A Sun God on My Back

Aton, the Solar disc ancient Egyptian god, is mentioned in an Abba Eban guided documentary rarefying the Biblical one cocoa of effulgent succour Creator revealing the Hebrew G*d, and moreso before an adherent is granted magnanimity of belief, there's the sun. Of one piece in an ironic mind is all the suggestive space of light, that our sun is the emulsive promise of it. The natural distance strung can make its furthest reach here the solace room adducing dust motes in a Sisyphusian baptism of light, molten star conflations toward cool earthen loam. Energy niches are metrical to our cosmogony. If these plain memorial candles tending like saints of night and tree coves were starry heiroglyphs bouncing temporal vision into the drape of lithium & photons, its mood purveyors live-up to restore and be given sight. Nirvana, bliss, its diamond hand upon your brow... Theoria's gate into claxons of green enchantment, the ascendent is become arborial. A sense to egoity valiantly denied, the candle is blown out, or something brighter engulfs us, hither a kenosis to our shady promotion is the new dawn phasing. The sun can't be less than Wisdom. One realizes an ultimate commentary to her spirit that truth is a pathless land, wandering, leaving tracks if inner-language is language to inner-experience thus-gone?***************Monism over that one thing which consolidates memory may well be a breath's control and nothing of real world news, studies, the pregnant fact of school years in their cadence, is about as much a mystery as remembering from remote light-house qualias in the face of confusion enumerating a rather Holy word for the biblical G*d for some, Adonai through my fascinans in turbillion slaver out of the valley of tongues where langauge awash encants rhythmically I Don't Know, precisely the Never You Mind of Jah, relates Karen Armstrong defining I am that I am thusly the ancient idiom of a tremendum mean in the exoteric. Monism = of one piece.*************Of course G*d is the exception to origins, if one is up against presuming the moment to moment furl of certainty that an existential burden indicates one's journey as resource to his/her belief, though with whom his & her feeling is less than confident one should suppose the virtuosity of self-being is borrowed of temporal assent.*************The traveler in ryddim to footfall, being the auditive culling consumer so nice and refreshed of the merit thinking on Israel and Egypt now, this world-beat, meaning a comfortable, contemporary sound, feels close enough to the Samite, his "Waterfall" I once had on a mix Devastation International could see clear through, offering up rather "Into the Groove," Ciccone Youth, all damn-well mind blowing. But in that space if a metric to the Creative has me compelled in those halcyon years in and around academician floe--the world more spiritual--it's the song you may try to find out of this Samite subtlety, called "Waterfall."

Having read about the language war, Zolondek's book.

If it's not the lack of research, or incompetency you might enlist, deprecare wishlist to reason what is other, then, no doubt, it's conspiratorial, you know, aliens.*************TEA IS SERVED. Served up for the morning's embellishment of the day's totality. Black tea in its samovar, in the corner of the ablutional-hand washing part of the restroom, when I'm compelled there at the Ohr Somayach Yeshivah (means Light of Happiness)--getting solid with just what it may be these guys would never speak to--certainty & overstanding this prone egoity. Eggs baked on a big cookie sheet with slices of green pepper, bland as that in cafeteria settings one December, Jerusalem. I wanted to imagine what it was the Orthodox expect of me--to do it even--maybe the words Yo Evam Veda, Sanskrit for Who is Knowing This, is good mantra (and excellently Sanskrit) to take on the priorty of empirical studious days, everything past the draw of loyalties--I'm haunted standing up behind my eyes. Easy to do that, because I got good at walking away, drifting from anything that which I'd deign with confusing probity, my tracks banging up the spaces where I emerge from my own footfall over irreducible proud land. UPON my arrival at Ohr Somayach yeshivah in Jerusalem this healthy proximity to learning was something I wanted to witness. In the room where Torah and Talmudic learning commenced, I walk past, I'm on cold open-to-the-outside foyer floors, looked into the shul where the arc dominates, but only saw individual students davening (=swaying in prayer). My mnemotechnical reckoning was brandished from the thoughts of the only living Hasid I knew (then)--yet wayward and thus more-up-my-alley--a saint now of Orientallism (sic), who I could suppose digested these kinds of settings. He was my older brother's Arabic professor & my Islamic Civilization professor--the same Dr Leon Zolondek at the Univ. of Ky. MEMORY is the internalizing of a procession of thought i.e. time & observing parallel to experience, living then in my mind--as to say--then, which is a fallacy. You are either NOW or you are in conflict, there isn't any alternative to that. This particular trip to Israel wasn't for study however--rather I was going to meet up with my friend who in a few days would deplane at Ben Gurion airport. The Moshav, communal farm, would be our longest stay in any one place while travelling for the 3 or so months in Israel and Egypt--and Zolondek was in the survey of my mind at a poignant moment. I was out on the perimeter of the banana fields--there on Moshav Fatsa'il, Ma'ale Ephraim, facing the noon day sun, thinking w/self assertiveness that Zolondek had socialist or Zionist values not alien to what I could absorb for myself there in Israel, a calling for all Jews I'm conduced but emphatically assuming. Zolondek, raised Chasidic turned his critical eye toward Islamic studies, so my yeahs could not be in fact my yeahs. I'm a student more than the knowledge acquisitive instructor, hence the distraction and what came next, which I almost interpreted as my comeuppance. Though the minefield around Zolondek's "person-ality" is only a phantom assumption on my part. I'm thinking out there in the hot sun, "Yeah, Zolondek would... " but I don't know what (over & over again in my mind) & then whack, I cut my thumb with my machete, but good--leaving me the rest of the day to do nothing and imagining the damnable stereotype sense of (wo)man's finger pressuring the earth as upon the ground to one's side as if I am more or less passionately fecund in Damning something...something, but didn't know what, ...the infiltration of agricultural implements and dirt from a desert come green plantation, banana farm, into my permeable body.*********************"Concrete" stirrings of a Creator, says Sam Harris, (miraculously) almost don't exist in the minds of some Conservative rabbis. So concrete claims, he relates, can't complement wish fulfillment over the faithful impassioned implicitly! in the makings of our world granting his adjudged significance. Imagine doctrine that mythologizes unto the actionable patriot, who will act on it in assent to its literalism, that suggests the very earth will scream out that his enemy is to be vanquished---the earth, you know, Trees & Rocks who would've been temporal & exemplary. And if Religion is bound in competition for souls, I'd say a definition for a life in the haunts of our certainty in at least one world, while yielding to serve a paradise in the minds of the believer with the biggest stick whose imminent continuity with that paradise is in the place where you stand, then one must argue for the brighter meadows of human nature to be matriculated.*******************A little deer sprite of my castle, whose lair has been this property certainly since the early 60s. I think I'll name her Shaina Madel after her once sentient eponymy, my mysterious little Jack Russell, here suspended in feeling, some temporal record curiously as mute and poignant in this verdant array.********************Ibn Shayk al Libbi said al Qaeda was getting down for the count in making Bathist alliances while he had been tortured. Tho' inevitably this is one hand clapping the blood-expensive anthro-rhythm within the lot of Arabian Regimes. I'm throwing (alliterating) stones as if through any assenting martial crowds. Ok, this terrible cultural pathos means the Base, I see. Interesting, seriously the study of certain words' root are places to see definitions of the pure and the profane... that vain game religions suppose You'd better get with, while tribally what are the wiles to have assent of Faithful convivencia; your duty held in charming embrasure, gate of gates, you see. Adjudged or not, the ancient, ancient, I mean like Akkadian Assyro-Babylonian (and for a thousand years one waits for Psalms, for instance, to be written down), in Hebrew just as it arises as ..Quds in Arabic, Holy, there is tremendum incited in the verily agreed upon nature to an immanent Creator. The sense of judgment and Other. The G-d that is Other. As One Thing and not so soon called to court, or brahmodya (Sanskrit) isn't sometimes only silence.