** **...thinks to avere thinking** **

Man, to speak softly like experimental psychologist of note. Gandhi is pitar-daemon, matar-wit. Formulae talons tear dream's passive current through aerobatic mime. Babel's dovecot messenger in her avian circumambience left to unwritten dawns are skittering pebbles for wont of travelogue. News and digital sky star-paper, intimations of culture, justifying one's journey by decisor advantage of its suspension. The cult of self-reliance, on found rules, thinks to avere thinking.************* A shadow is apposite an empty cupboard. An empty shadow leans out of the star torn sky. Shade is no more night than moon as the bride of Winter's leafless boughs. Chthonic roads of antiquity are footfall's diluvian experience, way over, veiled in velocity. Someday forever if you are on the ground, you know you have legs.************* The front cover of The Gates of Hercules referring to the straits of Gibraltar, has enough of rocky climes pictured that have otherwise insinuated an ocean-front into at least one dream 'til now. In this way but different than a storm off the coast of the Gulf, early one Spring: the blue of the sky vault is supine, the other shore is present, but beneath the unknowing tableaux. As Tao as lightning a Form to that of plain energies organic & primary. A conversation with pitch mind and clarifying having made room for chronometry muse (timely), just beyond, is only a guess I have mind enough in slaking thirst for the trouble of new information. Into the sea, plashing the surface, down, down, for the good of suspiring lungs, I become empty of day-light. Sleep is a garment to deny the exoteric response, just where I lie. And I sleep plenty, then write about it to determine the corral of circadian rhythms as some ferrel inner-sanctum, leaving waking state to the leisure of this certain freedom. I imagine coral shifting, lumbering relatively as if from one pivot, tireless noise & creak of heavy twisting cardboard. I feel corrugated, and once I held a wooden match above my forehead moving it laterally back and forth, broke from its pendular hypnosis, did it again. Tho' before nodding off. My tea glass had Geraldo obfuscated at my side, volume off, and a few sips left of tea. I'm thinking it just tastes like fulminate sight of our kitchen while the menu of mundaneity lapses, house settles like an unresponsive nerve-cntr is at my back--a different tea warms the sleeping vessel.************** A conversation w/a student I want to be: What is avodah? As part of a book mentioned in Amos Oz's Love & Darkness memoir--it suggests a means to worship. Yesod VeShoresh HaAvodah is The Foundation & Root of Worship. But work is the definition of avodah that I knew--my brother confirms. The Jewish Caravan, Mom's tome easily corrals my brother & I into phantasmal first concepts of Jewishness I feel, the weight of marketing eternal study like the student's search rather nigh & not around the corner. There is denoting license, hence the irrelevant solitarian ascendent, but toward a more lucid trance egoity, more rarefied, which explicates the concept of worship, and what I'm imagining as one in prayer/meditation, mekavvanim. Kavvanah is what Yemeni are known to practice. Means "focus." But, as to get the transience or elastic idea of meditation, so many ways in kabbalah, gives examples like The Work of Aharon, I think I've seen--just name your prophet or any of the universals, any number of fruits (toward fruits of wisdom, one could imagine). A work as upon the solicitous subject or goal in worship. The Work. Like devotion--this is the instrumental word I deduce. True to yass of self-realization effort, music is the Good.***************** The front cover of The Gates of Hercules referring to the straits of Gibraltar, has enough of rocky climes pictured that have otherwise insinuated an ocean-front into at least one dream 'til now. In this way but different than a storm off the coast of the Gulf, early one Spring: the blue of the sky vault is supine, the other shore is present, but beneath the unknowing tableaux. As Tao as lightning a Form to that of plain energies organic & primary. A conversation with pitch mind and clarifying having made room for chronometry muse (timely), just beyond, is only a guess I have mind enough in slaking thirst for the trouble of new information. Into the sea, plashing the surface, down, down, for the good of suspiring lungs, I become empty of day-light constancy. Sleep is a garment to deny the exoteric response, just where I lie. And I sleep plenty, then write about it to determine the corral of circadian rhythms as some ferrel inner-sanctum, leaving waking state to the leisure of this certain freedom.************* Thoughts lurch like a caprid's head to the deep-aside where my feet precipitously try to find same exclusive point of revered high-ground, I climb into my mind.************** If the looking glass didn't lie, I'd see a Chukchi native mask animating musterion expression. His hair plaits in splayed leaves, wooden slitted ocular ports, but transmogrifying as likely into man machine, metal design stars, protuberant head limb as sensorial apparatus. In reproducing self-image, this persona of American Native is either alien so responsive to my licit techne, or familiar since he belongs more fundamentally in time and place.************** I fell asleep after work the other day, seemimgly having skipped an entire evening, that as in hindsight, looked to be part of dream-time, living in images of mindless love over the dream of an X-girlfriend, really a lovely person. When I woke from our rendez-vous, innocently enough, fully through emotional continuity, my mood is rather she had the irony of anonymity and still sweet intimacy my atrophied heart can't solicit otherwise. I am weirdly actually thankful to repose with her in the field of possibilities dreamscape allows, and quite sure I can distinguish the narrow corridors of my own perspective, w/o presuming immediate sociation. If supreme identity eludes in terms of existential source, while my own becoming barely credible through any ecstatic relic, certainly this thought-agency is only a blue shadow & halloo of night theoria, nothing else. What is this life become? Answer: Organs of consciousness as one & against itself with a trace of will to drown in the river that swallows the dream. ***************To present intellectual-mover, some one figure identified as academian met, teachers assuming his & her arising personae, in The Closing of the Western Mind, Socrates stains centering Shiva character (appreciating my own sense) as in a mandala placating maze spanning an otherwise empty curtain-pulled mind cloud. Words mile innocently & cheap, normative as a present moment, seem alive in interlocution currency and worked out now tho' they are encantations of predeceased spirits. Imagine 399 bce, Socrates is killed over what one now can casually know. I see the news/antagonism about the gods in limby fenced-off minds, enlisted like choice daemons in human development. Some flimmer witness to plain language and I'm awed in the leisure histories' well-being can answer back.**************** Ozkent, my maine coon, paws me as characterized as Dad's cough in a grocery aisle when your wondering which way he's gotten oriented. As signature as a candle lit petraglyph, but of thought migrations instead of antiquity's hidden ambulate. (He just now chased his tail.) I have this recurring dream, affective from Sunday's perfect window subtle ply in distance strung, her splendor of nowhere to be, while he's wandering a temple of night pilgrimage geolect, precient barefeet press the moon glower further into A Passage to India. I'm welcomed in at least sensorial micro-managed way, my entrepot is stillness & reflection, but Ozzie looks back all too knowingly just as Chagall's cats masquerade in self-being. Alien but almost homuculus-wise, presence multiplies and I see its temporal broken bridge, its losing grasp, satori space after median's inner-scrutiny, then the observer & an uncomplicated foreground makes a sojourn close, feels like a coollish book turned pillow, night-lamp adducing mind appearance.************** Bottle it in emptiness like time libations, along the german prisoners' built wall, cone-top beers, water tower surface, bleached wind-cultivated grass, corn-stalk leaves cut my small fingers biking across into furrows, our names graffittied under the bridge where I prised wild white carrots, ate them raw--knew what it looked like.************* At the outer extension of Alexandria Dr before it is completed, open to Harrodsburg Rd, I squeeze through prone barriers listening to the radio in the wee hrs, Michael Jackson is singing Rock with You. I feel I'm looking at his Fu Manchu face in my marionette thought nomenclature. The rd would be convenient because I'd come through there regularly soon enough, my paper-route divined in my Ford truck F-150 on a rather inept group of customers way over, far over the mornings' sunrise. "In 1492 Colombus sails the ocean blue" peals in street-light contours from a silent bell in my brain. My cousin flies to mind, I see his dog Homer in colorless stare sense the LSD theater, Andy asleep, his blue alpha-numeric clock dollops stupendous & unreferenced time. I imagine my head held high scanning darkly shadowed night coves, thousands in ocular walnut boughs, Lexington dreams but I am in the wake of night. Groping the news on the radio or flung papers lend unbinding interests--discussed in daliance media, a certain book sits to accord mundi-vox on my shelf. I park actually next to the first place I kissed a girl, say provocatively-- folding papers next to the apt apartment laundro-mat, why that wilderness? Blustery out and raining, while I pitch papers into the truck bed, perched in my front seat, an ancient ocean begins to conceal me. I think, I'm going below, hopefully beyond ground zero, because in those blind-morning moments I am frightened into emptiness. World-view out of mouths rapt with change convey very little other than an angel's solitarian knot from her indefinite chorus drawling my limbo purple contagion.*************** G-d exists thru rapt indictment. One may reckon "everything" implicit only because expression lends capsulate absurdity. Faith is an admittedly vain word game, with special concern as over an especially exclusive player. It is an ass-backwards & solipsist human social escape: an answer assumed before one could be sure what creative agency is true or crystalized to which he's reduced. Things spoken to in The Alphabet versus the Goddess would show biases in our symbolic social making. Why is it ennobling to accept a sensible universe on somehow a rally of nothing provable?*************

Thinking in a stammer who there will be for me...

