?--like a splendid & stupendous kind of aweful, in consuming uncultivated hrs apace simply getting outside oneself, when their trading's success fallows. The most literate of the quorum is resigned to a vigilant wish, which the other interpret as hopeful. ************* *************Mountainous day. I woke up at its peak. If a mountain lapses from groan to sigh, the sea had preference. J. K. says, "Truth is a pathless land, it is a pathless land." Imagine: at your leave and upon the valley's moment dissolute after the mountain is in its first notice & refinement. You step out and away, now halfway home... Are you projecting into reception, and of what kind? Isn't the mountain, the razor's edge, informing you in the gloss of the land, something would lie in the way? The mt is the most acceptable of what belies us temporally, but superably. So, one might bring Nangar parbet in the Himalayas ithru the window framing of a giant leap this one place amongst Western plastique. ********* *************I criticize solicitious psychologies, thinking that so & so has actually done me a favor now that I am knowing better. I like my mind full of courage I can't have made similar mistakes--and then in unlikely ways I am fenced-in with middling affect that I can't stand on merely this to deny static personality politics of experience goo. There is real & realistic. It is real I will have gotten weary giving a damn--and realistic no one would change for self-reflective reasons. ********** *************I blinked between chaos and the stay of the moment. I'm palimpsest like a monadic odor--or nomadic breath, freed in Sinai radiations and Cairene effulgence, I'm gritting at its antiquity. Sweating but in cooler shadows of the night coming, my first evening in Cairo is in sum my more marauding thought and pretensions I should especially be gratified at my brother's recommend to observe the green neon of bombast ornamenting of the masjids, mosques. Out into the streets behind the Americana, where we stayed, I see the only really lighted cityscapes, white lights in randomly ordered array, and then at 11 o'clock directionally I see past al-Dokki highway major thoroughfare, red neon. A marvelly color I felt the least readied to associate an otherwise green of paradise foisted ideal in my cryptic illusions what Yemeni Jews have in common with kallam, a sophisticated discussion Muslim's developed on the Language of G*d, Jews proffering as much in their mysticism. Green is a chromo value in the Place of peace, what language appreciates to orient the acolyte. In the mundi vox I could assume at the moment it might have been little pillow-army mummers--ants in regimented pedestrian winds, wack horns in gray hearth roads, muezzin channeling Billal, or I know I should hear the witnessing begin & resume. ************* ************In partite sluiced light rays I lie down brow upon an open book ciphering funky (unsophisticated in extent) formulaic thought of Madam Blavatskii. Andrapradesh comes up in magnetic curious some-place my nodding to its complacency (not had) to relent its offering my negotiable east. Wintry solace behind black thread white thread blinds, I'm compelled from the dreigh possibilities a tendrilly grip in my uncensored ceto-vimutti, the theosophy would have these mind affects, mind of category, you may choose (in mission) or discipline in humility, and in interests' volley thoroughgoing in a poorly resolved school. But the school of rapt student is of the daemon's enlistment to inner-scrutiny. For the grammar of this type content, Quail Creek in Austin had relicks of time's splay in immense apprehensions all-not-mine if what sweet waters meant is become an entirely different journey - if merit belongs to fate. Each moment defers to it like 10 doors to the same room or 10 fractures out of the same principal fountain. Earth tabernacle, gates to the forest's infancy alighting from limbs unpinned (of the wanderer), fruit unshed, sheltering boughs in quest. ************ ***********One shouldn't get caught-up over-elaborating what it is one is understood through. To steal a social travail, but apply what thin-line definition it is if one martyred language, radicalized toward a path nigh--to speak on imminent concerns, an instant record to man's intra-mantra slavery, the key revealed is to disguise one in moderation if pendular tremendum damned the ascendant to the fray. It is easy and recommended