**********************So if down by the shuttering well of your lament, and in the vital fountain of your gladness, you want to stand up in your eyes, able even through evanescence visually leaving a mayfly's sorrow of one day's chimeric dance, a numen of tracks are as eyes observing a thud and fall, its weird evocation in the Lub of blue pears as indefinite while they clutter the Autumn orchard's ground where one trods, and a choral silent Dub from a congregate interweave of prone-reaching trees making new integers of the architecture in our skyline.***************Content race dialect with the yass psalmodies of her yeahs, brotherly regard to sister-mothers--open doors for her, salutory as the student to brother-teacher, whiling in humanist eponymy seeing myself in his shoes, superficiaties mount and burnt books are gainsaying-authors of splendid turbillion histories, so we're more and more open to the possibilities overstanding a tremendous past.*****************I'll complain through thoughts that they ought to survive my wonder as I narrate what might be prone in a thrush feeling passing trees un-ownable by the yards kept-up by suburban folks. The air clothes me, smells of a McAlpins' changing-room floor, causes an interior knowing of my friends dust and water in my breath making metrical these sauntering paces' embrace. I go all the way to record the environ spaces just before the frontiers of unknowing. Lush in its watery filtration, wagging water maples, all-too coiffed juniper bushes are redolent and nice, the crowdless sidewalks look properly grown-over and unswept by mullberry bushes whose aquaintance I made under its corridor along a neighbor's ubiquitous chainlink fence. Under Winter clouds, I challenge our mollified green world to be sensorially defeated by a palimpsest Nile green only to call Kentucky skies a mellowing eternity in nothing dissimilar in an appreciating numen. To think on pharaonic close precincts, down by the mercurial White Nile next to the Temple of Luxor, I wander as a ghost with Americana as experential entrails, a mind bloom of Siniatic Winter coming-on, 35 degrees warmer than here yesterday. However full-up in what this life is become may feel is from moments reclining on the hood of my car before an emboldening world-view in assent to Israel & Egypt, till now that the tote of a deep aside is my beat acclaim to our New World, only the 15 minutes registering, mentating, just deboarding from the train having come from Cairo, in Luxor now, and taking a rather rickety carriage through the village, erases beneath a garment of nigh cultural existence, for a new volume of blood to abra-cadabra this prodigy of here & now endurance. My arms phenomenalize behind active eyes, mind-hands cleave and offer-up things, and showcase how I awaken the daemon in my head to watch what I see. Leaves tasted by their dun colors are tea dregs, tannins becoming savory with rainfall, clotted and blending with earthen intension.*****************Here's this guy with a walk of unconscious parsimony over one conversation then into the regions of exasperation however slight on to the next chromo-conversation as it says he's complicit with the day. Probably an incapably controlled alcoholic and reimagines the world in continua with tear-lens on a feeling of being full-up in pure approximation. His yeahs are the yeahs in an intimate imprecation, nodding to himself, a world is appreciated, culture isn't a vulture tho' it swoops down, condones unknowing. My nod might take-on a stranger's ken of contrarian witness, he's stabbed by fractal rites...if I dance in his plaintive brown shoes hiding my beer out behind a vacuum tinkerer, I would end by breaking spiritus sustained blood from fundamental aerobatism, lit and fully suspended and sheer like dust motes, vibed at the surfeit of business mind ill-leading tumultuously I'm now adduced to muse.***************I think it is clarion & a good goal that when I think in half-thoughts (my usual conceptual grammar), and then act on them with feeling or expression, while talking out of the top of my head, Susie is immediate in the assent with a meditation on what I could have meant. Enjoining less ardor than letting go of a daliance of peers who wouldn't understand why she is the head cornerstone over how I relate to my world is hilarious that an explanation about the solace of her embrace wasn't assumed if relationship to them had ever been as creative.****************Gives me chills. The man was inspired in a way the world will have needed mid-20th century. I'd demur out of expecting the self-same change one in the cult of self-reliance endures if Religion looks as dated with its catching up to political/social equities if the Pope is become so conveniently revered. But change by all means, of course. Be mindful that, "If You Believe in Things You Don't Understand, You Suffer." So, the game of human fate needs the logician over compassion, a social scientist who compares meditation & the sensual againbit with our rational event. I thank few in socially powerful heirarchies, unless they're dead, while Malcolm spoke to the university of our grotesque social doctrine, if it could change.**************One is timely to become restored to an actionable state--human progress--culture which works as software mentations all alight as primates down from their tree destined like desert ships, maintaining technology born from the purveyors of astrolabes, GPS the tarmac respite, transfusing earthen petrol whose paint empties into ethylene oceans, if her assent through polymerized avians evoke the night of nights, scribe tremors in my unknowable sky, the advantage of football out of doors toward a good enough reason having worn the hat of the empirical given as the sleep of bears with a relative awakening to our season of fulmination & meaning.************Into 70,000 yrs or more from when humanity walked out of Africa makes a sense of cultural birth seem viable on the horizons of Mother India, where most of the world graduates out of the root of our language modalities. When I sit and appreciate the sounds of the world once convened from our ancestors, how is it that such a diminutive feeling unique to this historical nomenclature can fuel this sensitivity of the taste transferred from the pebble on the tongue of antiquity to mine that of technocracy's dispensation? I walk into the spanning shadow's bridge between streetlights sussing the ground to find the key to creativity, blissed into the cool night, suspended by the thought that I'm under monarchical clouds while they cuckold our moon becoming the effluvial rays underpinning this desire I have for learning as a freelance academician instead of one commissioned with direction as before the two shadowy sides of the same eternal world thus-gone containing this one.*************On some of the oldest bricks of UK I sit reading Rimbaud, consider my reckless behavior ward and his motives behind stirring the senses in confidences with the sensual if repair to the desolation of angels ...yes, those in the night of Americana, tho' more chimeric than mine. Heated thoughts tarrying into an ill-median out of coarse forms to the silence in my presence streaming the morning of university-life working for me at all post a few years of tuitions and stints at study-abroad a surfeit in goals to meditate, be happy in self-knowing get-going. Everything I could get done through thoughtful twilights, just awakened from dreamstate & a long blue-slumber, I wallow in beautiful gray surfs knowing the taste of hearing more internally, than seeing a prise to daliance-plain colors. Inner-scrutinies are only the intonations of hill & valley to the conversation mattering to thoughts filtrating into shadowy micro-theaters to that of flat walls, white-noise, hrmmph of eye-targets vanishing in city-traffic burying the drums of conscious suspense.****************A Mother's tongue is a hand. What she says is tacit. She speaks, I feel. The grabbing hands of approbating time is rather her leisurely caress to free the din of blood from its flangy banks. The lassooing visual of our on-looking to the spiritual moon whose presence is become the floe-skin atop Mother Ganges, meanders issuant like a tether to her feet purveying its approach by a yawn glimmer.***************Lost driving to Clay City, I worked for this coal co. office at the time, and for some reason doing highway side of the road weed-eating out in Richmond. Driving away rather than homeward I had to pull into any establishment to get help, feel oriented to this day as a just artifact to the exoteric or the surface; with my schizophrenia full-blown, I couldn't touch the ground if I had to. Pull-up to what looked to be a real-world gone furniture outlet and folks were sitting in chairs of many lives bullshittin' and holding court, all in their prone quietudes, glands filtrating, expression intendings, rednecks, breathing through them... I ask how I get back to Richmond, then of nothing novel surmise it's the way I came, they thumb at me the road's lone entreaty, these thoughts where they've been wiped out. I am a sad, sad brother then, clinical no doubt, and in a f--k all bliss I get my 1982 Ford F-150 in line to make way back into Lexington while just like a mercury tear I am only within me that I'm greedy for my shadowy thought's tableaux. And guaranteed a bit of wisdom, learning that a purveyor of thought is sight's Will toward this world of appearances...to be restored unto conscious goals, I only needed to look.*******************

FELT SHOT once.