The curious mind in the hero, a young scholar born to "learning" as a cultural program, adduced with real-life & the need for meditations presuming world-view, his world at war, defines his self-realization while imagining mine. First out the door in deprecare war and the solemn rhythm of dao's night watchmen, the day's symmetry nomenclature culls awareness of broken dreams, rumors of war and its ghost-town certainty. If distance were a fount of voluntas, in defense of a spiritual agonist in the climate of power (trance egoity), time really is washing away what lies beneath. The black fire of books on mysticism assign an escape through perception and thoughtlessness. Human exile in the stale body of history like standing water invites an avian thought-dropping world of mind revenue for a travelogue: sky is a limit in content to birdsong expression. ************What is that little red wand plastic sheet plied to black wax, we'd scribe on trips as chil'run...? Remember that toy. And the stylis would've been impressed necessarily maliciously or willful rash exceptions to its simplicity design imprecated on the board. The power-spot, my room with glazy eye splendor on posit mid-room theatre, reveals corners w/ 40 yr old tiles kicked amiss. Underneath them, under all my jet-stream whiling mind to door to window on the day of ites in dusty space, this Mystic Pad, its astro excellence, may have had autumnal footfall, today's small guarantee Ky endures w/o an entirely blanched season, and still that room as the lamp to most dreams. **************Yass, we're all registering the now. The black & white threads of the horizon conceal a truth beyond into humanity's cultural pleroma, only revisited 'pon mind's surface if the sky is deigned the limit. Once upon a movie set, drinking blank turkish coffee at midnight in the Negev to "perform" undefined bedouin folks by middle-east bedouin & Orientalist narrative drain away into Westerner fantasies and frankincense road. Memoria predeceased is my raw footfall left under the rock of the present moment, while memory is eternalcy of no mind in power-spots, like the desert. Yet, long ends of the day unleash the gloss schedule of thought from the Nimrod catapult of an iconoclast bleeding imagery, candle mind mollified unfired cold like her lotus roots sighing earth resource asymmetry of firmament, shaded from the issuant sun of the blue fountain. **************The by g-d through a glass darkly, its posit, windows of air tonnage desert environs where we played in Riding the Edge (Israeli-American production B-movie in the Indiana Jones vein), I wondered why the time of yr mattered. The Sinaitic khamsin might blow through, and I'm sleepless & viral in the burying desert zero-scape. Yass, all to the fury of registering it now. The black & white threads of the horizon conceal a truth beyond into humanity's cultural pleroma, only revisited 'pon mind's surface if the sky is deigned the limit. Once upon a movie set, drinking blank turkish coffee at midnight in the Negev to "perform" undefined bedouin folks by middle-east bedouin & Orientalist narrative drain away into Westerner fantasies and frankincense road. Memoria predeceased is my raw footfall left under the rock of the present moment, while memory is eternalcy of no mind in power-spots, like the desert. Yet, long ends of the day unleash the gloss schedule of thought from the Nimrod catapult of an iconoclast bleeding imagery, candle mind mollified unfired cold like her lotus roots sighing earth resource asymmetry of firmament, shaded from the issuant sun of the blue fountain. ***************Zhungwo as words go has weird winding East streaming to us into its 3/4ths iceberg specter shone & asserted, cult of self-reliance in the Dao--stone vox of antiquity's radio. Daring, wedded & lost to inhere of ancestors' light their benediction and neverminding order is exoteric Kung Fu-tzu trance. Mind analytics of the 1/4th in contradistinction, usually energent but for analogy-sake, is macro-world maintained in diminution, the emptiness pursuant beneath the chafe of the West beclouded in servile notions, perhaps, in individuality has the East to reckon eunomia. *********************A primal artist does with pride what the mud of N. African Sufi shrine builders portray apposite the accidental rough designs on his skin, the indefinite proof to his memorialized space. The taxi fares from pt A of the impermanent record to pt B, is licit with a price of superable roads whose expanse determines assumed views, lightning evoked with alternatives for short-cuts or any half-way as the shrouded traveller's goal. *************In Red River Gorge I'd cue reggae music, Burning Spear of note, adduce his intended listener, socially reify--claim social artifact of agreement, conscious message met crossing water. Solitarian I imagine absolute spirit, mine prone, recommended in shared beauty, in an arc of meditation. Big Floats in utility thought, fantastic swath pattern our lives take, is a guarantee that general notions in self-being can't deny one evolves, self knowing by velocity. In dreams "big floats" take notice. ***************G-d wants our forgiveness for the unfairness in the world, H. Kushner relates. Life as we know it is full of sorrow, but Creator-being hoping from above inspires acuities in footfall, staying hungry, if in strength and actionable at once, by the pronoucement truth renowned without paths, somewhere emplaces nowhere. All & Nothing, Ayn-sof. Evinced? No, I'm relieved of this momentary theodicy. No creator, no meaning, heart open--even broken while empty, light mind, step into exquisite dust which become the dregs of your ecstatic tea. ****************I'm sunk to lightning sutures in its hair-line performance, nerve-lit help cultivating the moment with rare memories. In my first incarnate immuring youthful first space of conscious map unknowing time, watching certainty skies tarry in fountain extremis lament...do I know anymore how to care? I'm plaintive & adduced in hot normative, primal clime of irradiant weather...'til 6 yrs of age in Texas. A lone complaining crow announces the sunless sky above the public pool, beyond at the peak of a tree, natural architectural skyline. In his observer approach visually like black flaque he seems magnified, anywhere fair game for his marauding. He's a lens on Texas creaturely education in my memory. **********************A black cat sits on this foot bridge where I cross toward the back of the school. The creek is been recently excavated, and like the lament from the dock of the bay, the cat seems way more motivated to assuage the bellowy wind and rock-concave puddles. ******************Slightly apprehensive, observing in a trance w/a prey mantis, born to the front of the house only after the bout of having fallen in red paint there on the porch, my memory then is just so still unsaid. Small world yet painted, in my brother's view, the main entrance should be ornamented blood red. I stepped onto the porch in the blurb & spew of Craig's expression, and like a marionette, strings guiding wrought and loose postures, voluntas seem invariably a lie, exactly thus. I registered something like center of gravity, mitigated that Craig was in conflict & is striking at a sincere emblem, the family home, imagining ice and hitherto earth magnificate subtleties and boom I'm swathed in acrid house paint unable to stand. Within range in my certain physical neophyte's pedestrian aerobatism, teacher-student face to face with this prey mantis in meditation, for elliptical answer-inquiry, what this life is become is likely recorded then, one of the last events I suppose at 5-6 yrs old in Texas. ********************Listening to Coltrane under these cool sun filtering trees. The skyline has these earth mind models reaching-mood natural-architecture looking past this road open country & are gladder than bldgs to contest the blue. Someone assigns empty comment, lays it on my self-knowing slouching toward nirvana. It actually feels validating I can't otherwise imagine defending my demeanor. Nothing to say since there is no one I see cornered by social attachment. ...meaning, I see silence tarry in conversation like the corner of a room, specifically spaces opposite the old family home's hearth, where a book from mid-1800s leans bent next to Mom's bookcase, when media is micro-managing senses, reproven as an exigency in a plain of emptiness. ******************As dreams go, the ember to her lightning sky lighted, coal engine beginnings, following life's night diamond traveller: I fall through the floor of your psychology--persist like identity wrought & cultivated whose neighboring field is made in a surfeit of run-off. If consciousness is a tool, her ply solution of impermanent record, whose thought paint in fine streams uninhibited, is my inner-scrutiny of chthonic ooze? Krishnamurti's truth emplacement is nowhere demanding observation over the uncarved block, a thing equal to its space, like Zeno's arrow. ****************I'm finished through the sky after lightning tongue empties the fountain unstirred in silence asleep & dark in the valley of conflagrating thought. Assuming language ought to be revered, paper burning through ideal analytical meditation, an image in the repair of mind in audition reveals among many pastel dream-gates, how the designs beyond impulse give perception to the 90 odd % of the mind in visual success. *******************Like in spider crawL, every visual of liminal stultifying thought breeds across my face, pellucid in a splay web, rainbow shone of morning restoration. I'm absurd & creaturely, the vertical thought hesitant, speaks to his feet, takes exceptions in distances slaking the thirst of open-nerve satellites. In unfurling lifelong pace, wholly a thought is magnifying the present, and any assent to content is imprecating movement, with hopeful time eloping with fate from her leap off the plank in abyssal freedom. **************As in a layer of thought, the hands in appetite's visage, give essense to otherwise having alighted to objective reality w/only mean regard to develop definition for hunger and the obviousness in putting the menu down. *****************Appetite is bright in the gravid sensation of hands pretended in mind only after the truant dead-weight of its visage is guaranteed between she who meditates & life receiving what it becomes. ****************In a stream, star movement mounts eternity in strokes of time whose keep is telos to helpless dithering graduates of awe. Like milk our cement garage floor has emplacement of new lava smoothness, a stanger's wakefulness is mind mellowing of the night's moon glare, the mind I know. ***************"Living stone" is of what both camps--minus wakeful strangers--scraping eyes blind for ruinous world-views, formative & unformed Jews, implicit Believers in the world's largest faith, & nomadic, felaheen, & Mumin Sprites, all agree ascending to near macro-environment, their habitation would be built. Cemented in hunger thru spiritual contracts on space, say where breath is measured, blood is an uncertain solution feeding the roots of tradition. Within rocks, therein harbors wishful agents' retreat, just as the blue of the dome is spectral. ***************More affirming, since it is somewhat true, anyone you'd meet may imagine a floating half century descending & rather preceding in their past, and another 50 yrs projecting talking heads traduced by extinction before and projecting the future splay of human impermanent record. Like a 50 yr wave that meets the intervallic human life and then passes her in 50 yrs of unfurling, one is never really the obvious age that is endured only after parturition. This schedule of a kind of instinct, grappling mortal hands anointed of generations, maybe the standard in catharsis. Jumping off point in the well-being of history, however intimate, is self-emptying with a sense of door varietal over the unknown hope and clay-excuse of life well-lived. **************

