OF Late---Only the NigHt

My f#&ked up dream of Romney, here, I can almost interpret. Katie Couric long ago may construe a more wakened familial portents, once. Here's the same kind of thing, to answer why me if to contend with governance toppling a final sociation, that of a ghost town: the haunts of mind (dreamt or lived) and its furniture dispatched a...s resource, bettered by provenance has one read Ghosts need little... My brother went up to Vatican City, rounded its walls (all the way?), and said kinda, fuck you to the devil. He hushed exhorted, "Not this Jew, mutha fuckers!" But imagine older brother! and he reeeally gives a damn, really does, and says something One time in this last 46 yrs *my age, almost vile, but clear about man's misdeeds, "People die for that." The power brokers of fraught & silly media don't even hide their humanity from me if I can imagine all their thwart of I & Nature passporte is just regimened nature, still nature. I'm disgusted with the likes and ranks of Rommelney, and who I reckon an alternative is luck, and better - Obama gave Dylan among others the Presidential Metal for Freedom just now--said tasteful things about Dylan, in a comprehensive tone - but I just can't apprehend this dis-ease of spirit and wholeness. These clever absolutes sometimes with empty gradins but you to sit and observe --aren't clarion till one suffers. Just making the man another hopeful and usually unfulfilled incarnate--inhumanity born to human perspective (...these politicos, as if). The transparent thing, me born in imminent surprise, I only know spirit (humanity) and wholeness is the only roof--an insight over being tied to a future, needing a roof, one can't run. The future is tHE pathless expectation--No place to be--I'm an incumbent dreamer inverted in an accord with truth without intentions upon me to condole any entity - an unviable self included. How can "they" have what is sooo dear perchance & a reason for fealty, and watery redound in buffered security, that I am stained hidden? Marley says of course, having no friends in high places is well a family affair, maybe, courting getting over the "little trouble."****** *******Soliciting silence: toasting the rest of it: If there is a G*d, solitude is to the credit of the adjured absolute. ******* ******On this special chair, I mean chariot--as from a place of study from an objective repose as I can suppose, I reason yet another 1000 expirations, dreams suppurating, and an angel to ask for potency in its homeopathy to remedy the dream's irreality. Fill in the ditch of what each one means w/a dose of its turn in nudging me wakened toward an authentic goal. Matriculating ground zero is upon a media spiting every glance--nothing helpful to ornament feelings of the foundering world. Before ones eyes hit the frozen sea within, the ground is your best friend, then it's not, and then later again it is.******** *******Mrs Delph, she was Thai, my social studies teacher--at 10-11 yrs old, and Mrs Chin, my Chinese piano teacher were the only teachers of the East I had, and to be romanticized. It was the key that unlocked the lightning, hitting the limb that held me, emboughering me, now has delivered me to the forest floor. The East's rally in compassion, a romance of discipline to imaginations' mercurial engine... After a sense of explanate-beings, that of lightning/thunder cosmogony described in its Thai's tale, made everything written looming in the same dirge. Yet, in lament, when the world stammers to complete one in exemplar reflection--doing as "I" do, a mourner sometimes lies near many sources to still waters. And after milky rain, the grass yields to to no law, but to be under a footfall as ubiquitously as destiny expecting a path to avail. What floor of slumber entitlement, dream repose in causes from wiles of subconscious impulse, stammer to be declared? How late in the night could it have been before vision and revelry alights quietude? And composure in nights bluey blankets, as under a forceless current--ocean having expectorated an eternity gratified, even in day's surrogate breaths, philosophy makes the air lighted. If I had legs, I'd be on the ground. But some fugue in unknowable self, trialing ambulations past my mind has elastic temporal gratis, granting only this & no other reason to don wandering catharses. *******3:43 am (last night) and it may as well be 4:20, and just now, I added sentences, in what I wrote the night of a lynaghs rock show--Friday Only the night:: I evolved from requiring sleep to dream--needing to sleep, to a derivative feeling of wanting to turn away. This I know. Once dreamt, I hoped these subconscious thrums would be answerable to the frozen-sea within, now with a shunt to self & wizened anew inner-essense. Attention is high, while stimulation without alights to a wealth of intentions redounding without. I wonder if some indefinite chorus - the paltry content that could've been said compared to the luck any one in call & response will say in florescence - is actually what I'm reduced to (the indefinite chorus)? Like a strong banister pulling me up from looming temporal lair into domiciles centre of gravity, the kitchen, Dostoevskii's The Possessed, makes me a riven ambulate toward the compliment in yet more that I'd retain from these meditations when life's bucket a go a well to the inanimate dialect.