Violet tea--spring belches the florid relief

Walked over at the hilly park in my old neighborhood yesterday. The grass will be cut there soon, but the plethora of violets have never been so checkered throughout amongst the dandelions. Chromo values with such a distinguished heightening of the loam really had a neat florescent expression. They looked of heaped splashes in their bluegrass palette, looked like Rolling Stone tongue, belched into... spring anthem. I may have to go and pick a kroger's bag of them to dry to have flower tea-- I suppose it'll be chamomile-like. I may ask my botany biologist degreed brother if there is anything special I might do for preparation, knowing it's Just to dry them. While he's well-versed by enduring a slowly revealed nature-self like wisdom tradition, adjudging the polis in its impulsive corralling of evermore specters--its dis-ease is no beck to rally. Today, apace with stumbly grass, city-scape colludes in my resolve to be still, unshadowed postulate heady-me in nature's breathy ayurveda persona--
***Stars blinked, my eyes slouch to perceived movement from its orb.
The watcher of humanity winked, sooo through with meager devotional tithes from mouldering aspirants, by way of His impenetrable creative dynamo.
No fountain where I'd drink, makes what thought thinks.
I want to know how to think: the content never the rt intentions adjured. The scaffolding mind glyphs - assailing space industry of my increase in relationship, this reserve of potency, torn from decidely inevidence sky of no fissure; spirit of the blue dome at a glance in phantasmal feast as corporeal as that sup, allows thoughtless sight of their visage...my security in release.
***The happy event as one swore upon the stranger: we're the stranger--we've lost it, regarded a reality shift the pivotal moment toward a glad self-profession--pragmatic deliverance, a ritual dance that all compaternity wanes in authorial shadows, apollonian splendor too, powering stupendously blanched dream sovereigns, and ever self-emptying wakeful days, vascular-reaching as leaves on lucid stream surface--palimpsest lives tarried underneath. The meritable traveller stepping out of the fog, not afraid of getting-away with an un-natural narrative making culture out of nature's dubious event--an accurate telling of the imagination's limit: in meditation I may-not even feel g*d. So the alternative however unsuccessful we fault supreme identity, what is this life become. The hush hush rush convening aum tic toc "service" oNe ahimsa-s his risible (bad) luck to pursue progress, the success of enthronement on the eve of Maslow's heirarchy apprehended without my shit-gimme eponymy.
***hanks jones==lazy afternoon *nice jazz tune...I mean yes, yassss
Faust is ronching on an interesting sovereign in the intro of Dostoevskii's book The Dispossessed--it's the center, but from without that makes this !rst word a place to begin:
Minerals, like an inhuman indefinite chorus, seems what even the humble aspirant as he loses heart, a raison d'etre--this objectivity over sounds-arrival becomes his last best chance to translate his empirical burden out of the stolid tower of Babel's reign. The knotted tongues - languid and retiring --meandering in valleys, thorough-going--but away, lost expression in vain volleys bank to bank in the stream of life. While I walk into a room, thinking "Room" - It avails. A word to gather or importune a reason for the angel to speak thru me as that space grafittis with meaning, now stuns my brain into wordlessness, no chance to mask it with the parade of expression... One word in my head sets the pace of on-lookers composed in mundane approval by my readied project of self-worth, would have, and yet the immanent is sobered by the lax attendance of logoi. Not to jettison the open-crowd=oNe wOrd with probity that can't conflated, my word, if mantram is the ward star's dusty beginnings--a stammer in the world's 1rst vows. The political nerve unlit--no fealty makes sense: the partisans gather with doctrinaire simulacrum. Angels frame vox-mundi, burning in mother's brother's eyes, but it's my reflection--and if Aharon speaks for Moshe, language is burnt my tongue yet without such a surrogate.