Sitting out in front of the house on my lawn chair by the garage, trailing away from me is a world arupa, an existentially licit garment. ...trying to capture this one time out in front of the house on Williamsburg, when some inner-voice had come to a halt & I feel impelled of radiating hot reach of sunlight as through wind like a loud gun shot into my mind, then the requisite moment of dis-ease and I am floating away--damned frightening!! Guns were drawn, the iconography of the mind have the 10,000 TVs stupidly play--its antennae reflecting, alarmed. I am looking for a solid statement to presence, a peak moment that I was a part of a spiritual reckoning--and had kind of an auditory hallucination? I could hear a flangey radio--the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, thereso with no clue that an inner-voice is my recorded self, presence. Take the old man or woman on the block--how do they stand in self-conceptualization, how has it given them the mind over matter? There is something monarchical about being in that much control as one subject to what is yours closed behind eyelids is just as the sleeping physical world saying contentedly, "go ahead, lay your head--evanescent of irreality, licit of truth to believe in dreams!" This being a viable notion I feel ultimately determined to eclipse if impermanence were my due, as vast as a shadow behind the sun, rather than maybe my profile as casting a shadow yet by the sun--it has its own as in the field of reason. Some bird is flying across the immediate skyline, she's a stark reminder of my sentience bound by ignorance that slowly, terribly, intangibly I'd evolve from it. I look into space like it was as tactile as belched hot icebergs, 85 % of its life submerged, but evidenciary just so: I perk up, it threatens denial. I adjust on my haunches, it bobs forward. Then as if hands moulded from my consternation I imagined grabbing some mental nomenclature, a thought body reposed upon Grandma's couch and I am there till asked to go out, outside for awhile, quit lingering--is the roseate truth of spectral shore where a covenant is become warm & fuzzy & my languid posturing held high, then I peeked into brighter light and out of my material constraints. I watched what I saw...is the LIGHT plateau - dark CORRIDOR; white black white black: 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.

Soul, does the creative goal redesign me upon the exoteric other shore?

In Why Kerouac Still Matters, John Leland, in Words on Fire, Dovid Katz, my professor's writing whose Oxford Intensive Study I attended, and in the just out Waking Up, by Sam Harris, I'm enjoined to be unblinded in the deprecare of my laziness and its slight to ignore my confidences, observing their authors' style in the project of sub-floors to reimagine the subject: Jazz toward Hiphop poeses, liturgical analyses in their folk meddling, and goals of meditation or consciousness for the hope of irreducible shores respectively. What makes a read more believable is obviously having made a choice where the author is noticeably a strange spirit, but when he/she cordons off part of a chapter by sculpting more concertedly a historical point of well-being to jump from, is to immediately feel you are a reader thus accessed toward more alliterative change. Accessed as more amenable for change is a kind of key to the intensity having brought the reader to assume navigating things in full just has the more finely meant details more white-fiery, those tableaux plains of experience, subtle & adducible.************* Instead of saying, "come on self, catch up, so doing things feel better," unfortunately I'm conduced by my suspicious inner-voice within intra-mantra slavery. I'm wishing force of nature would have me mean it, and I say, "...oh, go on, do what you want, I'm still carrying-on." As if "doing what You want" sorts out a control upon something superlative that self sees in self, while temporal journeys show deference in the merit of change, I can only imagine having nowhere to go.*************I imagined once some deference to thoughts-ablutional, that having this feeling survive in my thinking it needed to seem natural, eventual in its assent while whatever other thoughts pull me into action. In my version of a handful of years rather like a "retreat" however social or coarse in cultivating mental discipline, I've gotten in & out of the box of appreciating lessons common in commonalities from the people I grow to love. Sitting down by the fireplace, the loading is begun. This power spot renowns in my dreams, while other family members abra cadabra licit in strong theorias, with whom I may have managed to gain this insight, those elemental candles glow in plight to serve my eyes, and I feel like clouds mistaken as smoke, and thought cauldrons populate the heaviest of night chimeras. My room, effectively and solely a place of my making than anywhere or anywhen to present me as this prone ever again, takes on spiritual continuities with a transmogrifying fire which would be my waking ritual, and where I'm attending dream seances, reading a language I've only understood in musterion sum in transliterations. A rabbi (my cousin's husband, as I know him) has me stand just inside my room adjacent to the family room emplacing the hearth, and I read from a usual book of prayers, now with its writing as barely an image before my eyes, but in the sounds emanating from the cant my voice appraises. In the dream, I look over to gray gnashings, a couple of spent Rokeach candles (finger-width & white), feel tabooed from our stonewear owl of the fireplace and to the back wall of its concave permiss, realizing the outside world is viewable past the would-be fire, has an inside of domicile lens as through a dormant once-contemplative kindling to everything without.********************Is habit still creative? A tree is always fractalized, lets go into what distances sought feel like in the ply of vision, and always newly skyline architecture. A kind of observable release... Alighting for all intents a version of continuum.*******************How does our society reform into ways and machine making money ambushing in transitions where one is otherly denied the more intimate notion that he/she is out of its confliction? The world in transformation may have a shrouded traveller drag his/her feet while roads are built & wrought through our mountains and alien buildings begin to blink. One really commands that the in-between spaces are the means to the ends of our footfall. Memorialized spaces are verily attributing the theater of live crowds when they are only meeting horizons in anonymity, our world registering before the endless night sates in its sky guffaw a taste of our meaninglessness.**********************When we rode straight-away into the most effective education I've yet endured, travelling briefly through a passage into the Sinai, excitingly, to Cairo (w/ Robbie Loco), a view of myself at the feet of giants would become "vision" so as to instruct body-consciousness, my physical success. What is also true from apparitional thoughts are the creaturely examples to something which may be the strongest appeal to taking my next breath. Noticing nesting mallard ducks, here & now, the female yields into something more present while the male, like he is a kind of watchman, makes a relishing awe over those fine presumptive close-to-earth suspiring nods--what sweet oxygen might appear as when I'm colluding with I & Nature--their beauty in vitality. There's some kind of substance to keeping me alive, virtually, which is sometimes hard to imagine in that I think my inner-voice is become so weary saying in the few words that survival is to simplicity and concern, "Oh so that's a little better." As if I've intimated for those 5-6 yrs tearing up my lungs with tobacco too much of a conversation of mind over matter--tho' it still matters--how is it thinking becomes confliction over the trespass of self-knowing? I feel a new body consciousness while Susie frames that and with more love than I have ever known till futility is kicked into the star dust eternality I expect will be me one day and the what-if an incarnation has our embrace in pure union.