to do precisely not what everyone else does. ("recommend" is elastic here) Even in the enlistment of our likenesses that serves conveniently--spirituality isn't lock-step in usual ways or unusual ways. Imagine a Believer saying, "I go to temple because I get what 'I am' there for." Are they saying, Let's start what we've come in the room to do? It appears the building of our relent on the reins of salvation could have been unbuilt, and he or she would have been better for it. It would be just this experiment in truth--the Om colored & white noise filtering an indefinite chorus toward a vernacular to moderate the gratuity in crowd consciousness, an ego! University, a general sense-grammar on human family, as this visceral measuring of our body and mind in ascent or promotion, would be the experience of the one as the many. *********** **********Looking thru a yawn of road-runner outback, Texas bigger-biggness characterizing this road mom and I were driving down. From the vantage point where mom had pulled off and stopped, was entreating bloodclot say under the road and thru some flash of osmosis it bares a black pitch dao trans-infinitive, me one current sheath pondering, cresting upon a much graver body of the same. ************* ************I'll be here Less tomorrow, than and I am right Now. What is this life become, rather than Who Am I? So, the present consumates all past and potency for future. *********** **********Imagine in the beginning of the epic film Gandhi, Bapu & Kasturbai are re-inacting their marriage vows: the mutual tasting of sweet bread, circumambulating, they were, and the cultivation by apt human inspiration religion or self-actualization, lifts mundane earth into the mouthfuls of hope. There's a phantasmagoria of charged appetite sometimes from the taste of bread--many imagine. I sharpened sensitivity while factotum deliverer of this & other super-sensual victuals, money for it in my fist, I wasn't mystic, this, I was waving 'pon surf n turf. Dar al Islam halal circumspect, bread can't be cut, it's torn, don't wipe your hands on it--the prophet says tear it with your teeth as well. There is even a 3 second rule, if a mouthful of bread should drop...spare none for the devil. Most of the time in epicurean tote its ebullience was left uneaten by me & I became alligned in diet consciousness to something mantram couldn't alliterate in such coarse animal rigor--just running and eating rich foods. Walnuts, hazelnuts, cabbage, oats, tofu, & meat & bread--something that helped me think. Out in Swift Camp Creek trails--I had been lost there once--my brother and I made a fire and toasted Zadie's baked rye. My appetite wasn't uniform then, but I waxed easily ciphering dank woods from the yeast oblivion an aromatic molecular difference wholly insignificant. ********** *********איך וועט זייַן וואָס איך וועט זייַן*** A contract in honesty: To sue the future toward futile higher ground as to suffer pilgrimage now so that intuition yields salvation ill-defined by an assumed key to musterion. Propitiation in karmic avowal: My garment of existence levered society-self between ornamented timeliness to shed a more obvious dreamcoat. Some of my books have a graft of brain demarcations in them. Mom's mystic books had this magnetic Rorschach luminary prop, this first wealth poured in necessary vessel measured in suspiring breath, dusty hands peeling back mind haunts, definitions in mummering sun motes. ************ **********started political--but solipsism is monarchical--I may decide on the 1rst step into perception has left the world prone** The lens of core-culture, whatever that vehicle of populace may say--think about who one throws in with, in plastique romance, your appetites--how one is allowed to retrieve social conscience, however trivial, and what gives rises to insecurities, is a source of humility and human perspective. A lesson to inculcate, not to argue with the same reverence to retreat in confessional auspices in the same furious climate like pavement blandished souls--the other's lack of self-consciousness in splaying beck we ought to be somewhere we aren't now... Spirituality should feel unusual to those who'd seek. Unusual upon reflection over inciting relief from conformism--your own. If the moon is painted spiritually true, her ciphering is memory on encumbering boughed night, mothernight revelation, and her daytime revolution nature asking for subtlety.