***I think I'm crying too much. The volley into touch-feeling only occurred to me after I got on this low dosage psychetropic, risperdol, now going on since '93. Four mgs/a day. I have no side effects of mania or sleeplessness, sexual inconvenience, weight-gain etc. Nerves, perhaps--actually I'm certain. Though I know it's also a weird compliment in taking people seriously. With regard to anything from the rabbit I hit the other night, remonstrated in a glance and swallow, but more poingantly, watching these ancestry articles/reports, Who Do You think You Are? And news war reportage/docs, one which I only have to thread its time and place, and a poor child is deprecated (deprecare Fr., to ward off by prayer) all over again..., my lament in paucity, but also championed--so uncorraborated, I'd fear someone telling me I'm vindicated in my release. Seeing now that yrs back the same voice that answers "What do you want to do?," now answers the inquisitor pain of lives fallen, by saying, "Go on, have this Release." And just these plastic media images draw me toward congruent refinement with spectors of lives in reflex thru my door, me into theirs. Yet, waking up in the morning, I am tearful off and on for a couple of hours--I'm certain she leaves me as the dream dispels, into a lighter day where we would meet.
***Well there u have it boys. Our Y chromosome is exactly the same as a rheses (sp?) monkey--meaning it hasn't changed in 28 million yrs. So, the LADIES at least can't deny our existence evolutionarily--try as they may to smother us with LOVE. But IS she evolving. She definitely got more junk in the trunk: you know the prime purveyor of subtle reason to imagine the authentic. Religion with a price or not, tradition et al, moon painted spiritually true--candles lit with meaning alighting responsible appetites. How lush! Physical liberation with cultural instincts, "take your shoes off, truth is a pathless land"---but the nomenclature within (her house), such sleep inclined to soft corners, settling antiquities wrestling pedagogy with surprise gift novel chiding wishful, magical thinking...grandmother couch to "slouch toward nirvana" (*Bukowskii) 10,000 tomes to address just there 'And big floats take notice' (*bastardizing a few words of Kerouac), but she says take it Outside--live prone to everything bright or chthonian.
***This may not come out in a crest of silencing askesis, but it's as I see this day perceptibly resuming... Anyway. You know how if you wash your hands, this primacy ablution? Nothing to derive and revere: it's mercy, but, for example, the deer drinks replenishing water!!--Why say he does it for just anyone? What if it is discernable the voyeur you've become to imagine just how one "knows" what he/she does: our hand's acuity? Why memory would get eager to discard grave continuity--suppose. One may start rapidly, get most prone part of hand due to its tasks of regimens, then from fingers to palm... Tho' a hand doesn't care--it is digital scrutiny over escape, rapt but w/the ends out from the tie that binds. I'm a limby tree of furtive reaches. Assignations of I and Nature--I can look up to wonder the aweful in these enumerable relationships, anything would bespeak the strong eliciting of what small wisdom the spirit thru aerobatic concourse, has physical apprehension my goal. To know water. From dust, the physical, to the unknowing world--the physical, from which sentience suspends me now--it dominates in ever more referendum of my change. The feeling that a cat thinks your toes--she'll make her retreats or entreat us herding us, her sustenance provider? I'm terminated by the suspense she can ever tell me, any animal tell me, what it's like --my symbol petraglyphing on its gentle slope inclined to my attention propositioning her subtle tabla rasa.
***
Devised a theory on bullshit last night--3 in the am. The discursive is explanate as rhetoric, as in the book "On Bullshit" would incite (which I only had seen over an interview). Lee Scratch Perry would shit in champaigne glasses and hide it from his harpe Swiss wife. Jews took to graphic lingual bombast as a last name to oblige tsarist census takers. (taking the name Shiest or Drek in some cases, etc.) There is nothing rhetorical in mind. BS is. Jeremiah was asked by G*d to eat excrement as a way to imbibe the sorrow and demise of his people.

Rimbaud says, I watch what I see. The Other, as musterion a cry for getting out of your own way, is all the spiritual content you'll need to know, 'giving away what was never needed in the end."--paraphrasing a friends language. The savings grace "pending" reality (Who's gonna receive me into what everlasting arms?), can't merely be a campaign of identity--the career of identities, always mitigated by change, would have one ask What is this Life Become? as opposed to Who am I? Reason is query, just as equality, in our becoming thru relationship redounding, is not a state of mind--but prone states of passion & unknowing...which is the Question (very subtley we wonder at what is apropos, as luck would have it Someone cares?) Not the mind in rhetoric mendacity--even torpor is captured as upon a wall's white-noise vibratory properties. In some One as an answer, all things are possible when you are really unable--in all beginnings, anything is possible, perhaps as from chthonian sensitivity--the dreigh or lush site of life's exquisite dust "like a forest of life underfoot" *P. Smith--depending on your taste for self-reflection.