********************There's some kind of substance to keeping me alive, virtually, which is sometimes hard to imagine in that I think my inner-voice is become so weary saying in the few words that survival is to simplicity and concern, "Oh so that's a little better." As if I've intimated for those 5-6 yrs tearing up my lungs with tobacco too much of a conversation of mind over matter--tho' it still matters--I feel a new body consciousness while Susie frames that and with more love than I have ever known till futility is kicked into the star dust eternality I expect will be me one day and the what-if an incarnation has our embrace in pure union.********************If the last relevant puzzlement to soul is expression when it is dearest, Spirit elicits truth from the wastes of infinitude in a plain field of few artifacts. Awash like pure blanketing sands, empty as the wells of fossil water, where earth lies willing to be regouged from our skies lightning lip, her fountain spangles. The Shhh of a void's chronometry is a sign from ill-matriculate terrain. My body lies end to end starting from a conscious map to the world extenuating the truth to the measure of presence. Spirit while it restores one to take notice of anywhen at the center from without is consciousness roiling as one wave to our fountain beginnings of lusty reflection to earth's terminal star theater.****************Learn new moral codes. Undo the learnt mummer of an emotional frontier of blind or threatening mythos. Our psychological continuities have novel sensitivities--the assent of what is personified may erase what is beneath--probably always new because conscience is againbit from a deficit in perspective: one is only in relationship to act on vitality guaranteed in that rarefied awe of consciousness over the light of content. Plagues & war seem to surprise everyone; while the mission of social change becomes the broken footfall as apraxia across the moral landscape, humanity would receive the ply in getting to the summit as a provincial education.***************If you have some mentational deprecare thing, and you have been self-medicating, (matriculate here hopefully wiles of your past resolved) I would imagine that there are enthused states of mind now good enough to keep you busy, perhaps, in a reserved presence of mind which reflects this condition, in those new/old shoes of unsatisfaction with this renewed dialect over the weight on your well-being. Your mind makes more opportunity for the capsulation of these concerns than just about anyone ever realizes, realize. Therapy may well be your renunciate cause, mind's economy relenting normally being bitten by a feeling derivative--these things you'd romance albeit without more archaic rite--to assume the nature of one's half-thoughts, and an inevitable submission. You'd be the dragoman of getting lifted, tho' naturally, an exceptionalist like gong-player of licit sounding bell tilting and swaying over Belched-Ever-ers and to something come correct.********************My oldest brother relates: "...I wish I believed in seances, I know that sounds strange. But, I wish I could communicate with her again." I say, "Man, that folks seem to realize however dispensationally they developed if forgotten old garments of existence, I look around and see Mom in my corner in this sad world anyway." Supper with overly boiled lipton tea, sometimes a better brand, her uniformally painted attention opens up this nerve center kitchen. She grew up living over their father's store, "Louis Cohen & Sons" in Kingston, NY, which stayed in business early to 3/4th thru the 20th century. Wandering in dusty corners of his, Zadie's, old building down by the Hudson River seems rich with impermanent records on Mom rallying everywhen & identities smiling in their frustration and loves' lost or won, a table is set for the guest of my imagination, standards of sincerity like holiness in a place of its making... Old archives in their millenium as world-power when the Turks with their bureaucratic concretion & power places my eyes over the shoulders of business mundaneity and give & play day's long ends to that of clerical purveyors, their daily coffees redolent, live just as this musky loam, animicule riddling environs past our garage guffaw & my office. Once, Mom in her light expression, looking on to the pyracantha bush next to the driveway is a sprite tho' usual day of my abyssal leap when real concern overcomes me in my thinking--I'm at what end of her tenure to those Motherly preachments, ever to hear again in her sweet voice? I see burnishing pathetic lights, lights auspicious as her warmth, good lights knowing in clarion steps she could have dreamt me here.*****************This envelope opener may have laid on my Grandfather's desk 10s of years. It says: "Albany Linoleum & Carpet co....Floor Coverings since 1883, Albany, Utica." And his "Louis Cohen & Sons" store was in Kingston, NY, early to 3/4th thru the 20th century. Wandering in dusty corners of his old building down by the Hudson River seems rich with impermanent records on personel and identities smiling in their frustrations and loves' lost or won. Old archives in the millenium when the Turks with their bureaucratic concretion & power places my eyes over the shoulders of business mundaneity and give & play day's long ends to that of clerical purveyors, their daily coffees redolent, live just as this musky loam, animicule riddling environs past our garage guffaw & my office.****************Human beings have trod devising their earthen senses probably in our present state for maybe 100,000 yrs. There are sharks who haven't changed in 250,000,000 yrs. The dragonfly has taken to the skies for 350,000,000 yrs. I'm awed to observe dragonflies just as when my first memories conduce moments in the natural world of our "lot" in Texas. Its chocolate, fecund, ronching, Summery invitation to my disappearance into a void of wilds to enjoin living creatures freely expressing whiling-away where my intuitions make me feel I am closer to that then, different & a geist to its ephemeral reality now. Over at our shop which breadwon while we hope & endure the place of our making, my family's business, all those years, entailed butterflies & dragonflies around overgrown spaces amongst the building's creaturely isle of mute reprise to their anonymous season's arrival. I notice dragonflies zoom & pivot across the newly painted blacktop on occasion and knowing there is nothing of a subjective need that makes the bizarro redolent taste as the high that really lasted for the ecstatic insect, it intensifies in definitions of its ill-certain victuals, it's weird the animal would prefer its toxic trip. Literally drawn there, the nitrogen from petroleum only stimulates her, while flowers with their same appeal just past the drive grow in our courtyard with the buried cat from Rebel Rd.

True and Now, What up is?