In the vein of a different kinda cyber cloud

doing a little different cyber cloud: Half the day in the contour of timeliness of any rising sun, a novel beginning to imagine, and I can barely cross the room, don't even test it - feeling every bit the prone observer emptying - loading begins, just streamy - kinda fleeting secret of nothing. Mom smoking playing on the computer, my brother's exquisite pencil portrait of Anne Frank 'pon the wall while I tremulously style the day the yr the ? in a target of dust motes & tea to drink, milked from ostyuden veins, flinching at a certain grace in his inverse Jewishness crazy Ginzberg in a remarkable place my violently psychotic cousin occupies. His sisters are all brilliant - I wished I coulda served the same g*d. I think I do in an apophatic ethos. Right now I'm gonna look for Delroy Wilson's, Slim Smith's...? Rub up Push up, if I dance I live. It's no medicine, but a turbercular mind's only recourse to restore & appeal stern teacherly numinous by a cauterizing sea. I'm borrowing a noble movie artifact on suffering and the heightened status of passporte observer w/wizened hero's mask, as when Papillion finds himself at the shore of a leprosy colony, there he'll find sea-craft. Maybe as in a certain melancholy drift today this Sunday gray with a new guise on what blue laws left up in me, impulsive-currents is entirely the same sea, if sea legs dance in roiling blue-beat (listen/read: rock steady or ska), alone while received old brown meets the temporal. The sea empties of those lastly using its spirit fount as tonic, a dionysian answer, she's chased us from the glazy eye nomenclature of earth to its aerobatic philosophy reaped terrestrially--trodding is the dance of easy-speak. ************* *********** The thought one reads and borrowed out of behavior ward, one mask in the hall in one hero's haunt, would look strange or inversed actually, a watery glyph and not at all the precision of mind's demand of order--these thresholds, if expressed splaying and hortatory padded hands cultivated a greedy reception. Human perspective is in its first media our having clave to a life accused, to control things uncertain in pondering phantasamagoria, impelling shadow-selves meeting us like footfall razors steps. The path that meets us is the paradox of the path which punishes us for its potential--likely "mitigations" of where we ever will be--I'm likely to believe it might be followed to my cessation. Because I sit here and bring avowal paths trickling before me in field of possibilities, sighs or whispers make the temporal a goal and thus reckoned pathless. ************* *************** Sometimes I get the urge to call, feel compelled to try, but can't imagine she is suppose to answer. I was in bank to bank ambulation, one week to the next, wanting her to rally the troop(s). Demand my attention in the guise of distance str ung, with deference to symbols of our love only I can see. She tells me she's invested in our future--the narrative, as deft toward the realistic as my passion in shadowed assignation can remark, must be good enough, and tho' poorly evident in silent retreat, the silence is rather a fiery murmur, with only longing to shovel the coals.********* ****************** I kEEp adding to this--this should be a final draft:: In an unravelling blue slumber, the day seems unsympathetic to startle in affect much of a bridge to bounty its long ends. The dreamy lens lent unshorn (of night chimera) left the room unremarkable, streamy unlighted by the settling points my eyes musingly reserve. Valerie was less a project in a day's emergence than she is fascinans in still night of sighs & glances, a moon festival's delight consumed by a thrum pilgrimage and dream-shroud donned. And this day is like the hand in my head no longer in a greedy grasp on identity, but delivering it to you. And yours is a phantam acknowledgment. You haunt the cowls of my translator face masking sentience of my mind in renunciation dream over the time giving character to our distance. Sometimes I get the urge to call, feel compelled to try, but can't imagine she is suppose to answer. I was in bank to bank ambulation, one week to the next, wanting her to rally the troop(s). Demand my attention in the guise of distance strung, with deference to symbols of our love only I can see. She tells me she's invested in our future--the narrative, as deft toward the realistic as my passion in shadowed assignation can remark, must be good enough, and tho' poorly evident in silent retreat, the silence is rather a fiery murmur, with only longing to shovel the coals. ************** ********** Know why you hear what you hear. Imagine the "volley" and that you felt impressed to tote the concern. Out of bound things, or toward the margins of experience? The Call of a Mullah, the rally pivot "dovening" of Orthopraxy Jew. The aerobatic guffaw violence of pathetic fires--a world burned, and we've only named it home impatiently remembering impermanent records. There is a difference. Thought leans upon the standard of intimacy, practical or impractical self-preservation. One only manifests what is--so if say xenophobia appreciates, the impulse to demand a Right from resignations in this detainment--certainly a mystery, and definitely your fate--this space and point of reflection, will have the content of one's reserve jettisoned. Experience, not the "politics of experience," but reality is in its refrain only going to moderate the effect of what it is like to indulge in our interests. It'll make restorative sleep without mission-ready compliant restive action of the day its necessary conscious pocket--meaning, you think less on it, this caricature ally self in serene blue slumber, while evading a furling of the least of your responsibilities.