** **...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. **************