How that experience is become intuitive in my mind is no really verifiably subtle thing I would reify & see myself consumed in social reverence, that an unlived future is thought's consolation deigned daliance to revere anymore than listening well, knowing it is a thing to be enjoyed. You speak, I feel. You discover a direction multiplied. I assent a mind convulses willingly enough that it may appertain your dream as magical, the miracle to topple, again-bitten, this convenient array through our moment to moment distant strung, between us and on wallpaper intervening with the message you brought & bring into the room. I feel I do this even "for" us, but the space of your yeahs feeling like yeahs tho' the thing I reference wasn't an observation you will have made, lassooing mind tableaux where the deprecare is won is as near a truth, "inwit" emplaced only there, just saying you would.****************Cleaving to the progress of the creative in the world-to-come is designing the present moment into the mainstay of distantly plying light, but a frontier in theoria: Can I call this devekut (in Hebrew)? Googled and synthetic, it means: "...devekut, from the root davak, to cleave, denotes chiefly this constant being with G*d but sometimes also denotes the ecstatic state produced by such communion." Is this avidya & tanha (Sanskrit)? Ignorance & desire respectively, in threading an ideal circumstance to "clinging" materially, even to these words, doing something "spiritually" about it, is a way to convolve meaning in my perspective to the environment in which I'm invested to have continuity with its essence. Upadana is clinging in Sanskrit.**************The clasping guffaw opening alligator is Mom's sense of beauty, so beautiful. The heart rock my brother Mark Lakes may have found in eastern Ky somewhere. The pocked stone is one I brought back from the West Bank, Ma'ale Ephraim--it looked like one in every couple hundred with a former biosphere vapor emitting botanical life giving it a superlative pebble look. Our image to the antecedents on human sorrow come from The Last Two Million Years, a Readers Digest encyclopedian book--a yeah to dreamtime somehow. Human beings have trod devising their earthen senses probably in our present state for maybe 100,000 yrs. There are alligator species who have little changed in 200,000,000 yrs. The dragonfly has taken to the skies for 350,000,000 yrs. I'm awed to observe dragonflies just as when my first memories conduce moments in the natural world of our "lot" in Texas. Swamplike, its chocolate, fecund, ronching, Summery invitation to my disappearance into a void of wilds to enjoin living creatures freely expressing whiling-away where my intuitions make me feel I am closer to that then, different & a geist to its ephemeral reality now. Over at our shop which breadwon while we hope & endure the place of our making, my family's business, all those years, entailed butterflies & dragonflies around overgrown spaces amongst the building's creaturely isle of mute reprise to their anonymous season's arrival. I notice dragonflies zoom & pivot across the newly painted blacktop on occasion and knowing there is nothing of a subjective need that makes the bizarro redolent taste as the high that really lasted for the ecstatic insect, it intensifies in definitions of its ill-certain victuals, it's weird the animal would prefer its toxic trip. Literally drawn there, the nitrogen from petroleum only stimulates her, while flowers with their same appeal just past the drive grow in our courtyard with the buried cat from Rebel Rd.***************Sam Harris says something closely to this, giving me a riff on his "spiritual" consciousness in examination--his recent subject and book in focus: --If you were to wake up one morning and you felt now you'll know everything, and nothing is alright too in being boundless in your love, then you are likely only to have audience with an ancient wisdom tradition, so not usually contemporarily plaintive.**************Managing a Belief, G-d designs our approach to the graft of reason in shorelines, these frontiers, the awe before touchdown, into perceptibly a report to it all, has nothing conflating in following the creative, the mothership into the sea of possibilities even after parturience. So "birth," only-beginnings, are G-d. After that your frontier in knowledge is only intentions: G-d is your intention. The artifact to her deprecare plaintive unknowing is light; the awe of getting to know is hopeful, but a Creator's wish & mystery, luminally blind days with now an attention on light making observable that condition now becomes something necessarily not sky emanate, not G-d. Bernard Lewis, the linguist en superlative episteme efforts, relates "Gottinyu" in Yiddish, & only one other word is an "intimation" with that grammatical ending, in this case, that of the consummate vibe as fiddler on the roof & not a "diminutional" grammar of G*d. Intimate, interior, a reflection on something poignant, graver than light, the "blindmen" running through their pitch of chimera, self-knowing.*****************The stars are a spangly liquid agent to consciousness awash.**************The availability in cultivating your phantomic subtleties, this knowledge without whose preachment is it that tells you how to spend time does it make you what this life is become? How about now are your yeahs yeahs?**************A biological bias for beauty may be just the case for the appreciating phenomenon of contemplation. This is silent world in consciousness working with one and against beauty, itself, denying all inelegance before it. One wants to get into a place to think, true to an emotional schedule, intuitive. Thinking is self-preservation even fear, that our reserve to take up concern for relationship if only in our minds is in fact denying relationship, not only has one rally against where he or she is leading to their empirical given, but also perhaps the degree to which it is become manifest, the given unto the empirical duty. During a study of our genetically nearest primates (in Gombe, Jane Goodall's research) a certain chimpanzee is observed going during the overnight hours and sitting by a waterfall on occasion, only sitting, no resource imbibed. Enjoying subtleties in a thought world conduced to non-maligning change--plashing fresh & cool paradisiacal? water--perhaps, and in my view, like my Grandfather, Zadie, whose retreat it was to go sit in a dark room of the house, not to turn away, but turning toward his facility in a kind of release. Big comforts, like thought floats in shimmering night torrents, born of earthen wont from proud burdenable land is a beauty in catharses however an animal in liquid nature awashes in perspective.************Cleopatra brand cigarettes, not a treat in as much as a specter, in the nerve lit a face is translating nomenclature out of thoughtless lungs. Breathing in loam, twiggy particulate, what-tobacco, but as a taste of Egypt like I needed to resort to something other than the "hubbly-bubbly" pipe, ... Al-Salaam's restaurant owner emplaces such & such thing toward my conscious map. While we saunter past the Sphinx, it's corralled in a construction theater, we're told not to smoke among our averring vehemently antiquating pyramids, "Do not light your lighters underneath the pyramid, men," A guide there reckons--I remember because I entirely would have enjoyed that, thinking into the project of that day--we were staying at the ironically named Americana reverent & beat under north Africa's Siniatic sun. The next conceptual space, if I could figure it out, would tie "binah," meaning Understanding, from kabbalah mysticism, into the spiritual grammar where an extreme ranks Pte Indians (native) mythos, specifically Kaskurbeh & his wife whose body transmogrified to parturience of tobacco, their retreat into capsulate reality into our nature, a view through self-knowing, terribile in its last cultivating I gnash before it presents the world anew that I'd be dispatched. A concrete high, not mine--but in the bone enbowering weird standards to intensity. I scoff, but I'm serious, it was never me, not close and a stillness so blue, actually looking into a blue flame withwhich I conflagrated choice Bugler, lighting my punk off a gas stove, a 12 percent betterment in glowering moon sees to it I mark white decisors 'pon a graffitti real internal cove.