************ ***********Is Love. If you and I should work on an ideal circumstance, your uprising heat forced the frozen sea within sating the otherwise purdition without you, of only to think upon each other--an idea as between us, ideation on the experience of this love, your feminine understanding will become necessary in congress, would arise with fire.************ *********I am unleashed to experience a life of liberty. But now I have space to contend with. Space thoroughgoing the compassionate edifice as well as relationship's edifice variegated are modalities receiving-architecture in what is toxic nigh. Compassion is goal, but truth withwhich a certain navigation in a prepared and prone moment would only then reveal immediacy abideth the ascendant's humilty. Had one still been detained in his/her approach, leashed, the distance would be levelled in a giant leap. Who we are and a reason to be sustained tho' now exiled thru auspices in liberated ways = alighted to the possibilities in human perspective, is by looking within and knowing scrutiny reveals why one should prosecute identity.******** ***********The thing that made the sun have a shadow of its own--the face it shown. Lie your head down and on the same plane, maybe your head with your pillow flush, have a book open with a piece of artwork even already intelligible, already digested. The transparent yield of an author's voice is pivoting and he/she maps poesis clueing in the reader, whose standard starts subdued in the crease emptying of le tter permutations. But this is only an example of the imagination in practical use, getting reduced to hidden in plain sight auditive review in author's filament voice. The appeasement to go-on-lay-your-head still has slumber to count of its cloud-hooks. What scrabble now of even formative subjects, classic subjects in trees flowers sky blue dome swathes crowding the more peopled lens one salutes by instinctual conformity--everything leads to the beck of a face beaming expression, attributing a sighing perspective that beauty looks back, or danger takes to your resting eyes as if it's the first taste of merciless unknowns, but just a face. And symmetry to be the object of requested meaning is mind-appearance, incorporate meaning, this appetite and a certain discipline to the imagination.************ **************Biking is likely the closest thing to flying if bird's eye view would appertain. One, we would imagine ourselves as pedestrian, as opposed to good swimmers. Meaning, a swimmer I'm guessing affirms what they do is flight. Yes, true, but not aerobatic--which is the same field of possibilities shared terrestrially. And two, if biking is about intuition over what lays in his/her path obtrusive in some sense--demands of navigation, then once the rider experiences out-of-body acuity, flight is become sensorial. Truly obviously other activities resonate--but the esteem biking commands is an excelsior thing how amongst trafficked city-scape, a natural objective to sky and earth fellowship winds down roads in a contract of honesty: not having to "borrow" much to level the biker having been marginalized.************ ************I'm all for seeing out West on a train, Bukowskii and companion child, what he the sarcastic poet means, calling the sea ugly. Some kind shrouded traveller as upon a train--I've been on two, E. Berlin & Cairo to Luxor. Then one more time in visualization, lent in dreams later and in dreams of aspiring sober ethic, what is otherwise grandfatherly framed from name to eponymy. What I call the self-same sea, a frozen ocean (within)--Kafka mentions just that surface he'd hit with a hammer, evidently the discrimination over nothing, magnificate interment of compassionate void .******* *********What may be impervious in the broadcast of this objective reality, places receiving but offer lax condoling in herd mentality that somewhere is sensorial, can be re-placed imagining your Dad's car smell.****************************A flurry of visual apparitions would occur to me apposite the alliterative goal supposed upon the floor of my library, bathroom. While sometimes people speak my mind, the material void--this place arising mutually with mind appearance--reflects it. Scholarly exudation still persists like white fire media divulging black fire symbolic universe (the donning of writ) to score dispensations where expression has me gainsay mere memories likely the dregs of images demanding placement.********************Salman Rushdie is the blob of light, rapacious over his letters in the skein of my thoughts.... Reading "Fury" tho' there is more revealed East/West-wise in his other books, a contemporary orientation I think more relevant. My thought goo is the following:: In abridgment in status times I could walk in a room and naturally not call a friend My man, or have his conventions-sake shoulder to pat in c onvenience of the familial. Now there are just a couple of folks I may immure with with such conduct, still with a sense they've trod in african profiles conversation over their forward aft head assuming I'm picking up from behind. The naked emblem of his dust having settled 'pon convalescent soul unsated, barely persists like a tremor of transformation if only how I am understood is afoot. Valerie in her own world looks nuptial-rapt in intercourse with her arc and lumbering 'flect into object reality. I know her more or less accepting me thru a similar lens of dithering unglossed me filing by far-from-unearthed social-living.