heart open--light mind--step, 'pon the bug of impermanence

So, little creatures with the superlative lasting weather, make me wonder. Do they imagine anything from moment to moment, while auspicious hunting grounds can't furrow any longer than his average life span? What is it to live moment to moment, an ultimatum of good-enough, sun out of blue and anonymity, but eliciting her nod to eternity, while barely adjuring the crown of change, is her decisor promise of coming back?*********Imagining, what poverty of narrative to be rent of truth, I wander into passion and existential things to esteem, the willingness of the victim even unto his death, and by whose wishful sojourning. The following is from The Closing of the Western Mind, Charles Freeman: "...common theme in ritual, also found in Greek tragic drama, an awareness that any transition involved a loss that had to be recognized within the ritual itself."*****************Who am I to capture all the concern that once had lain as ready embers to the continuity and meaning that love meant? Survival is intensity, openess, and has no standard. Meeting the content of persona, our dust underfoot, tea dregs for egoity solution, asks to register eudaemonic shores of the gratuitous answer. Answers are to people as prone observer is to absolute spirit.*************A new book or this review of Judaic thoughts, her sojourn v. Core-culture's history, visual documentary, always the kind of things bringing me into a conversation with Mom--I'd approach her saying, "Mom, mmom, saw an interesting thing, its so lucky this kind of thing is available." Even imagining she cared beyond when an equinox was not so obvious--finally yielding, socratically I imagine, "Well, who am I ?" Tho' materially like many of her books I found--I didn't have to go around the corner, uhm, Judaism is good enough, supposing everything is lost on me anyway: self-realization is been a lucky guess. She acted rather rare if an indicator to a wrought truancy of mine, her son. Now, more than anytime in the last 5 yrs, reading is serving intellectual stamina in better account on feeling I have no better place to be. Generally I mean, I'm retrieving confidence in small ways--Things need to be ineluctable to manufacture a motive. Old authors are ill-contained by time or thought, and weirdly less so materially. I believe them imminently. **************There's certain standard of images I revisit; some for rainy days, the beginning scenes in In the Beginning--Potok, things otherwise which wouldn't easily prise from Salman Rushdie's writing, but trigger my own feelings as if an intimate lens is my allowance and key to the narrative. Chaim Potok is a few times over lent out of Mom's bookstow, and is deliberative good impulse while charactertizing languid meditations, conscious satellites in & out of hotch-potch precipitation, days of my making. Among the trees where the dreamer is unmovable, I capture black-barked maple wet like wind-bodies of spirits blowing drizzle sleepily washing away plain-light anonymity, only to manifest a mind participating in a cooler season's baptism. It used to matter to me having read an author whose footfall is currently vital. Usually the author would arise, in academia I imagined, so that those institutions would unfurl in anticipation that thought's dialect now won't spoil, dissipated spirit (in time) is still clarion & ineluctable, rather my enthusiasm can't easily be a mere relic in the living author's language.********************It's weird, psychologically, I'm sunk by concretion's confidence birth memories are just Rokeach candles. Kaskurbeh's wife, a Pte American native, in her transmogrific botany, her bones and flesh become the tobacco plant. Eternally blooming for solicitous blue sweet smoke, yet not for me. My eyes have turned away, & toward ground zero to the just substance deferent to stars and elements. Incredible as any jump from some yr past the magnificate door, implicit in unbelief is the lowing thunder of the door of perception opening.******************Pilgrimage of the week, the tearing grip of fire I bare in her absence. In a sabbatical of lifetime, creaturely ascendent, not daimon, but daemon, I'm musterion triune: lion, ibex, hoopoe. Chimeric intensity w/abracadabra key, open sesame. A Winter window, thru the free space of memories, a wet pear in my fist while traipsing into 1/2 a foot of snow, in the morning of my youth. At eye level skittering snow animates with intentions, neverland of skybloom leisure, temporal & dormant. At the top of the street, Lane Allen artery bisecting Gardenside neighborhood stains w/electric snowy blue, uniformity, & mush...******************Michael Wood in this dreamt room I am presently occupying wasn't a natural interlocutor, more a media illusion micro-managing my senses. I strained through the turbid dream current to speak. I mention historians. He reckons my immured state, can't humor the dreigh, slow of speech, yet impulsive, dream gate crashed, attempt. I start writing things, and while going back into myself, I belch words of fog & corporeal prison. He'd been to Alfalfas, now in the dream, I sit with him while his hard-drive media, bought outside the US, has data recovery performed on it. I read "Sailing the Wine-Dark Sea," I tell him, but real studies on Geniza won't meet this surface--it should like a 1000 yr marauding visage in a particular library. Professorial, licit & expansive episteme defines this, my shore plash at the margins, and like chimeric sustaining oxygen I run for high ground when the room recedes into waking attention. In conversation w/myself, imagining that I'm alternating with the beck & horizon in the rest of the day--expression taking place just not here--and lonely event of almost-dreams, one memory alludes to mud bricks made under the Red Sea sun, Dahab, hod of N. Africans, building buildings through whose entrances were just off these shores w/percussion & signs telegraphing, coming-to, as my telos in this conscious map.*********************The career of lights on Nicholasville Rd a 100 times over follow me out of the way of night walking from downtown to my room on Rebel. These lights turn into marrow of thoughts, they're the ledger of good humor, tranforming me next to the river of life. Minding dovecot message in mind's eye mantram of coos, report 'pon tarmac of "Arab's oil weapon" (Bunny Wailer album title) in perfect illustration of elite monies, ours, mine, our children's... a concretion swath in social living, addiction, appetite low uncreated and asleep. My feet juggle these sidewalks. My mind can't corral the shapes of temporal interests, footfall met, I'm a skein of symbols, no one in its ply. An exoteric berth for a local remnant Kentuckian burial ground, suspends in shallow exhaust of cars through the city's main artery, suspended in breath, but animated in memorial by ours.************************The center is dragging, it collapses. You keep coming, then you're over. Sisyphusian concretion mind, what is it when everybody knows this is no where? (...it's broad enough statement that I ain't rippin' off N.Y.) Life is maybe-cultivated. I might be pathless. There may only be forest and no gate. Underground man is shoeless, leaves blind-tracks his excelsior flap 'pon as much star mote yellow G-d's eye custard streaking conscious map, nothing above, moving into experience, he's immured as big corporeal float taking notice. One acts upon the mean abyssal sense, the moment is transformational. The uncarved block is noticably as mute as earth casting its own shadow, or sun's impermanence if it were possible some cosmic body radiated exceedingly, & she leaves swath in emptiness apposite her cosmic dialect, synthesizing the space of a mute lamp.***************I THINK I DIED that first night ole girl came around. Laying with her in bed--and No!--my heart kinda quit, and I saw myself sitting at the head of the bed, at my regularly dream saturated pillow, disembodied. Strange toxic foggy lament and a "see it means nothing" moment. I COULD TELL I was dead. Two things: first, she put her hand on me like I was the taut covering of a blue fountain-gone pool, skin drawn across an unfeeling body. Secondly, my heart asks if I wanted to "stay" like alive....

The mile upon its approach

He speaks from the fruits of hearing if to mitigate his peer's exile. His weapon is the stolen pen which circumvents the myth of self-being. A solemn right is enjoined from psalmodies over one foundation. Bird-song as structure to his ephemeral expression is mantram to sentient greed receding. Coveted like kindling in wintry hide-away, he's held in the arms of sick men, surprised his illness is named an existential given.**********************A song we played off a cassette hauling around in Cairo, a song by Santana, just came on my anonymous mix of a few yrs back. The time of yr records an elastic Autumnal sense, looks myriad aerobatic, chides in coolness. Yesterday's hot ideation, thought & alliterative origins in a short path's polygon shade looks over this swathe of bluegrass plying an infinitude loam, moulds once called, upfull at the stream and powerless on trial. Some trees I notice in the park are changing in their ancient seasonal garment. A muse of 10,000 yrs between a falling leaf and her visage denies its signature on truth's contract of impermanence.********************By G-d I felt dark the day I wrote this--it is what love meant last Winter I suppose. Love: BLue mOOn of Ky: As close as I wanna get to J Kerouac's "ooing moon" to see its gift in valleys of earth, it seems to me the moon looks down and wayward into the sky--walks backward, ventral translator of my harvest. Gleaming and like a yafo orange, its 'flect comes thru like temporal curtains are tied off, thick tree boughs become veins in their thrum, made its night-event as relishing of companionship as some craven dog. Doesn't inspire its star sisters, but enjoins her earth in a facade lassou of stability. Eternally down-pacing to reach us but then to eclipse the horizon. Receding perhaps, but like sky-fountain whirl-pool in the intense ink newly defined nothing, it smiles to unite with us again in its pondering path tarrying region to ocean's fellowship into regions again.*********************The Tree of Life, Kiskanu so-called in the world one ever knows, its first civilization's ethereal garden, suggests Atz-chaim in Judaism's first prophet. Through his disinclination of actual dialogue, our narrative is merely the vehicle of the world's first scribes. How devoted is one to frame antecedents to the truth thought of as ground of being? Here in school of life, she schools with impermanence. A tree pedestrian's witness making an absent light form across the ball-court while I saunter in the whiling heat, invites longer afternoon qualia. Looks like shady spittle in its canopy splay, objective reality's impersonal shadow's agent. An aged dissociation, I'm more patient now, and then is sooner than a cleverly sequestered mind, chattering thought easement for this purple Rorschach test testing art as agon nature.***************What kind of bodhi tree changes like literalist war waged while the ascendent reifies the Tree of Life, Kiskanu so called by the Sumerians--world's 1rst civilization & 1rst writers--placed in the garden Eden district, her precise heirarchy like crysalis seed to the one day catapulting West's Atz-chaim biblacy? Along their bureaucratic evocations, showing everywhere the penalty of symbolic social ardor even with cool garden environs esteemed, the paradisiacal settings would register with an energy of victory, espousing the hard-won seat of objectvity.****************In one dispensation I coupled every experience with getting away with time. In a mind's simple interred career, seasons' moat dominates the castle of my eternity while I haunt in the mile at its approach. Somebody done something somewhere & I'm hour-glass sluiced self-being proven free of it. Now freedom is this pilgrimage contagion of light, tether to the first step through the door into experience adjures me as footfall makes my wandering impression, the gates in the forest assist the fountain-eye blue pleroma's goal.***********************Counter-intuitively, philosophical umbrella shouldn't be utility when weather is elastic, demanding in a conceptual way. Thoughts need to be stunted, shortened, half-thoughts fury, bitumen opaque movement feel good enough & immediate. Pastel seasons tending a paradise of mouldering guffaw, I come into the room thoughtless. I'm only living 'pon the bridge toward transcendental awareness, amongst white clouds in temporal revolt of earthen space where I travel thought's distance. And distances strung must be an expression of light moment to moment evading consequence in the impermanent record.***********************Poesis grappling thought net catching bionic rats is riddled in ground zero fruity-blue carpeted floor, then in the 90's decade my brother's room had become mine. All the conscious map of Lexington took on a TV staticky projection (in this room), really light content in immediate fray, playing out consumptive intentions of time & place lagoon of south north history exceeding as an imagined well-being. It should occur to me Well-being demands new definitions. Toward hitbodedus, Jewish trends in meditation, Lee Scratch Perry variously furrows language to produce its illoquence in black plastic alliteration. Pivoting studies on what-is-received, kabbalah defined, from exposed nerve arranged language of the "tremendum" mind, the impulse to ply values get louder, concepts brighter, and its technocracy infectious: words slake w/ technology, taste kaleidoscopic.***********************Everything you think -is- this big, an adjured vessel, geometric & proportional to one's normative translator mask. Everything your olfaction calls Grandma's couch of consciousness, father's dusty garage, summery thermals reach over mellowy days, sprite warm air at night -is- a breadbox sized space accompli. This sensorial space where all things take place... Buddha looks out, rains lightly hallooing within, just so, before him, nowhere to turn and only in these solar lens, telegraphing meditation if to cast the present moment a restored vessel of intellection & ooze.******************My feet sit more solitarian than me, they've done more. My eyes laugh like they reach thru my hands, see polygon flap shadows obfuscating the depth of footfall in lamp caricatures light dark orange white. My ears meddle with perspective on night star-shine, room of pitch and silence, tether to the mention of a thousand yrs in each breath. My lungs emit verbs of change, burn like embers scattered across the field of experience.**********************As memories last I began a schedule of reading kabbalah gnosticism however alliterative path deigns its Spring, Summer, all the days flux, analytical meditation is become the silent nod somewhere in the wine-dark sea of 15yrs old. Do images get read? Likeness? Only symbols? Fractal ryddim balloon within thronging nerve calculus of this friendly ant underfoot, lives his dudeness soulfully standard, but intellection academician's witness to lasting breath & sentient greed.********************Teachers compose themselves under some thought umbrella 2-3pm everyday--the day transforms, lulls in the irony of dormancy. Small goals met, but challenge to emerge bildung frayed, funk thrum from would-be melamed, it all adds up student of life in-the-making, a sky is limit, while within, the episteme rebellion willfully exoteric or the wonder of her entreating change. Formative in a place to think, circus egoity, id of nature's reservoir, I dream to remonstrate origin's hotch-potch winner back o' wall singularly bound mithering mindful, splendid cephalic reach, like bougainvillaea. Thwack of bat to sofa, nomenclature of doomed dome "beat" of intellection thwack.******************As I sit broken hearted, actual deprecare definition where I'm vital, she's made it entirely convincing who lights the fire. Me, cold I up a 1000 TVs sear and burn over the hearth of reality, static 'pon charcoal gnashings, emerging clarion season, curtains part acrylic skies, cheerful cups banged--there to drain, minds furrowing in sky architecture canopies. This new emotive career slakes in theoria arcade, paint eaten by its tableau, colors of saffron in face of oil, licked in soup, cranberry glass eyes. A whole vessel prised out of dreigh design...*****************Walls refining attachment to star-mote device, a mind operating agonist, will relent, slows down less like a 3rd world guffaw in wont of fuel, than the 1rst world whose appetite is tradition of body neophyte. If pharoanic reality had first cause, they are looking down at their science of musterion escape, seeing us vicariously perform definitions of existence. Look at state of wont, social living past nerves, marrow of expression of the nerve lit, salah al badan, Judeo-Arabic for the purity of the body, has nuance its (definition is) liberation would strain like Tolstoy in your public square writing in an open book of dreams. Intellectual delirium after relationship depression draws me toward fantasy, and this leap from the plank of humanity. Feeling of eternal haunts, heart led in awe, light of mind conflagrating and blue, are exotic symbols filtering in a way that puts origins into this hungry quiescent vein proxy of a day's long ends.*************************Identity has to be measured in bland dialect thru fates of manufacturing motive. One is lucky to care a little. Choseisme syndrome may well be this cold-lamp myth of love lost. Deluge twilight pursuant the day's miasma threshold, in a conscious map episteme is the satellite glossary of bldg's blank guffaw. Facades sing mantra slavery to a certain silence, and I transform from it in the electric hour while drinking in city ooze. ***************Like she's in phantom presence, and I mile in her salient vision. My eyes love the 1/3 of appearance hiding the iceberg of essense. Midnight chil'run's question in her nerve lit plashes a surfeit of yellow god exercised to the shore of my circadian landing, I feel 10,000 stars bound in silence.*********************CLAYs Mill ELEMENTARY--Sitting down next to a blanket of clover, my whole association with the freedom in a dog's life enlivens a certain natural trust, feeling creaturely, bluesky unreined. There's a singular bee in about the same Summery place in its worker goal prising a solitarian detail out of flower essense. It's not the yellow-black bee, but the European looking one, more allaying in tame character, the guy from around here? I imagine, like he knows the place... I project common agency in season's hr. glass diminution, contrarian to the insect life as evidence to the Homogenocene. I tamp a nail in, in a narrative where I don't intend to build. An Islamic mughal once quoted Jesus, conveys that no house should be built on this bridge of life toward meaning, namely His as object of eternality.********************The contemplative goal isn't ordinarily fulfilled if intuitive stamina feels this impossible. But, verily an "in" is reconciled, a hope physical memory vies for ellipses with earth. No escaping the porte on reverence & continuity, then falling out of it. You deserve nothing outside the known when you're happy; it all seems true. When you're not happy nothing is in a surfeit of dis-ease, would level you as its surprise thwart. A leopardish small butterfly mithering to dry now a few hrs since rainfall, registers self-same hope I only just now enlist next to nothing self-aware, pollen messenger anointed. I imagine this change working on me. Anything to do as one's wake of intention upon me has less to do with me, more in concourse reach observing unknown ply of "other," and you know social living is the best. The lepid on her flower satellite dislodges a window on plain nature, ground of being, has a footprint of space like this swathe of illusion on its anonymity.***************************Sorting out some idea, an Arab dude's notion, does najem, star, mean al shams, the sun, just plainly that, star indicates sun. I'm sitting on a sidewalk, Southland park area (waiting for my niece), near a field feeling the burning hot sunbeams, humidity magnifying. Thermals in myriad stases almost compete visually with usual temporal senses. In a small feeling of kinda body-consciousness, thoughts like Buddha is cold when cold, hot as yielding in heat is irony pulling me along into solar gratuity, a cool breeze.***********************Is open crowd in its capitulation that I belong--these thoughts, the promise self-same shoes never knew the first footfall of this long distance journey. The path meeting one's step--its reception--whatever the meaning in its destiny, could be concretized at the gates of the forest. Unrequieted fascinan's wanderlust before trees become conscious satellites is written in soot, propolis & sap, & in her eyes upon the contract with good. Mind in its moon etched nod confides seasons of change, a bee catcher in the climate of greater will. Yasss word's out on the street, phantom-me is walking the plank of humanity, I'm jumping into the fire reflecting in a golden eye, ...that the defeatist is actually enduring rarified confidence.**********************