******* ************Voice was needed, after a deluge whet my tongue with only a single stone to tarry. Losing language is the same as being divided over one's loss in condoling whither he'd say. I lost expression & its too dear to break its margin's consignment. Images to intuit are in the mean of what seems a world with intentions to resume while at the pace of Minervan hope, and Sisyphusian solutioned. ****Minerva ? I've only just been introduced to some poetry in passing. Just read a brief note, so had this poetry been her Etruscan persona, I may have it rt that she expects the mind to be fed rapt truth & nothing much of war--in a light-crowded world, a pitch spiritual bloom reconciles self-consciousness. ****LasT nite--thinking, texting at the show, music justly excelsior : to my buddy--"It's a fairly light cloud, I mean crowd. Conscious crowd chimera, maybe. Something always behind this day's crest revealed, back when. Attention abounds, life feeding it--Imma eat, and some vultures don't eat meat. Culture swoops down like a vulture.*********** ***********Mentioning bookish hypnoses makes nothing doctrinaire about the following--rather hopefully poetic. Read dream--Eat shit---a mantram eliciting cheap language or fossilized watery emotions imminent. ( The very water whose future is become unsated & inhumanely absorbed. ) If the trees were the people, i'd be fated the life of an acacia (a tree living extent in more varied environments than any other), but only as in its written life, a mythic unfurling in a book about a nihilist vs believer vs a dispensation of a wealth of answers (Turgenev's Father & Sons). A "still" life in fiction, captured like the anonymity of real trees. Tree-tops in a row of my dream pith all head-lain insight managed in dreamtime, alighted above the temporal architecture in dream flight, makes arborial aerobatics a fount to evoke the sky's evident philosophy the same trove its paper diminuation falling silently with no one to witness.******** *********To get beyond some tiled floor remonstrated meditations--my coarse trials--to live up to music, Dylan's "Visions of..." song w/salient flights to ponder who is with/amongst my minion of ghosted selves (toward ego dispatched), what was begun had been teacherly light-glyphed figures in some kind of proxy. A social tether of what-all Life-academician would have me resolve in an agonist feat. No not talking to myself--tho' my Zadie I heard say, Who else is there to talk to? But to take an allusory sign in the climate of greater will--all that speaks to an earthly cuss, wind if only in the mind like beckoning natural language--a breath, the tune of expression, passion's "mention" in the seat of contemplation, making me see, "there's nothing really to turn off."*********** *******R. Shelomo Almoli is revealed, delimited in his reach from 500 yrs back--introduced in Potok's book In the Beginning. Core-culture (Christian) in its belched-out history - imminent in a dynamic succour - may provide content to a Jewish youth's confession in heretical mysticism... Almoli's dream intepretation survey wil have enthroned success I could ever have confronted w/evading psyche and the heat in wanting its night-insight fulfillment. Birds in arcs away out from shadowy seignorial figure dweet in the prodigy of self-possession: the Night-watcher, guardian in my respite, leaves very little thoughts drift to frame this my-doppleganger opposite self--languid at my margins' bluff, unconcerned--with mine fueled by a thousand advocates of splendor almost unredeemed. Such dreams with consoling bird messengers alighted must be an eponymy for this shuttering, hopping then resigned, starling creature--its glorific (to coin a word) prone cosmic moment, when my damnable brother cut it precisely in two. I saw my hand at the bearing down midnightish careen of the machete, like it was meant to take the blow. I smelled my veins. The birds of heaven deliver meaning to chimeras, that one may intuit why certain colors, or weak chromos, or throaty needs almost tacit, a cloudy wake but with pathos in the small soul's liquid sky. Outside my window, but walled-in dismally, the sense that there is more love than my gainsay to my inattention, I'm rescued, I'm overstood.******** *********** The fucked up dream of Romney, I can almost interpret. Katie Couric long ago may construe a more wakened familial portents, once. Rob, here's the same kind of thing, to answer why me if to contend with governance toppling a final sociation, that of a ghost town: the haunts of mind (dreamt or lived) and its furniture dispatched as resource, bettered by provenance has one read Ghosts need little... My brother went up to Vatican City, rounded its walls (all the way?), and said kinda, fuck you to the devil. He hushed exhorted, "Not this Jew, mutha fuckers!" (imagine older brother and he really gives a damn, really does, and says something One time in this last 46 yrs *my age, almost vile, but clear about man's misdeeds, "People die for that.") The power brokers of fraught & silly media don't even hide their humanity from me if I can imagine all their thwart of I & Nature passporte is just regimened nature, still nature. I'm disgusted with the likes and ranks of Rommelney, and who I reckon an alternative is luck, and better (Obama gave Dylan among others the Presidential Award for Freedom today--said tasteful things about Dylan, in a comprehensive tone), but I just can't apprehend this dis-ease of spirit and wholeness, until I'm clear one suffers. Just making the man another hopeful and usually unfulfilled incarnate--inhumanity born to human perspective. The transparent thing, me born in imminent surprise, I only know spirit (humanity) and wholeness is the only roof--the clarion of being tied to a future, needing a roof, one can't run. The future is tHE pathless expectation--No place to be--I'm an incumbent dreamer inverted in an accord with truth without intentions upon me to condole any entity - an unviable self included. How can "they" have what is sooo dear perchance, and watery redound in buffered security, that I am stained hidden?