************* ************My solace commits me to her discrete reproven unplaced ritual. She apprehends remote sanction, moves in stereo in mind theater, while the hero stages his presence as if to recite love's provenance in a dull mirror. In my last dream of her I found myself down by the Mediterranean, at the Gates of Hercules as I visualized from letters with approbation its sedentary clemency in lulling night--rocky earth meeting the voluminous eddying Atlantic in effect. I split the surface, went under and found my pained mosquito heated heart under wretched antiquity shellfish perturbations. When I bring it to the surface, the sun proffers definitions of its wrought-idealizing that I am chosen in plastique emptiness--dressed in pollution, I gather her garment of light is of the same-sea. If I were to discriminate the emptiness, a heart bi-sects the world in blue ubiquity, gets written in its passionate scheme, but only after it is prised from a sea of possibilities, revealed at the last meeting relationship would ever appertain.************* *************Imagine, your anger will never meet something as definitive as the rational event occurring to you. P'raps you couldn't have known enough to illustrate accurately just where the emotion is directed--so only a harried fulfillment. Still, ignorance on par with desire (relished vengence?), if only to promote the saccharine identity, proceedth with rank relationship lulling prone upon the banks of the heart, finding oneself there out of the seat of wonder. The fire is extinguished and passion is ignited when there are no limits to ones reception--but either that happens or the ascendant is bowering explexis conduct. Ultimately the decisor artifact seems to profess (the world in animated fact) to Observer selves asking for moderation, and its easiest rendering is pathlessness.*********** **********

Boughs with unlikely thousands of coves

Cold-cool destiny is all that vigilance having so little to do with the present moment and yet, whether the now then-revealed was expected answers, one is certain something more auspicious is in order of a preachment in theoria. Lent of an appreciating meditation, makes vigilance a goal like being concealed in one's car while the window frames this or that day's horizon, & nothing properly pedestrian. Vanishing space in artwork finished--an etiquette & posturing of a mystery, and not to be out done by more interpretation. As to say, no path is safe without a natural tarmac. Here unknown ledger of truths born to die in the pivot of one shadow in one life's egress thru travelogue of traipsing across merely one room (or region--or field of possibilities) are to extinguish but one bliss craven candle lick.**************** **************Jumping from the Presbytarian church roof into sorta the courtyard tho' born out to a couple of acres to the road, a terresterial threshold of a greater yield toward my caprice after the ascent into the steeple, seemed vital--on the ground--thru stars of living nations emulatiing sky-light tincture, I first tasted my world-view in a blast of the syncretic. My fellow night-raver had provided a cer tain soup of his Dad's liquor stock, filling up our canteen. I maybe indulged reasonably this once, usually neglected on the whole--this fascinans specter, libations, was mystery beyond the label or consumption. A spiritual thing otherwise had proxy on the dionysian, I didn't need to be as certain as the bottle yielding a bleak commonality and cultivating of such as contentment & answer. If intrigue is what obliges a living lens--manifesting appearance just as availling animicule & creaturely wanderers project into "it"-- namely consciousness without form, the observer is an event of gloss and atrophying monadic industry within. It may take a riquer in certainty to view this much of one's distraction in such micro-relationship, a handful of stars broadcasting only hopeful origins, in katheno-primacies, to coin a word. I was happy over a reeling illusory, rapt that I would achieve something there anyway. A journal too decidely would remain placed in the high sky oriented peak--having nothing poetic enlisted in it, & there it remains. If your excuse while life's railing illusion as the climate of what powers-that-be demanding something of you challenges with new responsibilities, rights over your time, the losses you've taken to suppose the iconoclast..., tHere is tHis: observable release.************* ***********If ever I had to invent myself from a desperate moment of emptiness, it was during my slacker trek to Luxor, Egypt. Sitting out in front of a tea house, prone to desert sands and my imminent release from a growing state of confusion, I'm high from hashish to give it further nuance. Just the taste of feta is in my mouth, sweet tea (chai) in weird water--probably fossil water or the Nile's ancient infinite flow, hubbly-bubbly pipe full of the same along with phantom turbercular users before me and its coals are darkening. I actually felt lucky to recognize this sorta void and searing damned inevitability: I promised a refined matriculation having this new demand to jump out of time with intensity, which gives relics of what was beyond a graying shroud--hidden but not cowering in my own purdah of distance strung. I'm tHis, but tHis will not be a slavish loss of what could ever be, I thought. Maybe a not so cliche looking-glass got jettisoned, discordant and ill-preparation shunted however it would be seeking a runaway statement of presence... A "pharonic" slap in the nigh houses of eternity, Valley of Kings & Queens just out of town, beyond the River of Life in curt denial, I never made it across to visit.