Doniger's Tea-maker

It is amazing, civilizations have lasted 2-3 thousand yrs, and with technological advancement, but for that time much of the continuity in stone age observers in raw circumstances of I & Nature. Strange climate in the power of human perspective and yet to survive. "Geography was destiny" to quote Eugen Weber. Imagine labyrinthine imagination in simple rations of light, real potency in our star mote humanity of superstition. Give & play of mindfulness, its "one cocoa fulls (sic) a basket." B. Marley********************A conversation w/a student I want to be: What is avodah? As part of a book mentioned in Amos Oz's Love & Darkness memoir--it suggests a means to worship. Yesod VeShoresh HaAvodah is The Foundation & Root of Worship. But work is the definition of avodah that I knew--my brother confirms. The Jewish Caravan, Mom's tome easily corrals my brother & I into phantasmal first concepts of Jewishness I feel, the weight of marketing eternal study like the student's search rather nigh & not around the corner. There is denoting license which explicates the concept of worship. But, as to get the transience or elastic idea of meditation, so many ways in kabbalah, gives examples like The Work of Aharon, I think I've seen--just name your prophet or any of the universals, any number of fruits (toward fruits of wisdom, one could imagine). A work as upon the solicitous subject or goal in worship. The Work. Like devotion--this is the instrumental word I deduce.***************The threading patter of Yasss piano into this lavender summery ear window--I dine like sounds-arriving are plurbs of victual resource. Populism is seamless. Americana is choiceless. Siva woke me. Brahman dreamt me. Miriam shelters in space memorialized, the other shore. Chagal sits in Sakyamuni's deerpark. Cheerful cups are here to drain. A samovar in the Light of Happiness yeshivah was a trough, imbibed by this horse on the exuding winter floors of a Jerusalem tradition. The chrysalis leave you gave me is your beginning.*************If you are looking for touchstone moment out of Yiddishkeit, broadly enumerated by Palestine then Israel one step across its culturally entreated demarcations, A Tale of Love & Darkness, delivers. You wouldn't have a choice while the fist collapses into one's palm in family illustrated in perfectly lucid nabakov-color, but happier, exoteric somehow. All told, rock really comes closest to an ideal revolution, for me the magnifying glass before religion's window, inspiring thing that made "it" alright for me in spite of responsibilities I saw seducing others, driving conventions which were just more school of life. Amos Oz finds Africa's sun if only proliferate middle-eastern undergrowth with its nuclear laugh, hellion passion, precise decisor of bluey-jew soul vending. The consumation nether bird-call of fates he names in the dialect of dying mother in the wee hrs roseate moon-lamp, has its sacerdotal sing-song go to the head of babylon, narimee, narimee, narimee. A read I fall over myself to assure a good romantic, The Same Sea is born of every river bisecting the universe like a mother's heart, and the sea is never empty.**************In alluding early scholarly student of history, dreamy thought-world sitting prone in a couple of libraries, it is strange validation having seen-through an accepted theory in civilization's beginning. This-world of Sumerians matriculating resources did not in fact live in existential denial by bureaucracy like Soviets devolve to endure in his Russian xenophobia, killing creativity ill-explanate. I'm saying: If bureaucracy is suffered in state of provisional explanation, the existential forfeits eudaemonia, but creativity is furnished like licence in mind-substance given context in white noise vibratory properties. Mind busy by approach and not impelled by wired wakening, stumbling through institutions featured just-so (dreams, theoria...) where from halls blanched of reason toward agency is the gong peal of intentions.********************Open crowd and sisyphusian attention: I find it unfair alighted! into an age commonality that I can't any longer remind just everybody to be rebellious. The marketing of identity and teethy grin to prise the sum cost of what identity-world enlists as dark-harvest of senses, lives by intramural agon, whatever the pain while moving into consciousness, restored to this posture has all the deathknell of institutions upon reception.***************I tried to visualize a rather roseate bedside setting. Thought's black balloons--the furthest reach I'm wont to allow for distances, the more likely I imagine them lent close up. Late reading, groovy mindroom. Rory Stewart lionine paces in a megatransect through Afganistan invokes Among the Believers. A niche in Himalayan footfills. Life everywhere, especially distant. Late nite porchsitting--I see your powerspot extending out from the sensorial frontyard tree. I almost feel prone in conversation, like some conceptual umbrella demands reflection in certain weather. Possibly all alighting to matriculation themes where intervening space hides spiritbodies leveraging what arises in Jerusalem, the haunts of memorialized space attending the Light of happiness yeshiva, when I felt quite beyond cleaved into tradition.*********************...people try to tell me what's important! Dad probably, & thus likely from our Pap, always sounded Daoist enterprising the most, saying, so & so "is the most important thing. Most Important." A thing like this has moral landscape source in character even in tea-drinking. I imagine honey for me strong descriptor out of Marley's venue, big things will take care of themselves, the virtue in earth accretions, its dregs in my mason jar, room temperature, babel palette candy, forest of sensorial relief underfoot. Still feeling Maygreen in expectation for summery highway of her lavender mood, her symmetry's volley lives in most seasons, trespassing like mercury ellipses of ever matriculating bridge into the next.****************Gotta do it rt-- My eyes flash into space imagining all specter of wisdom traditions, chromo values thru colorblind eyes of dream pitch valley. I'd say poetic, not really always lent to the deep aside. Arrythmic thoughts ration of light incite my physical success unreined, just to be timely, feeling intensified more than night fuels an exposed nerve. Intensity is key--opens doors--but focused intensity means only one would've been wrought super-pedestrian unrealized in bldgs blinking receptacle eyes, like an ocean's devastating earth-effulgent garment, a portal is rent negligible. A door is always rapt escape if it sunders the hand in the affirmative.*****************Across from my elementary school in Austin, imagine that sensory world of dank hot Texan environs, gentrification houses going-up, so raw earth and interesting subterranean fields of play...a few elusive wisdom trances, time shores & dharma dogs. I jumped through walls of pink insulation subsequently itching under my cool covers that night uncaptured, but scandalized in my independent rally licit in the margins of our neighborhood. Mounds of metal scaffolding monkey bars, crapulence served dirt hills, and mostly open doors, open walls, some sluice aft of emanation, an escape & a beginning. Down at Quail Creek lies a dog--no way of knowing how he died. But my friend, would-be, I thought, is dead and yet vacillating on knowing-everything-ever-was, because I am that I am still where he lapped from merciful green waters. What little soul spoke 5 yrs before in growl over jinns and a bark in the language of images now the shadowy door where mind appearance registers my nature?*************Native Americans grew crops in plural share of slash & burn plots, different produce within the same plot. Just seeing the natural incline of living in service of nature, in escalante only barely alternating from eyes of plants, to that of a macrobiotic philosophy, and the intelligible universe in the agon & kaleidoscope between I & Nature. No fences, no foraging chattel until the Homogenocene, to be concerned if to ward off-- fatalist deprecare they were not. But these plants live conduced in same environment, therefore no reason to dissemble their efficient natural cultivation. *****************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 lost to redemptive scholarship in Islam, the believer's Creator in his philosophy of well-being, the Mutazilas--Muslim. 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. Why do the Fundamentalists therefore say, leave the most profound queries about origins (cosmogony) up to faith i.e. mystery? What is it do they not want to think about?**********************I want to invest credible self-actualization goal with this current yet mid-20th century study on shamanism. Arises one & against monotheism while cosmic buddha always-principal, in my plaintive nod east. Myth is good toward plumbing the depths into origin, making a psychological current into alluding circular statement of presence. The orb of Siberian natives, shaman as a sociological figure, comes to light --in Eliade's book--not lost on me the drawing, some pale mask I meditated upon while illustrating it, is Chukchee. He mentions a world-tree important for a pilgrimage--this birch, like the one where I was apt to lean, meditating there, I read into the late morning. Just mentioning it recently I had hoped it would tie into yet another glimpse on mindfulness and meaning, placing a bet in belief the power-spot by my park tree is a guarantee of someday intuitive. These are hierophanic vapors, as to say, almost nothing to go on and yet relics of an ecstatic world somehow negotiated better than merely a deep aside.**********************The clay self-being hotch-potch signified ink-massified contract flops onto the concretized floor of the present moment. One's homunculus garment apposite of reflection in her mind in the way of mind, may well be palette of apparitions, proud posting up unto the negative land--my mixed up, bumpside down nervous computer & gland, shadow & image turned to physical success, lives of compelling space where language acts out, objective reality awash w/the stammer of amphora contents in human concern, vessel & lamp of universals. Palimpsest Church Father, Philo, is Scholem's Kabbalist--guide on merkabah meditation, that of the throne or chariot, significance of its cherubim, and adduced here in Freeman's "...History of Early Christianity" Philo proffers students, a student, the author to the The Letter to the Hebrews. Jumping from this literal cusp - a 2000yr box of time, Philo would be a unique conscious message in Alexandria of alliterative and rather technocratic star-mote destinies.*************************Toting around my empty form through a greasy-dark, chrome-impenetrable body-shaped swathe, a shadow blessed of characterized Beaumont park, may well have been this negative space of me as radiating star-mote painter. On the park bluegrass, my stomping grounds if ever I had become a flush hunter to a panoplied seats of awareness, my shadow splay receives eye schisms from that early day's dream, that morning of no subject and its relics, but of inside-out mind-media, mirror-maker of empathic earth. Once like my body torn from starry sky and before me as a homunculus garment, I exited a car catching a glimpse of likeness and image in the pitch of night. This pajama vulnerable soft-machine--night-clothes --opposite in mass of corporeal mind to that of film-negative, has purple eye niches where I can imagine lightless & featureless tacit relief 'pon the earth, gate to moments approach where I lean upon a birch & read to fuel a way of endurance ...feels like living next to a river.*****************************Feeling more On than the world runnin' me down offers as license toward my chosen fate, exile et al, goal of love again. The world never thought I come to it with this ekstasis in change, the sleep I interrogate. Belched from sea & sky, the fountain is every variable. Thinking deeply, a dialect to surface: analytical meditation may as well be my bag. Unfiltered sighs, glances, & whispers connote an author in sprite agency. Potok in the resonate space of my drums, intervening there and gone, they rock on their brace, feet wagging in my dream bank to bank, cool wood on sole prone lobbing pugs.**************************