***
Letter to Pops: The condoling theatre, a son at the middle of the gradins, dreams his kaddish becalled identity. Kaddish is likely the holiest prayer in Judaism. "My son is my kaddish" says a father imagining the well-being of his history, part of a history's lost pace his son intones, but serves to reconcile, saying that prayer. His willingness to also right that timeless jumping off point as before a shadowed door withwhich his awakening was to bridge. There are two possible energetic exilic doors of perception, repelling us to middling success--alighted when we see there is "nothing" to wait for. Certainly an attribute of root-race lines met of souls into fates, leaving a new fire to kindle inspite of blanched memory. The quality, say this opportune experience resolves, is a plethora of symbols of eternality--imagining maybe thru belief, and likely found in our senses evoking the authentic--One can only manifest what is and there is nothing ouitside the known. Nothing - there to be discriminated...! In contemplation, in peace, in thwarted souls.

Let's do what we've come to do...

***Thru a kind of corridor in feverish salience, I could see the sky above as a general visage, or anything--I'm thinking walls--but through my eyelids. (In monastasis life as I would accord, in the 90s) Like the impulse to look-on to something mattered little if eyes were closed or intending glances were to suppose the empirical lay-of-the-land. My eyes were hands grasping in blinding light, or pitch night--there's no ascertaining what was all so provocative that I might see. Thinking back, it may have been 'round the time I'd left off looking upon myself in mirrors. The anticipation of moods were strained into a hint I may have still-waters to envisage character--I saw myself running in dream-lauded discernment. The mirror redounding as clarified chromo values was like something lighted yawns in echolalia, as if I was a considerable force, but now assumed really close up and looking upon transperancy, a gloss caricature, ...and in that nothing "space" my face gathered in replete red mask, emotive but unknown in any situation but monadic intensity. The G-d's eye we would make of yarn and sticks in Sunday school, left bluey thrum, spiritual lapis, its first mystic chromo "inner-sensei." (I think that's a word?) Nothing-s from sky mind-clouds had the relicky bold-step out of a few thousand yr box of withering time a pilgrimage refuge--to get there apace in furtive whispers.
***Talked to this ole black man down at G-d's Pantry. He's 71, moving around well I speculated to 'em. He told me he was muslim--but had not heard the more uniform and indicated ascendant's term in the koranic typical mentioning of the "mumin." He did seriously have a scholarly countenance--dark man and has blue irises. I told him, toward his interest in Hebrew, that "Maimon"ides, that word for "believer" in there, is a Judeo-arabic bridge. He seemed to accord his identity just like Jimmy Cliff, original Peoples conduct, not leaving certain particulars denied. He said he was talking to a dude once he says looked High yellow, that I did, kinda like him. World-view capsulated in his momentary "mission." Reminds me of some my poeple's urge overkill to be a political-jew--it's an open door to ugly servile heralding of dry contempt in their definitions of what is profane: I'm saying, they can't compete with the social prerogative, and then retrieve the learning so curious in fealty one almost relishes. Meanwhile they are getting things out of the way, including contrarians, because its his imagined universality sustaining an awe, somehow remonstrating his solemn campaigned rt. as before me.
***Checking the box, foundering in the fray:
Time is freedom,
if you control it. It may be said, time Out of One's Control, so up to some Thing else, is actually a conscious pocket, out of constraints: Tho' aweful in one regard, mental economy, a discipline? definitions of capsulating senses?--this sense of our mythos as liminal, may just be an agreeable constraint...
Time is place--if memory is studied.
Pilgrimage is change, if the ekstasis
--a stepping-out, is ascertained in an expression of Thoughts, Feelings, & Actions. In gratuity to time, place, and community, the aspirant would at least know the case of Observable Release.
***‎1rst an apologist remark. I'm no yogin, not even close. What I field is what I sense from "thought disorder" its exigency from "heated conditions of forced thought scenarios." So to speak.