Zakkai--Sakyamuni

I believe in a Living Loam. A Loving Loam, whose harmonies are psalmodies of loving Rain. The type of loam that won't harsh my mellow, thereso the One and Many loam of threshold inconsequence. Landed proud visor Rock blue eyes like Rock Spirit evocating Inyan of Lakota myth, mountain folk wealthy in earthen embrace where telogenesis are still-dreams of real shrouded travelers' macrocosm, those of longer lived denizens, the diamonds of rougher rough mind in the way of the tote of minds, just below. And even the iconograph's theorian glad on the cover of a Western invention to their, the first peoples' unique narrative. my voodun of backyard qualia same-sea book, has cave-cove notable precious stones rightly before saintly Lakota spirit-guide, in my hand before me. In the night of origins, humanity's spelunking adamic first homes are our first temples too--why not one in the sky?************* It is wrong the margins of our eschaton begin with the sky as our limit. One isn't cosmogonical only in her water & consciousness, the leviathan underlying straitened forms of consciousness, which has an Unchanging to wrest the luxury of whiling away. In Wanderings, Chaim Potok's archaeologically slightly remiss history, still alights comely askesis. This roseate and informative book shares the life of a first century Jew, Jochanan ben Zakkai, brings-out visualization if only a sojourn to the once gathered concept, always a place to jump from, an interest in compassionate intentions. A coffin which bore the scholar from an embattled Jerusalem is a funerary surmise in Rum's certain attempt in denying Jewish continuities. Perhaps a strange thought-world with similar visualization in hope for Dalai Lama's ply through his surviving the gallows 1900 yrs later. With Rome disestablishing the Jewish Temple 2000 yrs ago--as exiles go from historical beginnings--or an agon of materialism from the Chinese having Tibetan continuity refrain in Dharamsala, this ledger of escape to that of Jewish learning in Yavneh, is the recorded shot--out of the Axial Age--across the bow against magical thinking. The Library of Tibetan Works and Archives wouldn't be a kind of Determinist contrivance anymore than change would be apprehended in the mind of a student to the great Martin Buber Ginzberg visited 60 some yrs ago in the Jewish homeland. Messianism is an entirely mystical circumstance toward an example of the Original Man, but if you are holding a sapling, as stated in our Talmud, Book of Ethics, in your hand and then told the Messiah has come, plant the tree first, then find your way through a fullfillment of musterion. Meaning be practical, ones devotion is immanent (within). *************Convened my ugly yet saccharin street outside of work--funerary cars-in-train in its usual blissing, ambulance commands the unfurling moment in someone's jump from the plank of humanity. Did my regular walk until I come around to the Parks & Rec facility, the bellybutton nigh place of an esoteric walnut tree to that of an outlier pace. Across the footbridge up onto school grounds I saw a boy in coarse but spare suggestion of whiling away. Unillustrating, I'm thinking, he must see raw nerve and banal socializing to revealed techne, like done with it to serve classical I & Nature, sludgy creek of seasonally excluded midge clouds, seems recent, then redounds in their absence. In me an angel hears dependent arising network in everything else, tells me circular Anasazi Suns are glooing me as moss onto temporal shores in its sociation with Wolff Run watershed.. Enlighten me to this green room, salience to the rock mentational looking glass in perfect stillness, as the fleck and radiant material void anoints meaning in suspiring measured breaths. I'm too thirsty, so one of the two outdoor water fountains make less of the thing breaking my thought's concern into idiosyncracies. Starting in earnest this regimen of exercise has a primary moment I like to reexperience in an acuity sense to footfall upon the confidence anyone has of their own physical success. Crickets launch in auditive little chimy doorbells, then the wooden trill of locusts take over in my first few steps among suburban lording waned-of-wilderness trees.****************Do you know first thoughts? You are somebody, and yeahs are yeahs even bent past the accord an academician self-being into whose allowance in our office challenges but cultivates betting on subtle meaning, if muthoi, so variable between the walls of our intellection's ward of well-being. I'm watching Abba Eban, a former Israeli politico and historian as he narrated Heritage: Civilization and the Jews, with my ear tuned to Mom's sublime cultural expectation sought and dreamt. It's a feeling no different than looking upon bright meadows, no choice but to feel a subtle belonging. It's Mom through and through in my approach toward the concept of literacy, certain books albeit, but student of life altogether. If one had grown up with Hollywood as an essense to Sunday langor, TV and sunny adducement, a Spaghetti Western conjures a similar feeling of silent house corners and the next thing to consume my mind. I haven't had any regimen explanate ever, tho' explained if I were to assume being sorta ritualized, just this kaleidoscopic vantage on cultural values where going around the corner had no ply attempt, laying-down right here in my favorite place. The very first thing shone in my mind that Jews were phenomenalized--finding out like I've been only then awakened to these origins--had Native American proximating in What-if this antiquation to be self-aware had been at all like that, and also aren't all these X-tians of core-culture up to my same unique self-realized reserve, anthemic with unsophisticated banners--I am You deigned in such replete crowd consciousness, tho' out of tremendum & reach. A question I still ask, perhaps, Native Americans getting the most accretion.******************Have an opinion. Realizing that you may always be reconciled is a given, so follow your heart through a lens of one's mind. Anything is an anywhen with invective neuroses just as our confidences can illustrate half our best. Study. Meditate. If one is deigned of identity, that you have a will is a mission impossible; ask and know incomplete daliance to her potent mind, it sets like Grandmother's couch of consciousness, covered in ephemerally creased upholstery.*****************There's this concensus like bird droppings hit their mark that someone has a contemporary entreaty of our toiled wont of self-reflecting to place our right of veritable cosmic concern into the palm loyalties this pleasant entertaining of self actualization purveyors would have smeared across banners and Americana, thereso not always a compliment to the odds you've weighed what-is actually exoteric to the frontiers in self-knowing. Rewording Kriwaczek's bone-smashing opening, then to Job: ...our responsibility is made-already, in the hands G-d. During the war and murdering, our role in the "decision" was almost zero. And ole Job endures bad spiritual music tearing up his flesh. I'd have my step's intellection easily wandering to the tents among midbar na'ot, oases, if somewhere solitarian clarifies the prodigy of self-possession one is become, nothing gets his back--and only the frontiers of mystery matters, a void of lull to roiling swathes of space. Yes, but there is One Space. If there is a G-d On-high, everywhere else is left vacant.**************A cat's life at my crib has interesting feng shui meridians, if only prone with Ozkent 'pon me as his cat perch. These directions multiply, the room more the jetstream aerobatic, than interior shitty city receiver of narratives in bldgs and food. These lovely cats, my hoss cat here, collude so easily in world infinities, than the ephemeral bleat of TV irreality. Walking while getting free time at work, around the near neighborhood, I imagine things I like to reintroduce in this nature's cultivating ethic: animal, nature, breath, sunlight, and both he and I a lens for subtleties and wrought willingness to fly through shared fascinans when I get home, his dynamic contentment. There is a limby overhang to a couple of mullberry trees along the sidewalk lining a yard straight into the park, makes a sense of woodsy environs of mountains in Upstate NY spilling into this langoring day's descriptors. I wonder just how such formidable empiricism crystalizes in the expediting little minds, conscious bindles of sweet only love knowing creatures?