There's the door. You're always the 1rst out of it.

"Life as we know it is full of sorrow" begins a book introducing the 8 fold path in meditation. I'm inclined toward thoughtless rosy-colored mourn if to discriminate abyssal memories in lure of more unanswerable things. Lumbering upon a bridge toward attention on sober declamations everyone knows this is no where. The rivulet willowy melting air on a lonesome highway seems to promise furling travelogue, breath bound in colorless grasp and space, into release where I live to meet point B, & everyone else evermore certain on the horizon's two threads. The bread of my brow has all the lament mushed into her symmetry. My cultural intensity is time corralled in the well-being of my history, while no one gets where I've come from: I'm programmed to imagine a solitarian tear out plenitudinous sky-fountain origins. With no acquisitive motive, I & We, conscious crowd could answer that--I'm no more than a splay of sentient furniture dumped into an outward fact of annoying mean & maya.************** ****I'm outside. Outside society--a long-distance run a ways away. Rock n Roll is self-realization effort. No help, not really if I'm equus/ashvin led, hand on my shoulder, and I'm alighted to dull air. Air is my existential garment. Futile and transparent. Dull air, sometimes magnetic & unusual: D. Byrne lyricked on Fear of Music, "some people never had experience with air." Chorus: "Air air, Air, air." I'm ill to suspire in it less than I'm cloud clarion, in suspense. The rivulet willowy melting air on the lonesome highway seems to promise furling travelogue, breath bound in colorless grasp and space, into release where I live to meet point B, & everyone else evermore certain on the horizon's two threads. **********************Life is a conversation. One has all the intonation a persona, her long ends, are lent in sum narrative becoming. So what of no content & space & time alight like big dream floats take notice? The mantram of sounds miscellany, arrival, the word apple having fallen--it's fallen and ready to imagine in its tree epicurean counsel: the diet of consciousness, what one frames as resource & experience immured in its taste, sensorial power.*************************You spit in the sky, it fall in your eye. You keep a snake in one basket. What is more lending of change, likeness or image? Prohibitions in fascinan's potency like hot shade, like cornerstone exquisite dust in paradisaical silence, the tea leaf clouding one its 4 libations. Equality is a state of mind once her couch of consciousness burns in patient conviction seat of awareness took breaking an ascendant's legs akimbo, breath reduced to air, air stolen out to blue of the dome filtrating temporal denizen song of songs to the lash and mummer of space.*******************Grandmother spider finds her way thru my eye. The fly above me, I'm sitting on this fb blue colored carpet, tho' space pre-cyber, guffaw alliterate, maggot brain salah al-badan (=judeo-arabic for liberation of the body.) Wander arboretum only for strange strangling grasshopper, in her skillful effort to burn in my chest, show me breathless stars, fiery lungs.****************I need the perfect sands to lay my head. I know where. It is actually a place, golden colored ground of consciousness. A place of my making, 5yrs of this now 8 yrs later thrum relationship bullshit. My basement flat, cave transcience with its birth opening. Her conversation cloud sluice post-Orthodox word technology aero ride bombast, all a bored yiddishkeit, and still her mischief and damn her stillness, & my flight.********************Egressed certain toxic emotionally nigh margins, putting the menu down. Talking to serpentine sundarban waterside Zindapir (Saint of the Sind or Indus) like in a daydream V.S. Naipaul, Rory Stewart, Alice Albani styles the telegraphing East. Green deep where infecting eyes transparency yet past glassy lost surface, agency must live monadic and elemental, creative like a window cutting off abyssal gait, Rilke conversant meeting his peon & nurtured teacher/student on his supra-temporal path meandering animist spirit bodies of water musterion. Where else but in the insistence of water merciful and esteemed paradisaical--it is Tawwasuf/Sufi.*********************Scratch toasts, All things are possible when you are really unable. Some say, & agree, to be self-aware be happy. It is also other and sustenance. And while happy nothing happens (say "without" so benevolently) but star assemblage and intramural common sense contest with dream. Sounds arriving louder, in the corner of an ophan's room, the circular angel human market place augury seat of awareness overstanding of expression. In colors brighter.***************My old Russian professor's wife came to the shop this am. I see a rare life - the while I spent around campus post vagaries toward a degree rather exercising likely academic goals, but intoning certainty she mirrors in collusion, the reach of my well-being if only alliterative, bookish contemplation. I step into a magnetic web, reduced to lost time, viable tho' if episteme shows itself. She's a teacher--that's all I need to know. Finality of some peak language visibility in all but 10% of what mind contests in wandering sea thru the skein of sky chrome on her surface--I would take in every paltry ocean-drop over again to suspire in mindful days enlisting thoughtful shelter on this ply-career in all the reading I tease out of halcyon kaleidoscope.

Quit Cigs in the Month of my Birth, I'm now 47.