...within the agonist debate

***I decided my footfall on one pt. of concentration: Sanskrit for this ideal conduct is ekagrata-- a rather concise lingual antecedent. Getting everything out of the way, not necessarily roiling lighted things, economized imprecisely in mind, these don't always have to elaborate over what truth lies just beyond. I get no gratification, yet will, in seeing I committedly performed this mind economy: like weeping willow limbs I looked to graft skylines--they grope ill-tacitly, rapt in winnowed shafts. I worked my way toward this in solitude. Thoughts refused were leaden and the rt sense of muse trough--a kind of agonist debate in my mind made senses disciplined in rank aquiry--its usual complexion. What is the day rt now, what does it mean? Negative-lands of language elite, symbols enumerating a self less superable--thems that hear a plaintive cry succumbed. It's already happened they suppose--they've burned the mind media, so anything left to measure in weak hearts have their haunts for their appeal. It's therapeutic to imagine my spirit took the Shankarcharya turn at samsara (incarnational cycling)--and now I just have to regard memorialized space as none other than temporal; I had to come back to it, and pedagogical esteem of something greater than me is the wind winking, stirring thought, as I breech outside, withdrawn...
***Big country speaks to some ante-political, maybe social referendum, all-doors-open demos convention, where like Elijah a sup seat in thru any domicile threshold awaits me. I wanted to test this, but since I had no choice but to gain willing access from complete strangers, which I'll elaborate on, sorting out such a constant refrain, remains untested.
A ritzi friend of the family had some x-mas party and we - my immediate family & I - headed out to Lakeshore. I was certain I'd be misrepresented, folks imagining my contempt for something--faux elegance (authentically bad breath), to be certain, but I wasn't a-wondering them as my confessors, not as acid as my anxiety would make folks jump with weird joyous salves. A death knell of "We've all be waiting for you," makes me pained (now less so). I leave the party, in the snow--yes, perfect molded white/gray skies, the heaviest as perhaps dust can be imagined weighing down what we hear or see - the emerging glances of atman/brahman, cloistered smell-less neighborhoods... I get over to Chinoe shopping cntr, having advanced from out somewhere behind the synagogue and saunter into a video store. The burb where the party lofted in revelries, unreal concerns, unreal apathies, in my sidelong glance, held no image I could sustain in mind maps--I didn't know how to get back once in the neighborhood.
When I walked out of the formaldehyde strickening plastic store, glittery and w/ strangely unhappy people... I mean these films can be really very entertaining! I stepped into the cold night-coming-on, and like that penial band on an earthworm, I felt something schooched into one serene wine channeling energy a garment cinched up and cut from my heretofore clothed self, torn from my arm. Pain-fuckin'-fully. I headed back up the way, and as soon I got to a near street, I saw a stormdoor without the maindoor shut in behind. I walked up and called from their phone. I couldn't see their faces...
***A smokey flotsam apparition levels me in weird bloated skein probities' of an artist crossing over from the time of this mandala in-its-making, to me in the artists illustration of the event chiming like mind clouds. The candor I approach is only toward self-consciousness, I'm leaving a frail irony, wanting to bridge blanched truth 'pon a cornerstone of fate's phantasmal force once removed. The air, even in a consistant registering from an aerobic acuity in respiring expression--the blood mind body by calibrating a questionably filled willing well of vital proffer, looks like throned silence, and no commands would have a world subject in anything but a shapeless mass, as yet a book of rules wanting its definition in anthropos symbology.
***(someone reminds me) Patti Smith is excellent, say, not in the usual theatre. I saw her sounds-arrive under red ceiling-lamp (inheriting my bro's b. room), mosaic on my b.r. wall, coral hanging from my mirror, metal ocean sheen sura-shir-sutra reflecting sun-shams-star (-mogen)... evasive & aquatic as she tells it. Castenada telling me to lay rt down in my favorite place: grappling with the flavors around her Babylon definitions. I need to dig that again. Radio Ethiopia of Patti's gave me a good intention with what studies in Kabbalah wrought, as I was then just approaching that material. Shooting holes into like acquisitive media targets--this trunk and mind, its/kabbalah's names (of Creator, angels, prophets) - that hagiography provide - making all that crowd of my schoolmates names whose herald was to only make the Tathagata targets an unusual proof of the sorrow of not knowing purusha-peers-junzi, like I thought striven meditations could charaterize, and characterize an unshod visage, lame. One may get burnt in having names no longer apace with his studies. I saw how my brother met her, gravitated Marxist then, I was left guessing, Mark had Janecek's or Roland's what-was-it Riasonovskii's History book, helping me get things out of the way about dog eat earth eat dog, the endangered dharma dog maybe, I was looking East with whatever "easts" could get ciphered out of Judentum, this occidental convene of symbols to immure me into it.