****************You are a kind of emanating change, a catalyst like water and light. Electricity comes from other planets & you are an impulse compelling me to be vital that I may reach them. I burn from your gospel over white fire, and the black fire of this musterion proscribing issuant days of our future beat & passporte splendor. You are a star of an emboldening new definition for a gilded sky-ocean. Rivers bisect the universe, as a Mother's heart, like all the oceans of sated effulgence with new beginnings.**************This pic of my brother may appertain a mystic once at the telos step to haKotel, the Wailing Wall, where Holiness is fully dependent on a macro-world, its looking glass diminution offering its unfortunate effort, hard-won blow-out & ekstases. I'm a marabout (sufi) carpenter ant on the blacktop surface enjoined to lolly gag toward a chthonic sluice. Or a righteous butterfly tsadik peddling pollen from our ubiquitous tupelo clover. And then perhaps a sadhu solar ray of terrific sheen from a dull Scion, an abstemious ride, exhaust-veiling in the acrylic breeze better than mundaneity neo-transporting an otherwise dyad shore to that of our day's long ends--where I intend to find reprieve--a Western Socratic lapsed elation in ebullient colors and greed of identity--I give you white bread, and flat windows, beat eshewal. In a kingdom, monarch to infinitude and small details--my repair is the green smile of yard beds. By the gutter, in an out-of-the-light lane, I trace meaning painting the interior of my eyes a poignant color of shadows to rest consciousness, to sleep this life, to dream without matriculate sense, to tend fascinans within this everywhen. Begin the begin of dawn is the donkeys' standard poise right in my sight between me and the sun rising has their prescient guise accede timely, suss of our eager dharma dog.********************I'm just blown away at that noble candor the little-big Jerusalem donkey (my brother's) really heartfully projects--real live peace. His antagonist, sweet Nawla, Craig's white German shepherd, gallops too and more primordially surviving as the punishing fittest, I thought, while she dives to taste the dusty, flowery, yellow-butterflies on her tongue. Inside the main house now, the donkeys' barn slowing down, down respite & convictions, I muse Isaac Bashevis Singer is represented in just-so a book of Mom's, I thought, short-stories, only to imagine damn-well motivations manufactured for the sentient greed of spirit effluvial running under the black fire, and over the white fire adducing a book's phantasamogoric stain in my brain, those characters. That getting on the page, the appreciating figure music takes-on, is luckily tethered in being able to respect a scholar whose intention it is of history's crystal palace broken at its iconoclastic necessary machination I invent at its bombast.****************I just want to testify what adjures this nature, and this woman here, Susie Quinn, having no other diversion, what her love does for me. Like the black ants in miraging heat plotting impermanence for my edification, still, here these sojourned lifetimes later from moments sitting at our garage guffaw looking at my flat, redounding homestead driveway, my 4th is spent once upon this sorrow jettisoned day around closest in age brother Craig's house--I'm reminiscently imperiled now with their stimulating success of seasonal ease and easily dismissed seasons et al. I'm mnemosyne lopped off from these vibrations usually, and taking in a Summery snowball of musterion, everything matters so dearly; Mom's Lowery piano, a rug burned visual insinuation of feral farm lands, these gotten-to catching upful reasons to think into elastic fates... I kissed Craig's Jerusalem donkey, & if porch-sitting is fazed to define true democracy, his two-rescued vital in & of equine symbolizing unconscious impulses (the Vedic "niyama," I hope I correctly read), allows something else in subtle mentation.******************On down around the park, heading up toward the biggest pine tree I know, two big pin oaks in their sprawl individually bigger than the house whose yard they set lived & fractal, all the romantic silent neighborhood, in those appreciating thwack steps, lead to their stalwart shade and vibe. My Zadie's little cottage home in Kingston, NY, on Lay St. takes on my reach and discernment, feels good to re-remember summery foliage, a willow tree by his backyard leading to dense woods figure in fascinans' entreaty--assuming all these shadowy gifts of memoria--Stewart's Icecream shop at the top of his street, where we bought sweets, the Bowery Dug-out is the fish restaurant where we never ate, and the rest of town fairly unknown to me. I am as consumed in domestic, monarchical release to that of my vacationing enticed thinking, adduced with senses to jump from back then to an everywhen subtlety, the old man presence luckily solitarian and cool, thoughtless cloister of dross things swept away from my comely streets. How can our older generations suppose the kindly redolence to that of nature in changeless time of empty bottles, cipher of here-here, To Life-llibations, while I grasp wishing to meet minds pouring-out their licit answers?****************

GEUSH URVAN

Interesting seeing the wrought (self-acclaimed) ubermensch actionable in a world he can't damage. It is pure soul in the ephemeral luck when a fool does things with attention and understanding. Merill Lynch with their bull meandering around the crystal shop offers subtlety to a bovine's clop clop clop in ironic reflecting-wholeness through this world-to-come, that his complaint lived of mute and brute mindless courage is assuring our fealty to a musterion will, willing itself across the razor's edge. Geush Urvan warns Zarathustra he would be incomplete, metamorphically denied while being befouled from his kind marauded & consumed unceremoniously.*************You read, in one act, one mind--a hopeful other--through your one voice and terminal through another. Only until your analytical meditation became iconoclast, then someone had to wordlessly, tunelessly, paint the distance strung of an unopened book, its concept gathered as if motivated toward its answer. But there, that space, potent and only willingly from 2000 yrs of literation to the 100,000 humankind is been trodding proud land inventing a thing to name it.*******************Quality is not material? I go to Oxford, once, like Ky in a green hillocky way, cool too, thus the season coming on in late August. I sense a different moment in one place in contrast to whiling away in the wash of light, live in an essense to elsewhere, and then memorialized space in thousands of known & unknown earthen changes. But intentions, relating in spirit to nature, like fundamental nomenclature exaggerating the ground beneath our feet, a world reaching for its temporal-mission-purveyor has divining consciousness as one moves into it - its portents anointed in rocks, the sky, an arbor, this world.*******************Thoughts on this fascinating discussion between Satish Kumar & Richard Dawkins: Our material contest over attention enduring our infected spirit with abyssal ambition through physical success (moving down, down, into experience, ever the sorrow of encumbrance) makes a proposition to that of an inanimate world ill-vital, if unconscious, observable reality as the gratuity of appearances part of a network, sharing energy opposed to ours in our mean advance to be changed by it.****************You are completely closed off; you're asking for a right to be seen in that condition. Your closing, sleepy eyes, aren't registering a revolution to come. Our translator mask, worn by the abiding cipher upon his watch-tower inhibition, have his eyes pass-over their newly painted interior, when they are cut open to your dream.