Fire and the infinite sadness. I wish there was something to sacrifice in deprecare of apathy. A broken heart is blind. I can't record my dreams--her fuse is to conflagrate otherness into plaintive nothing. ************Arendt depicts Plato, who fears the ridicule in all laughter. "When we laugh we pay for all the innocent blood, that they shed everyday, oh chilrun mark my word, it's what the bible..." is Marley poised under the tremendum of similar idea. ** I went to family day at IBM, Dad's work. The mirrors, having replaced hubcaps, globular on the corners in the avenues of machine floor, never 'flect my visage making me feel meta-physically incidental, just mundi strophic from objective reality veils bellowed out of bright lights in fractured hallways. ************I think in ways of media's psychology. Becoming objective by not acting on a sense of following up with contemporary cache the latest news and everything else may vaguely have me introduce what passive edutainment causes me to turn to, name-your-talking heads. Yet I am reduced to banner ethics brought to the denial of distances to imagine uneven reason that I am curious why the visual industry stays viable. The art may replace choice while the machine is conducting consciousness. *********I dream; I live and dream--I'm living a dream. Tic Toc Teac voodun stylee-- I doff my hat to Scratch. ...there were neighbors doing cloud mischief behind house-fronts. Nite-vision pantheon now assenting in definition of "people" as if otherwise I would've assumed the mirror of bland echos, slightly side-stepping me a dozen-over, or not 'pon the otherness one is not really alone, acts only on his own behalf so feeels certain his solitarian ethos stains something true to physical success. I'm at work sitting comfortably then, Ascent of M... splurbing in my ill-attention (youtube) to waste a feeling on elaborate historiography cinema albeit educational probity, a discipline marketing of world artefact, or watch it later. Beginning a new book, strong feeling in me, about Sefardic Golden-Age and then the muck of what is in between us and then, words ghiyar, gur, ghetto. And the frenetic emblem within this dream, pacing almost running overtly from the seam of the 'burbs, the once lived bottle of coke I found 10yrs on from its litter-grounds, by the creek 'magine a branch of Elkhorn, there it is, cokeless. ***********I should read Hannah Arendt, The Life of the Mind, or The Jewish Writings, some of it for say a portion of numinous in 15-25 minutes of strickened intellection--I should, tho' haven't turned to her in a minute. It would be subject to devisement in elastic or tremoring Gershom Scholem appropriating thought's exercise like I know from Trends in Jewish Mysticism, Mom's book when I first became rancored in consciousness to penetrate magical but crystalline otherness. On the Mystical Shape of the G-dhead is hymnody of wind & the passionate mind mantram catalyst once, while the mystic of conduced life study, teacherly angel, has social scientist rigor from Arendt, leading me to power-spot, goal to this Jewish student. I like how Arendt boils down the refuge of certain thought, and beating her there to the degree that a minor battle on practical awareness in any relic of victory is become salve. She may ever refine "kavvanot"-- meaning "concentration." An executed arrythmic socratic test on thoughts one adjures in luminal expression--thoughts reach for unity by her ledger, acquisitive mind in the median of its fire. *************In one real way being courted by late night pedestrian angel, like a flashlight neonic on peripheral city-scape, on chrome bushes, on walls corralling homes, facade-agency painted even on air, caricatures of everywhere in the world sleeps. I experience the same deficit of say "timeliness" whilst the luminal once raw dispensation from cold-lamp fever had me digest an incensed ancient menu--banal porage, dated & receipt of a newly lived impermanent record. I waken and day-dream surmise, while the world guffaws in her sleep-wonder, necromancer shivite burned. **************I feel stupendous and out of my skin regularly. But, I give myself a few minutes, forget why a regular thing became distracting. Depend on profound techne-forgetting by the ornament of stress, yielding to defecate impatience. I'm weathered by an immediate need for change. No registering ciphering threshold, a moment decisive in what is beyond, but prone and exercised into mean solarity's arm-twisting court, I leave off wrangled by intellection, inspired by offence. *************My cat in old man guise, like stepping stone between my Zadie & Ralph Nader, winked from behind, rather overstanding, the methodically blowing floor-fan. Her aged eyes out of green ever resilient present-aum--she nods toward natural past, trees of their first evocation in earth, and intellection phantoms. Capsulating the project of one lone brow bowed to familial society of mind. A feline avian mind meows in chimera dust motes, light like a feather. She's the heathen I always want in an animal, culls the office carpet on wooden floors here of her fur she could have more easily lapped off her meticulous mane. No doubt her physical success is the project in these four corners of her pug paths. Train percussion of this moment in daliance, patternic temporal boot-step in a wave of silence, a shore of nigh climate--thunder-rain & railway jamming usual traffic thrum--all heavy & weightless "being" at once, is wrangled into observer upon observer, watchman time, house-maiden angel...a gift I was promised, and a recent conversation of good repair. ************I see the difference between perceived society and actually the concretized egoity of belonging. Once "otherness" is undeniable identity becomes non-distinct. Check my life if I am in doubt. I don't know society through my filter comes across as the appreciable silent sought-refuge, story of river-dwelling, song in chimera mountain written in the sand media of its eventual alluvial garment. When time crystallize absolute spirit by being in the climate of denial's same sea. ***************In what light when folks point to the word journey do I imagine merit by any definition of change? In the shade of time in approbation and control, light-step--and knowing I'm loose, and triumph through broken chains and adjure broken-ness. I hate doing here what travelling by crystalline goal in different activity, generating novel patience, or upon what "other" moment in objectivity my life is become. When theys shirts look well-formulated, as comfortable as the definition left in places of glyphic repose. Human market place; intellection in ashen 'flect of conscious stars. 4 directions all accomplished in once a refined bloop of good artefact in time. ...of a precipitous step, before tangled in the roots of wild agencies, the chaos of TV eye boundless in blank cyber lights everything tropic in wailing iconoclast conquest move from antiquity. ***********No more sequential art, script, say pursuant of cultural relevancies. Rather reading from linear newspapers and nothing subterranean about it. I always desire luminal, symmetry trick. Book of life, chapters of dreams, symmetry in the glitter and daliance excess like desire in the brain--the theoria gland--machine of catharsis, thine heart emptying in wooden eyes--if the sad man would stand behind the inflated tear. Imagine BMW when Rasta conveys fulfill the book, one must. I'm as likely to commit to timely nature on book of life by as few symbols as memoria alights. ***********If I am wandering in the cosmic house by day, I scale its facade in dreams by night.************** *********Without any thought on formal introduction, I wrote the following a few minutes ago which would sum bastardized Asian narrative, to good effect, which again will have turned me around when I was very young (by uncertain memories) in shrouded-wanderer fascinans, I hope. The following: What is the concept evoking the face of Fu Manchu? Orientalist cinema from mid 60s--Ireland. Maybe a visage of impermanence, to put it into serene, lost like Rimbaud emptying his mind in streams of thrum terminus, halls furled in layers of eternity. Yass, woe is death; wisdom in rank throes by its commission. Life never hesitates if one's reckoning is its esteem. "Death to all who fight." Scratch, I think once toasted. Triumphal Rasta in banner dispatchment "dentity." If it makes any sense at all memorialized space is at last a ghost-town, like convenient thought, everything in its climate of power topples the effect in superable chastisement. **********egoity & neurosis* *praises & manufacturing motive* Any sheltering of "me" brings on neuroses--to think of the landfill, what you must defend there. If only successes--& yet all the acquisitive certitude to wager goal toward truth: "It make no sense at all to say where we used to work. It make no sense to say how much he [?] had earned, [...] to say what you used to do. It's not what you earned that make you a man --it is what you keep that make you a man," are Desmond Dekker's lyrics off of Fu Manchu, reveals a place abyssal egoity might level out. How negotiable if not superable is one's philosophy of self-reliance? Most complete thought, subtle nomenclature of function & normalcy, having manufactured motive and whose yield living is posit memoria out of avidya pocket, just seems like I'd give a damn that pillars of consciousness are not collapsing, so I only praise. *************Under this constant daily guffaw of a black escher-like tree in the mural, on my bedroom wall, w/a dragon and acolyte 'pon a flying carpet with portal, one morning I wake up and realize unconscious stress, rather immediately in evidence as pressure I feel on the left side of my head. I was ready. I knew it meant phenomena that just takes persisting on an experience that will have all the irreality of a sense of being out-of-body. My nephews are throwing baseball and they were in no way showing me deference, making me think I was rather phantom-like. I walk under the arc of their replete martial sanction that that ball may have my head as a target--reinforcing the magnet and marionette draw of mind fluctuating out of matter. Unchallenged and slightly confirmed in my fluent transparency I walk past into the neighbor's driveway, place my hands, as it were, upon an aerobatic prop, lift myself up rather lying supine but in the air while grabbing dark hands grapple to sustain my repose-- I'm thinking digital fetters in license begin to restrain me weirdly as an imposture. I jump down, extremely satisfied I had smuggled in some sense of my potency in lucid state with all the plaintive dalliance of a long-distance dispensation. ***************Getting up from my chair at work, usual and bleary, I feel like waking is more of a surprise. Just maybe I'm not quite as synapse-wrought, fully in my skin, without acuity too-quickly gearing-up to do the handful of things I would execute. I've only half realized my body as a device of consuming experience. A caprid's head to the deep-aside, were my feet precipitously trying to find same exclusive point of revered high-ground. The bright orange that clots my eyes from scrutinizing the back of my head, tho' not what I expect, probably means I'm a sun-devil. Once feeling this way, teeth on the nail of the picture, the tones of conversation and thru auditive margins, rises--eddies, but no content, skin-toned corporeal images of horns in visual-field, seeing "what" hears--clearly I, and now phenomenally I'm alighted to call & response whose-nomenclature like big floats take notice. ************very existence, meaning his under threat, I have a different solicited guarantee to solar-particulated amphora wine-dark sky--my blessing is his plaintive respiring.**************************************************A bridge offers the pedestrian adulant sky-prone possibilities. Not having gotten over somewhere. Replace bridge synonymous w/gate and put the caprice of language whose potency ought to excersize one's margins for the likely pleroma standard: distance reliably enlists relationship--the more artifact of a river's journey for her, the sate of his goal is release. Cloud attention, if upon a broken bridge. *******************Free man but under the auspices of his juvenile wisdom retrieved. The intensity of reviled escape--his own. While intensity would be enlisted. Warrior but not striven--free man who designs his own vitality-- only to have the climate of the greater will emboldened. The vessel, the machine, replacing choice. What Mr Hall the Clock-maker (whom I met) furls in the contest of my umbrella shelter of time reifying my physical success, is the nature of all informal meditations. Your prayers are born to estimate the halloo of your earliest thoughts. A day within a day - you speak, I feel. If she keeps comin', she's over. When sense of life defined as the bridge toward transcendental awareness, as arising with the writ of spirit in the material or mind redounds thru iconoclasm--why not something with more receipt than just how I feel? Imagine the socio-trance; ugly modalities refining everyone conspiratorially: culture can be an ancient lens to unpack what this life has become in the maya of the present. Bears who swim in dreams are unconscious impulses ill-defined as anthropos. In evidence by the animicules of eye apparitions almost beating the futility the mind, self-asserting, nature's son, would be as ebullient and bold thru the architect of objective reality--but isn't. Why say the deer drinks replenishing water for anybody? ************