Shapeless mass, I am--and a book of desert self

The child in a superman suit looks destined as an ubermensch--I'm relating like the wall of social ethos in my youthful self-discovery--it's inadequate or I just need to kick rocks. And a shrouded traveller to be. Maybe a child of light, who hears all, defies youthful certainty or get lucky & will in steelly attention, but knows love with relentless creativity, seizing me namelessly, in my begin to begin. ********Let me clarify: not hating as an end, of course, is jettisoning desire (tanha) and ignorance (avidya)--yet, the thing we fear, we hate, then if we hate it, we will love it--then perhaps love would make a commitment to getting past the adversarial you, into the standard of mutual arising. I exhaled the white smoke without having already breathed in the black. The thing corrupt within me is now just accompaniment to that of any other conscious furniture. Mental nomenclature--the organs of comnsciousness working with one and against itself, as Neitzsche puts it. It may have imminent cause of somethings without, but now I imagine that fog at my peripheral leisure, the ethereal I love, having come from fear then hate, into an affirmation: "How could I run around making room for what I imagined in pretense as a place of emotional atrophy?" Negativity, thinking philosophically, deliberating on how I am to comport overstanding, comport in self-knowing, has no places in the extent of unknowing, so Negativity has no legs. ********I don't know why I do it. Happy on a lark, skylarking that this emptiness doesn't actually mean that I'd relent being seen. The seen & unseen: I'm the crystal palace, pained in will bent from form to transparency--anything would think a sun's reflecting pool is a place of the seen. And arms akimbo I'm iconoclast bombast, unseen because I'm shattered, like a mulch of plastique photos--I'm framed in windows of this trans mission of light, but thrown from mirror-hold, fast promised, homeward reception. My movement thru weeklike yrs yield less what apropos assignation making leaves of grass sway in liquidly extent waves, an unknower's "long-distance" runner improsario knowing the river of life in slow fidelity ventrally reductively not from a catapult of tarrying style lived moments. Tarrying is different than happening upon this river while otherwise tarmac spited us with pathlessness or consoled us with no places to go. I bow psychologically to gates in the forest. I & I of Eastern bhakti, that the creative seeks us to arduous-foundering on-&-on from an event of solicitous vision, peak resolve shoulders an infinite task of expression, vapors to vapors: we're etched into horizons met, but only eeked mouselike writ of coves alighted over dreigh glimpses into the proscription. ******** ********In the mts, upstate Ny, I took a hike into the woods and reclined next to a clear stream. Then rejecting nicotine succour to peal back the serenity in such a remote & lucid stream, I wondered about the emptiness and facile resolve to be stimulated. I saw the scale of alternations from emotional tolls or intellection of my mind swarthy from compelling chemical romance. Just in my mental speak, I wouldn't level the escape I'd apprehended to not smoke. I remember how glad I was to find myself there, for fuck sake, so glad, but only had my immediate family to resolve my lament on then, my solitarian trajectory. The woods were haunted, but the threat wasn't descriptive other than some banal yankee thug conspiracy I heard in whining, unspirited urban world participating in my collapse, waiting for me, yawning in the prone luck of vacation displacement--I was tottering with little to blame wherein the tie that binds ranks me in this contagion. A fallen well up past my wooded ambulate, by the Vistula bungalow colony (Polish, named from a river in Poland), making the roughly formerly habitations around it look peavish, even annoyed that I wanted to populate the rocky, summer-browned grassy space with my nature-incarnational concerns. I told Igor it looked like a nice place to bury a child such as himself--he seemed unintimated at my gest - it wasn't a very mollifying comment. Consequently I felt even more haunted and silly.********* ********Looked into Book 4--an excellent survey of meditation if you want visual recommendations on meditation. Crowley never disabused me of-notions of my finesse to find the torn empath weeping of mystical stain to rivel the tarrying floe thru life in rallying stream: his razorlike conjurations once cursed, but blessed twice me--if the footfall of his certain confidences imparted, were the catalyst to ...imagine on my own behalf. I felt the hot slavish lashes, but I caught the wafting ashes in their emblematic fall of the votive fire as upon the ground of ubiquity--reeling time wouldn't have its way lest I record the event in the last relicks of flames consummation. Crowley's illicit repute never could traduce the light and shadow play in my forlorn solicitude--still his lens rapt of danger had night deliberative and judgmental, and yet I parsed qualia from his memoir (til much later when I threw it away into the recycling in a fit of reconciliation of required reading, I'd say.)--things like Buddhist contemplation never bedeviling me with raven's on gallows for shoulders, as other fiery meditations represented in the different genres or his would have fed into this staved or gunned responsibility. A gravid forest, life underfoot--to this I owe the skein averred upon my eyes just because Crowley seemed to punish forward embrace of lucky matriculations that some one word is this or that field of light, a place of my reception, and that the real relish in spiritual thought was in the beyond of light & promised-goals.