********** ******* **look up kathenotheism and you'll see why "katheno" primacies might work. G*d isn't necessary in its place.*********** *************Last night I felt animated, but while having much to learn about the constant of empty solutions to real problems, willingness to orient to things more readily unpacked remains my goal. Just stardust memories--no mutual arisings to suggest her in distant langour or happiness. No departure as to rally the time I'd sit here waiting or mountain conquered as if the day we would meet again is in the advance vision down-from-it. The rocky refute demands clamor out of trialling solitude. Life eludes in the irony of slow fidelity, too slow to know why she or I would care where it will lead.*********** **************The long haul toward a star unseen**** If you find yourself playing King of the Hill alone, as in your youth, expect the knowledge that your kingdom is in transition of your enslavement with gratuitous palimpsest migrations.************ *************I think I am on target with what Tolstoy develops while corresponding with Gandhi, but may be from The Kingdom of G*d is Within You. Whittled down only slightly he says, your compassion causes me violence. A thought--chohan maybe:: Why would I have asked you to recommend my respite, when it was your guidance that made me find this only absolute release, solitarian but prone, upon a cntr of awareness within, tethered to consciousness & relationship without? Absolute Release could be terminal or momentary, tragic or loving-kindness, I imagine. ******** *************Just realize dear reader, there's a lot to get here, & no I'm not confident anyone may fathom the blah blah. Imagining an existential duty, I bet he or she would feel equally untrialled in the artifacts of their creation... ******After the Rain: Lexington in your absence--night coolness barely bridged a sublime porte if human nature would nurture green alchemy: The overcast morning is pretty e nough, possibly encumbering too so that an inevitable gray skein that could reduce acclimation with a sense the favored sun always evading its seeker, still has the allowance earth denizenship can't be agonist yet. Halo dreamy and undandered, the trees look mushed as an oil painting, serene as the opaque, disappearing sky veil. The silent spaces, dust underfoot at tree's base, spaces of splendid life, now have the same heatherly hidden flow in the whoosh of tree boughs, coves still in languid yawn. If the trees were the people, the sentient have lifetimes to wander alone under their reach, of privy over emptiness of sky-fount machinations.************* ****************The grammar of my concept is as unique as 10,000 objets de plastique which may have an immense repair, the ocean, but sometimes the context in its quality of faux desertification (the vessel is more likely a promise)--because I may not have entered. And yet distances, that void, evoke the choice between two fountains, the white thread revealing the terribile decisor of relationship in what constitutes the temptress flower or star tincture blinking siren eyed release, sorting out eternities past the dark thread margins.*********** ***********Rand Paul your family came from other countries bringing a work ethic--your party's plan is endemic for its misapprehension of need for arts, sciences, and the rest of of it....stealling people's opportunities for like exceptions to the American norm, right under your nose that for some brainwashed biblical lens the "other" in your narrow view is jettisoned. One pluralist America. Of course the Ta ng family from Cambodia making those donuts for you & your sweet family, you love so much--they are exceptional because they made opportunity, and experienced conveniences in their American dream with USA infrastructure built by people who may prefer something other than sugary pastries...and political fastfood. See, those roads didn't build themselves... ************* ************Dying, but by the usual self-effacing marauder: I've been intoxicated by fear and terminus as long as I can remember: I was thinking of my memory's predeceased state, a kind of ode to Mom. It was desperation I felt as she laid on her death bed. Hers I could know, mine I was excersized by--levelled by loss before I could reconcile the lapse of mind appearance. In short, I was in a very remote, mayb e surface and unleashed way as I looked at her hErE from a life supposedly in rallying potential. I think of her death as strangely less obscene to me than others: she's been in mind before and since as opposed to her legs born to the ground one trods--as the adage, "You know you are on the ground if you have legs." salves nothing, she is become a heavenly accord I endured from my childhood in Texas--my first 6-7 yrs in Mom's dutiful & beautiful orb.