Triune memoria of Oranges: Yafo, Prokofiev, & a winter's sun

BLue mOOn of Ky: As close as I wanna get to J Kerouac's "ooing moon" to see its gift in valleys of earth, it seems to me the moon looks down and wayward into the sky--walks backward, ventral translator of my harvest. Gleaming and like a yafo orange, its 'flect comes thru like temporal curtains are tied off, thick tree boughs become veins in their thrum, made its night-event as relishing of companionship as some craven dog. Doesn't inspire its star sisters, but enjoins her earth in a facade lassou of stability. Eternally down-pacing to reach us but then to eclipse the horizon. Receding perhaps, but like sky-fountain whirl-pool in the intense ink newly defined nothing, it smiles to unite with us again in its pondering path tarrying region to ocean's fellowship into regions again. **************Me in the west bank, in a G-d's country: Walk over toward the date tree, not close enough, just dreaming it the while. "Like this, g-d," I say. ...not as alone then, then! but ellipsis timely now in the denied promise - the reaping responsible-world over me, to endure my plod and fool's sisyphus witness to Mt Haroon, no corporeal wail of the eponymous Aaron. Moshe of infirmed expression--Balaam's doing, and mind of calamitous artifact thru musterion, to verse a halloo across the desert floor in that phase moment, watchman to an unearthed specter in "other. All the specter of unread mind topoi, anonymous tongues of unheroic teachers, leaving ground of experience for ablutions to its wanting-- the pug marks in contours of habit are my scars. My traipse is inconvenient. I can imagine suspiring in deer's lair and as if Salvador Dali paints the room of one's pilgrimage goal just past (into that space) an astrolabe when the pirate prises its data to impress it by curse or secret into the heavens above. ***********My mind just said, "Be in a good mood," and like an on-light I am. I nod incredulous to flangy thought consolation, why would I tell me what to do? What is the last thing having gotten me here...and so more convincing-- isn't manufacturing motive the agon of inner-scrutiny? I can't just do modality and provenance thus. I trial her through my unrecorded shrouded tracks--whose porte in convivencia is found in our fray noted without stella of sentient greed to overstand antiquity --by gainsaying languish in the climate of power, the happiness defines everything beautiful, and the tableau recedes. ***********Either one in the crowd reckons strangely the same-sea, or the decisor fluent passage, rather alighted as a vessel, one is, only living in a dream in a sea of possibilities. The perfect sun lighting the glory in desert void of its surface to the verb of its rally 'pon the stars--vapors to vapors--lashes with slavish origins the paint of the moon musterion true. At the coffee shop, late, an interesting LP techne lure comes to mind. Visual to beautiful noise, chromo values like social narrative, so something formless, would be mantram to umbrella concept, word's clarion gate. *********In Alison's family room , more usually promontory around X-mas, we'd sit and muse into the wee hrs. An elegant peach colored X-mas tree looking kaleidoscopic & pure against the nether blue night of universalized Lexington, rather blanched of meaning, airwaves to be dug yet in what it should communicate. Her veil of concern leaves conscious artifact evolving until in dream-state I find the character of my change in that setting: she's assented to frame the obsolete moments, the memorialized space where I sit prone in quietude, lone, and in waning expectation by way of dreamt-genesis the room annihilated in time, remaining a conscious satellite. She's not to enter and convene unanswerable questions to my inevitable continuity I live by adjuring a different faith in relationship. Valerie isn't taking place in my hidden consciousness behind the door of what would-be. Rather like cornerstone once ineffable in the ground truant to inter my desire, Valerie makes real, shining smiles in holy lightness of being. ***********"Religion survives by the enforced ignorance, as to say an informed choice denied, through our young." Daniel Dennett. Imagine the well-being of one's history without favoring your particular creative agency as its origin--contrasting so that there's space for self-actualization principals understood from without. If one is present and would survive an artifact in the illusion of our record of impermanence whether as part of his imagination or a sense of things appreciating in time place and community, then the "observer" is first and last rational while sorting out the other of presence, the very thoughts feelings and actions as allegory to higher ground. Spirituality is rational. The awe is expected. The idea of Believer in terms of Western core-culture if crowd's "believer" isn't closed off thru analysis of early X-tianity -I recommend The Closing of the Western Mind, Charles Freeman - the fire licking at Abraham in Nimrod's cauldron, if we adjure what open-mind is, is like a sister-faith imagining the Great Father cooled by lotus flower here. And what is higher ground? The present moment revealed--as to say presence enlisted--spirituality is the enumerating mind in a vessel to fill the very concern of Now: it is rational to consider the device and journey however immediate for experience as certainties in I & Nature. Hopefully her own. Nature elucidates spirit or an agon techne in explanate egoity ***********Feeling confined on a white-clay path, this dream enlisting thought-world of my trek up into Coomer's Ridge at Red River Gorge, this morning I rode down Parkers Mill the template of its diminution where I follow. In the dream the path visually seems furled but my consciousness processes like a step to come is renown only upon the impact of my last footfall, leaving me as some curious geist unchaperoned how I know a path but without any intuition why I'm on it. The looking-glass of whispers and glances, I'm looking laterally side to side at the hilly fields, which are like warnings I won't remain in dream-state, while I harvest thoughts on the assent of complacency. This corridor of mental nomenclature had parchment ground-of-consciousness, like leaf detritus & limestone making naked bones exposed out of the pitch of earth, its impressions like transient narrative of paradise out of the gravid expanse of farm-fields, feral-nature compared to what actually encroaches into Lexington's margins, the places of my making. ***********Under this constant daily guffaw of a black escher-like tree in the mural, on my bedroom wall, w/a dragon and acolyte 'pon a flying carpet with portal, one morning I wake up and realize unconscious stress, rather immediately in evidence as pressure I feel on the left side of my head. I was ready. I knew it meant phenomena that just takes persisting on an experience that will have all the irreality of a sense of being out-of-body. My nephews are throwing baseball and they were in no way showing me deference, making me think I was rather phantom-like. I walk under the arc of their replete martial sanction that that ball may have my head as a target--reinforcing the magnet and marionette draw of mind fluctuating out of matter. Unchallenged and slightly confirmed in my fluent transparency I walk past into the neighbor's driveway, place my hands, as it were, upon an aerobatic prop, lift myself up rather lying supine but in the air while grabbing dark hands grapple to sustain my repose-- I'm thinking digital fetters in license begin to restrain me weirdly as an imposture. I jump down, extremely satisfied I had smuggled in some sense of my potency in lucid state with all the plaintive dalliance of a long-distance dispensation. ************Uh 1000 deaths individually in a 1000 chairs all in different rooms-- and not a stick of spiritual nomenclature in no-mind once of form. Yass, I am just electric to the 10,000 TVs in my head. And I abideth the spiritual tourist, shrouded traveler, mayan propitiator. (Heb. for fountain: mayim is water) Homo Ludens to a machine-vision in late night rendezvous & traipse thru sensorial reflection miles to pace alighting to looking-glass breaths of night dancing in my shoes. Of traffic thrush, swift to inflate silence in blinking air tincture, glyph to ill-caprice on the loading-begun into dreams on new icons behind craning affirmations of buzzing city intimations. ***********Yass, I am just electric to the 10,000 TVs in my head. And I abideth the spiritual tourist, shrouded traveler, mayan propitiator. (Heb. for fountain: mayim is water) Homo Ludens to a machine-vision in late night rendezvous & traipse thru sensorial reflection miles to pace alighting to looking-glass breaths of night dancing in my shoes. Of traffic thrush, swift to inflate silence in blinking air tincture, glyph to ill-caprice on the loading-begun into dreams on new icons behind craning affirmations of buzzing city intimations. ***********biblacy and the yasss jazz of the deep-aside-- "Find my daughter, walk her down the lost highway." Peter Rowan making sworn and wind-cast leaves of grass where I collapse in my Laban prophecy, dispensation 'pon incarnation burnt even in November rain, her concern in the splay of her consistent rain. The Long Lonesome Highway (Natalie Goldberg) whether something in it or not a prototype in her spirit is subtle lens thru anything she'd have me martyr, vapors to vapors--shadows in my eyes to sister's fate of a dream. I wish physical memory would make confident this resolve to be the homunculi egoity samyasin in whatever irony Rushdie makes spectral in Midnight's Children, meaning diminutive by degree, creaturely & rare, implicit watchman on the most stupendous of unconscious impulses--more socratic, stirring the dusty veil of prohibiting fascinans. ************My love is fertile like the swamp off of Lake Travis. Rich and dank, recessive even in the hot Texan sky. By g-d if this is to be the Persian pardes, paradise--what became favored, soul back then into today's "core-culture," (what one calls a memory and goal of it) whence I would wake and inhere--by the risible fire I stepped into hot coals. 1970. The space my love leads me through and generating, is damaged, & fetters me in repute of the crime. Still she is the center of my world world from without: hear within tat, know all the worth from a coarse fray solace in my liquid eye almost unpresent, apophatic of the lamp eminence of this dream. ************While falling asleep a king and waking as butterfly illustrates the king is become aerobatic to his former pedestrian reign. He defies the hero, allows the world in, in the confidence of the protagonist. On the razor's edge the book of life is exchanged for a broom or the electric duppy (rasta for doppelganger, looks decisor by simplicity) of nature. ************Moody Blues' House of 4 Doors comes on and I'm truly imagining a full stomach. The gloss and inflated glory, with deference & promise, Mom's home-cooking almost everyday, menu set-down, the crime of my caprice has me commend her savory usual fare. I use the word "mantram" but in context. It means word{s} of no content recited as catalyst to reveal word{s} of definition: "Eating my heart out with stupid day mummer mantram." Mummer of the day is mantram: the substance of one's conscious state starts fragmented, one's more usual enlistment of self-knowledge. A thought: It is unimaginable whether media/ pop sinewy human passion delivers me - appertains to a life lived or unlived? Consciousness is the most refined state of nature--and consciousness is been denied the content of all beginnings. If time exists only after the Big Bang and not before, "awareness" is negligible to primacies, said Creator in anointing his defense of one's contract with good, if the ascendant would refuse reason. Transient or Receptacle: always Who am I, with no sense of "what this life has become?" Scholem Aleichem. ************If Tolstoy wrote in his most present mind in the public square, I am the pedestrian leaving tracks he may have dreamt, follows into encantation. In his cloud-attention the contract with good he will have had w/her, takes place in ciphering seasons of bazaar floors, go-light of a candle's mind-room success. His remote but concurrent privy is by extension only a lateral move and toward a renunciate Jesus if passive resistance philosophy appreciating Gandhi's bhakti is become X-tian witnessing. Two yrs before my Pap was born whom I knew into the 70s, in 1894 Tolstoy had published his The Kingdom of G-d Within You. One is an accretion of compassionate agencies, but rather its conscious satellite, within some crystal palace (I glean from Fydor D. Notes From the Undergroundman) revealing a would-be ubermensch who anoints ole brown (of the true hero) of another man's footfall. ************Sometimes porch-sitting, or rather in the garage facing the clash and thread of traffic, cars slaking the peristaltic road --do it by paces; thrusting forward as if to match cardiac pulses in my eyes by measured light-steps. Enough to observe barely the discovery valence in some one car, that moment before, in surveillance A day of nothing precipitate, onto the neighborhood roads between me and the niece's school, I go to park next to Southland pool and walk over Mary Queen's run-off creek, tadpole denizens survive, crawdads in perfect alien spelunking netherward becoming. Purple deadnettle patches like lawn marmalade deliver a sense they really have no seasonal esoteric concealment (going away is human tribulation), should have never been forgotten. If my eyes pulse to impress its respiring attribute--wind lashing supine from today's clouds flouting what we know of Spring , our weeds are flush and tremulous on the hill up to the back and side leading up to chil'run caramelized only to be cleansed in chlori-nation's pool--parks & rec crew up to task, there now. Unmanifest steps, intuited as emanate footfall--elegant weed-flowers bow while looking back past sky-breath and the pug-mark of chrysalis heart in fracturing plash where eyes answer in visual repair. *************Lee Scratch Perry's layering vox, dubby effects, has good dynamic auditive chambers to meditate on, performing on the mind in his Rasta specter. The 1rst two cds I bought--cds of late 80s-- Thelonius and the voodun priestly Tic Toc Teac, his Message from Yard, rallies in strong artifact in my thinking to date. But then as yantra (devise) in my coarse thought in discipline/self-awareness, framed "thoughts" in a rather concretized theater. I imagine coral shifting, lumbering as if from one pivot, tireless noise & creak of heavy twisting cardboard. I felt corrugated, sensorial interior-spaces within the walls of immense tableau. I held a wooden match above my forehead moving it laterally back and forth, broke from its enlistment, did it again. My tea glass had Geraldo obfuscated at my side, volume off, and a few sips left of tea. I'm thinking it just tastes like fulminate sight of our kitchen while the menu of mundaneity & specials are lapsed, it's at my back--a different tea in the sleeping vessel. ************

Saoshyant-mithra-meshiach.