******** *********In Lithuania, the last European country to take on X-tianity, Jews having been there since before the 900s when there was no X-tianity, made Vilna the Jerusalem of the East. Eishyshok's history, denied since the Holocaust along w/much of Eastern Europe, is the place proffering histories' following synthesis. Cool water served to heder yingls, biblacy students, symbolizes sweet mercurial response one would have toward this life of study, condusive to better scholarship. Star's fluid radiance, the sky in hungry apt mouthfuls of fire, the tree of life might reckon a fount to make philosophy aerobatic bound in sky birth.******** I'm less a tree fount to reach philosophy, studied from merciful water sweet aerobatics born out of temporal release, sky lauded, than the mirror mica under moss, pedestrian in self-reflection. Rimbaud heather-crowned, made taunting memory 'flect in locations arranged superable to threading path toward ocean crushing hush.************ *************** Now Then In the myths Carlos Castaneda alliterates with Don Juan, he has a culturally sanctioned effort to unpack weirdness in alchemical self-scrutiny. Brujos, dogs, lizards, people, and most importantly plants whose excelsior animation by imagining negative space, its very shadow, blanketing blanket that awaits in steady breaths in cupped hands cultivating & captivating space of vitality where the plant in corporeal naked valence nods at more essense within. And on a blanket, as if requisitioned out of an ornamented antiquity, nature shows up with a pipe to share, so brahmodya, which is a kind of thing Kerouac calls patimokkha, a "comprehensive discussion" memorializes space. Psychological states, statements of presense, existential burden in auspices like the availing animal musterion (sacrament) (our being its worthy project)--is a way to defy conventional initial criterion to gratify relationship by inspiring meaning... The book sat in my brother's bookcase, ready at 1rst glance to avail the Beats lying just beyond, a praxis in rational crowd, having taught one not good ways to think, because maybe mind content isn't easy for authorial nom de guerre, but to get out of the game of adjurational Belief, "magical thinking" as if I deserve a coralled sentient greed--there's a better footfall!! If the lil' smoke is suppose to bring you toward supreme identity iconoclasm, then the little personality authenticator, my boy Cornel, my cat, is suppose to make an organic crowd awareness, a similar investment to imagine busy & not so busy minds.********* ***********I don't want to showcase myself damned, despoiled from a battle between us--all of us, but you & I mostly--our beatings in a habitat for whoever we guessed and imagined gave over in papillae space, close to the skin, someOne You & I knew, to ledger them ever to speak in, say, my behalf--yours in your behalf. I thought you heard me mention Jazz like a thousand relics of many lived calendar unburdened tapestries. Maybe you didn't--which kills me almost in biblical consequence as much as it was stolen from me. I listened to Coltrane once, while my get, which is a divorce writ, as in the symbolic agate stone w/anti-magnetic properties, in Jewish Thought left me in self-hypnosis. Meaning the mind is at once on in relationship, and then at once off. I was alternately having day-drream voices dropping expressions of skin-toned auditive images, I'm hearing language spoken superable to horns communicating. I can only guess calling & responding what denotes answering to you, what you asked me in my sleep. To muster the eliciting of your victory girding my illusory, divining I was suppose to hear you--& only felt you. Any symbol held in mind has every predilection to swell and implode before it surfaces. But, I was confiding in you underneath, understanding, while you sway prone overstanding.********** ********** A RAINBOW TEACHES Me With it Of it:::::The last time I went out west, visiting my brother, a good example over how I am taught an austere or pragmatic interlocution way to stay oriented and poignant with others availed when we stopped at the Univ of Az, a forum going-on, questioning a student about getting some regional maps advice. New Try-n-Save poncho in hand, we head to the motel at the outskirts of town orienting us toward the black lava obsidian fields. My brother called my attention to the most sky-deft, heavily architected in thick blue-dome tapestry of a rainbow--both its feet clearly landing. A therapeutic event if I were to rear wooden-lungs rasply suspiring into sun-extremis day's color of pitch nite engagements--gagged by pure opaque sky ebullience--as to paint nite & day rounding the same insight!! The stunted approach meeting and having dialect with a foreign student, or say, any non-American, has resonance with a lapse of unique continuities making what is said reverently polite--a strange phenomenon to Unassume the modalities brandished like conscious props. Speaking for myself, in the intellectual confliction of what-all I would know--this composure of reassurance that assumed cultural hints are nigh, capsulated americana passporte functionaries: the sense that any stranger has to be approached as tentatively becomes my new guide.