****In Texas, I was taken aback as a 6yr old boy, that Mr. Hall lived in the neighborhood (by Quail Creek, in our Laurel Grove 'burb) whose life's pleasure was clock-maker. Then yrs into Ky living, I found prone moments to reconcile the fuss over my body & humours, innards yearning, organs of consciousness working with one & against itself, where a filmy exigency of this design of awareness, kept a black northerly night-sky in a so-to-speak 2 dimensional gloss interspace den... Me the receiving space, committed to the rails of the train's (self-industry? !) meritable function to contrive adventure with my ticket to ride--luftmensch of machine flight in subterranean time signature, I followed pedestrian posts along the transect. Ante-ing up a penny to lay on the tracks, thoughts as flat as a concourse of constant media in wrought flourishes, I'm teased that body consciousness is sanguine in leading me where the herd orients, this horizon, where oblique thresholds traduce my responsible one, would invent me anew.

I feel I know her more than campaigns of identity exposes in any one moment, which is the surface that calls for all my refrain.
***The goat in the machine: I may be creaturely just as the average goat, but I sleep like the extraordinary ones - doing it in odd intervals. The ones with the weird genetic disposition whose existential praxis is to expect their sleep-time to actually deny waking life, as opposed to choosing to...
Sleep comes tumbling, and the room in its assumption yields particulars subconsciousness only delivers in opaque facades, verily humming a light that ought to stain the mundane in tacit relief, but is rendered to a morning's voluble day readied.
***The garage adjoined to the house from a kitchen door, takes shade and recesses from an ascendant's sensual mutual arising--she waits in the nighted room. A dream has it I conjured my mother waiting there for me, yrs later when the garage became a pitch room star-shimmering upon floors that await an exquisite dust in veils of silence and murmurs, glances, whispers..., tho' I had certain flexibility to contend any and all mothers, leaves to consternation my cinnamon girl. The ego has lit chambers enjoining my willingness for passorte social isonomia. Space adjournes at the other side of wonton social doctrine. Dark just one step in, I'm prone, but this car-hold demonstrating a cush escalante' breathing blue of sky dome making its worthy distances musterion, climaxing unknowns, so bleak as to a closer untallied map--like space nigh is unreachable space dominating anything I'm likely to watch in seer's self getting beyond.

A wasp/hornet mud hole of home, looked like a distended innocence of a rolly poley, an inch long, gray domcile, mouldering or developing w/o our seeing -- it is inside what is inside bumping around thermal cells I'm imagine as space in 20-50 yard blobby incriments. I remember precisely talking to breath and air--well, let's always have cool breaths like this, I chant, ....next to my garage seemed finally a cool little persona was born rt outside of the house. I saw the event as possibly punishing me by losing its important imminent artifact in a pregnant memory. I was doing something with memory even then that defied certain simple agencies. Memory was heavy-lifting incarnationally--I took Texas environs seriously. I came back to the the rock protuberating wall off the rt of the house & became resigned to knock the nest off with Dad's hammer. Mom was taking a couple of us boys somewhere making feel I hadn't much time. When I hit it I leapt out of space, guessing and imploring my lil babylon head of creaturely existence, that it wasn't jettisoned...
***
Pain is a great thing to cast blame rt at the fire. The fire, if cordoned in a question lit has what is open to its invulnerable transcendent libel against cool blue earthly partitioned ready world, the very established place of considerable ease, actually as essense heralded. Star attribute intensities create mts, deny lands' langour if time is unusual mystic and self-aware. In the context of cauldron unproxied something is incumbent in the ascendent to elaborate on a mean world. Mts in blue slumbers are good to sense this evening's hiding denizens. Shadowy inky lines of tree limbs, make house facades coarse as tableaux for heady medias' violence in chided eyes, ironically resuming. Vision left unrestored in paces not meant to be captured but only by naturally affected emanating-days, sliding by with only the subterranean, unresolved hint of self.