If you're asking for social cues - If incompetence is denied in the renown of conspiracy crapulence - If you can't stand to be told to change your mind - If you are still a hero in your concensus trance of egoity - What light exquisite dust is forest of life in the ground beneath you feet? When was self-reflection formless conjecture? When did your pen become a weapon to dispatch your contrarian geist, of vaporous agon, met only by her trace symmetry? You'll see true myth, breathless pleroma where it has been written. Birth marked, check; lazy-eye, check; nicotene jack, check Chagal's Smoking Jew. I'm alighted to her trance trace bloom without escape, there really is no where. How can this be? Cloudy day in the lucent pale shelter of refraction. The bread tastes like old eggs, sometimes rare to forget the sense acuity. Today, my water tastes like rain imparticulated, or the smell & sate of a nigh sidewalk puddle. Imagine just a slight tincture of the anthrax-lived earthworms surfacing on the tendrilly neighborhood sidewalks. One should take the sense that everyone's differences are kaleidoscopic--meaning a good thing... criticism notwithstanding. I says to my brother just getting citizenship, had stayed here a no. of months: Check me if I am in doubt (banner emphasis): I am likely rt he's atheist, said as much. I had similar strict mormon conspiracies (per the coming ideation) reifying when those magical-thinkers dug the airwaves, tho' more incindiary. ha! This is good. So imagine papal american in fact, latino, latinos like bucket-head M. Rubio looks-deep, left and riGHt, rarely into crowd prone spell, but corralling as-if all-comers from the scary pale margins. Then Santana repeats some Urantia benevolent what happened to the aspirant is worship via whatever, unless the word Lord is pronounced Lawdy. And now the unevent of a more nativist cold-cool dude. teac toc aumsat -- tat I'm seeing Cheech Marin in the effervescent smile in any number middle-aged female populists on these intervening insurance & pharmaceutical commercials watching msnbc. It must be circadian sight. I'm inclined to believe and rather not believe the glint of human plastique emotions in the terminal eye as part of a natural dialect--despite the veil of perception in its trace making suspect my lightning lip. A blissful maw on the face of cold media, her molten voice solicitous of decisor product, inane behemoth americana wrought continuity. TV irreality still can't compete with the 1000 in my head: TV lava piles as gems in blandishing lighted field, or one flashlight focuses into the plenitude threaded refraction without all of mind-assembly arising in radiance at once.**************To task in senses esteem for the redolent ink off the pgs of National Geo--desert, India, things Jewish, things Muslim, things Russian, the alteros and bajeros discovered in this anthropology book laid amongst some I collected. Talked to a couple wonky nickle & dime bound dudes, got taken for paying twice one dude's price for the rare ones I wanted. An article about Iranians spraying tar-oil effulgence across swathes of their desert, which promised to inhere the moisture beneath ensuring a flowery placation over once dispirited landscapes. I would see contrarian desert bloom in Death Valley among the salt licks upon my visit, its merit is this rare climatic visage. Arabic for happiness is sa'adyah--not sad, my stumble recommend, bumbling issuant to cultivate as much--stumble as in a consistant meditation 'pon what there is to relish wailing in the orchard of existential burden and being glad. Studies erupt in memory of the the Arabic for happiness. Sorta proud-land well-travelled me city-slicker ciphering nature in media whiling away. Time on my hands.************--Flurries romance the road, in the dark, my am. eye's review skirting layers, feathers falling-- --Musterion bad brain weathering gyps channels this season-- --A crowd of black birds peck and dither in the backyard-- --the most cryptic of mind-- --shore is past languish into-- --the counsel of lazy mind-- --the yard looks like a dank seed bank-- --a high aloft crow is chased from prising what he wants from Ky's ogreish assailed yard-- --The rusted sleeping tractor lends the refrain of nature's venue-- --Its blue/green grassy slumber inaugurates plaintive sacerdotal impermanence, avian born netherly chimera-- --the shulamite enlists my repair in the garden thru a dream outside a guffaw pellucid window-- --Reddish limby, embowering, thru trees vascular gaze, overstanding by winter's heavy fingers, one's mind is quieted in scaffolds of nature-- *****************My bro closest to me slightly over a yr with his rage and proper dragon nose to incite an angry yid partisan, an enemy of the Black 100 while martialing in the eye of the Dao poingant in its ward, the yard we made in his furies abreast sysiphus dreamer of. Incendiary mind of anthro-agni-content contrarian to formative receipt on the nature of his cannibalist say Joshua renown--just makes the animal in geist passporte to humanities ettiquette in social science. As explicit as Anasazi moderating the tacit raw suzereign in human instinct, aboriginal receivers of the committed americana backyard. Timeless backyard unique in making the cold-lamp winter moon inveigh pillow-armies of leisure at the profane, by evincing the curious vitae libations of cellular memory, blood. In a cup and carried around this blood, all day and in the vessel that is chosisme journey involving what I proffered fending off tref, rather anything I'd have to see again, made blood seem vain in its potent krill-brew. A styrofoam dixie cup. His perhaps stolen bike, something else "before" the crysalis of religion's similar journey. On my early 70s then restored Schwinn 10speed in a loop out past the airport pendulum swing apposite my Beaumont neighborhood, I get to Little Texas and a tremendous report from gun blast raps past my gaunt frame--I thought I get to die... now.....? Washed up from the intensity to escape, by the end of yasss Dedman Ln --not just poetic device--I look at my arms imagining full physical success. A tobacco barn is in front of me toiled by live-long elements, black and splintered, hushed right upon the road's margins. Looking at my back tire, it had blown and apparently with explosive force... Trees finesse into this mediate palette, eating air - burning in my chest, nodding into the pitch of my throttled heart, and now the gray refrain in every glance in all the days hence molds to recesses in ever courted tableau, interior trance. Objective reality all restored in almost unrecorded earthly bloom.************What otherwise is death & dying, I'm not seduced at weaknesses funeral: I'm positive. --the most cryptic of mind-- --shore is past languish into-- --the counsel of lazy mind-- Misty morning: egressed en het enyeh/ thanks & praises by the castle of my eternity. The pharonic phrase now defined is by a tear of extreme patience...the begin in the begin. I come dragging in here early this morning, my head still thought conversing before the commission of white-noise silence rent from drizzling rain. I go into one of our work-station rooms, sit in the cat's chair and stair at the ground. Now drifts of sounds arrival start registering but I can't find it externally. Like a myriad message born out of thought's ameliorating vox, I still don't reckon a daemon reception. I glance at my shoes and then the sense of recesses emptying of fraying concern lends the present moment. Just ole brown getting done with tromping gray morning, "charged" corporeally, my neighbor's feet of a 90 yr old man it seems. My father's gait is become mine, but apposite rabbi's (now passed...) clomping footfall, his presence alights in the shul's halls frustrated in diabetic diminution deterring his ambulation--soul vendor, sephirah father. Like liturgy generated from inverse approach--an over-turned bucket, whose contents sate scholarship goals would be a long-distance run ineffably relicked giant leaps. Other environ's trek is time abbreviated (shrouded traveller fascinans), space lost in it like me a stranger coveted in uniform black film unrisen sun's earthly nearly unrecorded bloom.***********The propriety to filch something around campus just provoked me to gainsay this event (I stole an iron doorstop--mid 90s--put it back weeks later). I'm always respiring in Pence Hall to study, aum uncontrollably in sounds arrival clash absorbing and fracturing continuity in rather an analytical meditation (coarse lilting presence). Chromo mean, letting go in daylight specter, in all rallying sensorial hypothesis but ebullient yawn of yellow summer mashes a spectrum into suturing roads comely exteriorizing. Grays dry in a visual anomaly, white and black ash the dreams sundering night, wakeful in the neo-mundane lens of days plying monist--there were others gods, but I knew of only one Mercy. LIGHT plateau - dark CORRIDOR; white black white black: I watched what I saw! The last TIME we gave ourselves to the moment may have been our last reFLECTion before the veil of tears reMINDed us that IT had been a Karmic death. A place in the climate of academician power, my own vehicle. On my early 70s then restored Schwinn 10speed in a loop out past the airport pendulum swing apposite my Beaumont neighborhood, I get to Little Texas and a tremendum report from gun blast raps past my gaunt frame--I thought I get to die now. Washed up from the intensity to escape, by the end of yasss Dedman Ln I look at my arms imagining full physical success. A tobacco barn is in front of me toiled by live-long elements, black and splintered, hushed right upon the road's margins. Looking at my back tire, it had blown and apparently with explosive force... Trees finesse into this mediate palette, eating air - burning in my chest, nodding into the pitch of my throttled heart, and now the gray refrain in every glance in all the days hence molds to recesses in ever courted tableau, interior trance. In me now labyrinthine--not raising the stakes to convene a center, however blandished, haze-interred without. ***********Since X-tians suppose water is once transformed into wine, in a similar tho' unconscious impulse when I sneaked glugging down milk from its bottle out of Mom's refrigerator, somewhere between a sigh and a wail I'd encant "whiskey" to fawn appetite in the valley of my tongue. Laterally but now in more refined diet consciousness, soy milk (what I can drink w/o allergic symptoms) has become milk. Cultivating space: a compass of self-reconciliation: Does one divine physical success like the stone on the tongue to sate thirst? So, appetite molified. And as one experiences having just arrived doesn't body consciousness redound creaturely and vital like sight is bluey pleroma and eyes observe from solar satellites? Mountains solution incumbent singularity: you are not alone near pinnacles availing and wrought. Residing in everywhere unmet desert distances repair an ascendant prodigy... If nothing's got your back in an arabia--note Dali's subject with his hollowed-out trunk framing the vast likely Mediterranean--his cane becomes realistic device, stellar to temporal kundalini, to his pedestrian struggle at an end albeit 'pon the ocean's possibility, a void as uncommitted within as without, one stands like the specter of self-possession alighting to no where intervening.