*********** ************* Jumping from the Presbytarian church roof into sorta the courtyard tho' born out to a couple of acres to the road, a terresterial threshold of a greater yield toward my caprice after the ascent into the steeple, seemed vital--on the ground--thru stars of living nations emulatiing sky-light tincture, I first tasted my world-view in a blast of the syncretic. My fellow night-raver had provided a cer tain soup of his Dad's liquor stock, filling up our canteen. I maybe indulged reasonably this once, usually neglected on the whole--this fascinans specter, libations, was mystery beyond the label or consumption. A spiritual thing otherwise had proxy on the dionysian, I didn't need to be as certain as the bottle yielding a bleak commonality and cultivating of such as contentment & answer. If intrigue is what obliges a living lens--manifesting appearance just as availling animicule & creaturely wanderers project into "it"-- namely consciousness without form, the observer is an event of gloss and atrophying monadic industry within. It may take a riquer in certainty to view this much of one's distraction in such micro-relationship, a handful of stars broadcasting only hopeful origins, in katheno-primacies, to coin a word. I was happy over a reeling illusory, rapt that I would achieve something there anyway. A journal too decidely would remain placed in the high sky oriented peak--having nothing poetic enlisted in it, & there it remains. If your excuse while life's railing illusion as the climate of what powers-that-be demanding something of you challenges with new responsibilities, rights over your time, the losses you've taken to suppose the iconoclast..., tHere is tHis: observable release. **look up kathenotheism and you'll see why "katheno" primacies might work. G*d isn't necessary in its place. **********************************Kerouac's got the deed on meritable travel--a life worthy to trod: Everybody knows where you've been, not why you came--"everybody knows there's a meter on your bed." Leonard Cohen, this last quote, and a healthy dose of Neil Young influencing why I want to go there. If I were a clownish ubermensch, like a sarcastic poet so to speak, & if this life paints me in these garments of existence--the very anonymity of rank appearance crawling upon displayal identities, I'd be the guy called My name is Nobody supposing my identity in positive light making me a rather shrouded traveller. In this sense, I'm nowhere, knowing but not overstanding necessarily this is nowhere. I haven't many places demanding my attendance, different than most who may imagine "placeness" & identity. It is rather stark clarity of the outward fact having the ascendant imagine she's delivered to power-spots, but a trailling recommendation to assume having one just arrived with only ungainly passporte. This palimpsest migration is a life foundering in Maslow's depiction of primary need in our shelter, with destinations as chance extent to the place of her becoming.******* ****************Travelling is meritable--knowledge being attainable commerce in what sweet differences lend to the supra-pedestrian anthemic acquisitive conduct, knowing folks in brief comportment, ours astride old definitions of our going away. I'm lucky to grasp the pulse and commiseration with the folks there, still there in Egypt, one of whom took me to a ramshackle remains of some synagogue in Cairo or al- Kahira, the Victorious. In Luxor, where my brother & I watched a wedding--and on another occasion smoked hashish with a local clerk, white collar guy in town, proves our license, we thought to leave town, on one occasion, but scampered back without getting too far into the local agriculture. But also, we secreted our way into an empty mosque in an out of the way part of town, being sure not to touch the prayer rugs... nothing much within anyways. Whiling in the current of memory & wanting verity in my historical well-being, my heart feels bliss that I stood in this holy chamber (masjid) if this one could eek out of inevitable opiate stupor an otherwise strange nod to the conscious crowd organism where religion breaks its true value into crumbs.*********** ************On recommend from an ABC news article, avoidance and cleanliness, the hantavirus may be upon us. Rodent fecal... mmm mmm!! The industriousness or "exceptionalism" in the American dream in just a subtle example of whose fire to blame. Of course "bionic rats," if Tic Toc Teac has something in the way of clarion preachment to say, are in the garden--and what is a king if egalitarianism is sought keep ing the elite kleptocracy from denying ecological balance? A philosopher first, so not a king but rather a lauded permiss of education in how an economy might and must support green industry & science. The environment after all its nuance and balance is torn will have the purchase worse than mysterious tribulations of dis-ease, industry spells out very clearly what the prone consumer is going to be like to be poisoned by incorporate identities.************ ************** What about Providence? Creator being will, by his/her Name, put on offer a life worthy to retrieve. But then Confidence is an even greater decisor absolute. I know manufacturing motive is ultimately thoroughgoing, making relevant an otherwise potential mind. A rhetorical sense organ if thought breathes the fear in the thinker, if only to exhale the white smoke of thought's control, the ease of convenience. His mischief of treatment to well-up a world with recommends to moderation is the mean of experience usually hiding a risible event of caprice. One might see not much going-on, if he or she looked. And in the end, the very end, the closer the seeker surveys truth, truth is become the qualities of natural education and in our best attention the student wants Provenance!