****************Listening to a variety of music, that of African titles, I am grateful to be transfixed through mantram lure of spiritually passporte language. Eje nlo gba ara mi King Sunny Ade' dubs up without reggae, but close superlative, and the hypnoses is glad, watery, yellow of African wakes in deep infinite equator heat.. Inkunzi ayi hlabi ngokusima is a lamp on origins too, other-worldly in prone whirling noise in his instrument, South African Jonny Sipho, this song arises in similar vulnerability as Mali's Ali Farka Toure' which is posted here. And not to be left undone in the valley of tongues, Spear of the Nation, Umkhonto We Sizwe, Prince Far I's preachment, his answer in concensus trance chanting to call & respond in biblacy, is an Old Testament believer on a Living G-d, may see sorrow not only between he and a Creator. ***************In pacing past my pine stand mid-way through my walk, today its redolence isn't suffocating from heat, but a morning garment of dawn catchment (moist) air. I breath in the pine, full of lung appetite, and while I am known for a fast footfall, I receive three inhalations, designing the langor of the few trees as I pass in four broad steps. I sense the old man whose house this is, his unconscious approval in my eyes of plants. The weary urban patrons of frenzy (close Lexington traffic) reminding he & I, like a conversation remits, nowhere recommends truth in nowhere to be. Amongst graying clouds, necessity makes the ceiling high above compose civilization, this silent, lazy Sunday, enjoined to an appropriated wilderness tabernacle, trees becoming more gonglike in its wind-made tremors, its conversation is manifest in whispers.****************That a jagged edged phrase would arise in the Moderate's mind as to why she is moderating rather than mania of pretensions with a Literalist as their okay ambition (Faith) giving a fix in would-be salient ethos, that somehow her Believing may have ones thinking prone (if assessed), winding in attention is a condition perhaps not otherwise cultivated. The first mistake the mind makes in the truck toward our pass of compassionate void is making value statements. The wet stuff in our head's first state is fragmentation, however gratuitous of a deep aside.**************An Autumn morning's re-narration: Little flitting robin off of the driveway looks resident and folky, not whistling--I discover its detective spy v spy gawking at personae warm neighborhood houses. Its form taking up my perspective in a small life, approbation as some kind of creative ardor, I'm more a part of consciousness in today's viscera with avian conscious expediters. Outward fact guise of bee-catchers, in the power of this-light climate among the earth's dispossessed, psalmody-wind's history called & hallooed I'm Present. Wanting such poise, aiming to get full-up and suspiring, I watch mundi red-seeing sky nomenclature squawk, traffic elapses by Kerouac's thinking upside-down, blood-monastate languages of I Am Here, Avalokiteshvara biographic organs of consciousness are inward-acting. Blue exuding cool comes off these bluegrass yards in a helpless yelp of earthen shade: It holds the coolness like blood of the heart as a kind of effluvial ditch, lush of proud land, mused-wildly from off the beaten path.**************My walk takes me past the UFO looking church right after the utility road leading to it. A hoary pine stand at the top of the neighborhood beginning that leg of my wandering has stifling heat complain in my ciphering lungs. And through ecclesia, perhaps in an extensive parking lot that lays out after the church, & under a tree, I'll sometimes sit and record a thought. The other day here I ruminate over St Raphael's close to my old memorialized space, as if this newer pedestrian qualia is as freed up and timely. An SUV with plates assigning Middle-town, NY origins, all black and rank in anonymity is flat opposite the white Escalade which takes us year after year to her mountains. This and an aroma of kasha mixed with the florid hotch-potch of tupelo clover paint colors of real retreat in my eyes. I didn't walk yesterday and today in the bop of appreciating imminent map, I realize conscious satellites, or almost, as if I say condoling things put upon where I belong.*****************All that movement & sound has a second long cast at people imparting a feeling of transformation, while acting behind a sublime babylon veil motoring to unknown horizons met. Cavalcading traffic in lopped-off dialects underneath blearing metal, their power is in threatening earthen wretched paths, upon bloodless vascular tarmac. A suburban denizen in lone ant execution wearing his sky blue walking shoes slipped on for utility shores around his house, carries folded clothes to the back of an SUV, really alliterates through metallic thrum my refrain between his silent anonymous patter and the margins of his nevermind neighborhood. I sip water at the waterhose tasting fountain at the edge of Southland Park, swimming and baseball draws summery faithful nigh, and past me into the park a boy in atrophied expressions winding by is buried in daliance loams, humidity thermals... Spend your time doing strange things with weird people is good advice, brings me to this: Is weird a state of mind? The guise of mind purveyor with less than a looking glass than her frenzy in nature persistent in moulds giving contour to wrought life is to ones threshold the first god and interior solace, and over 'til appreciated as ambition however mundane and greedily inspired. Is the mind out of the way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting go, so mindful and exilic, and soooo weird the dynamic is bodas oro, a day consumed into lifetimes?***************Spend your time doing strange things with weird people, my man Thom relates, brings me to this: Is weird a state of mind? Is the mind out of the way of mind weird, or is statement of presence letting go, so mindful and exilic, and soooo weird?*************Like I've swallowed anything a pen may reveal through my realism, a pen hardens appetite, can make everything a mean flavor--feels plastique in my gut. "Transformational" by identity equating phenomenalizing source to that of resource.****************On down around the park, heading up toward the biggest pine tree I know, two big pin oaks in their sprawl individually bigger than the house whose yard they set lived & fractal, all the romantic silent neighborhood, in those appreciating thwack steps, lead to their stalwart shade and vibe. My Zadie's little cottage home in Kingston, NY, on Lay St. takes on my reach and discernment, feels good to re-remember summery foliage, a willow tree by his backyard leading to dense woods figure in fascinans' entreaty--assuming all these shadowy gifts of memoria--Stewart's Icecream shop at the top of his street, where we bought sweets, the Bowery Dug-out is the fish restaurant where we never ate, and the rest of town fairly unknown to me. I am as consumed in domestic, monarchical release to that of my vacationing enticed thinking, adduced with senses to jump from back then to an everywhen subtlety, the old man presence luckily solitarian and cool, thoughtless cloister of dross things swept away from my comely streets. How can our older generations suppose the kindly redolence to that of nature in changeless time of empty bottles, cipher of here-here, To Life-llibations, while I grasp wishing to meet minds pouring-out their licit answers?*******************So easy to see all our thought values replete in subject world, somewhere of proliferate spaces barely the salt grain of succour, and what of its taste. There are guarantees & divining of culture and if ephemeral, so by luck, an artist's voice eliciting the rather strange anthem of love in this case sung in Amharic, Arabic, & Hebrew, is how I'd want to hear her chiming while I'm less prone. I'm adduced from sounds-arrival to the sauntering purity of quiet steps into the rain, through green smoothish, almost undetectable lapse of texture, tupelo clover like star shards... The yoga bright and a Floridian ocean-fated lady stand under a tree out of the drizzle in a rare dry space and all alight what features the flowery redolence just under this ole soul, some gloss of today's rain deepens its gone-ness, into my love of fascinan's deference, her embrace, a rather Californian loveliness awaiting this evening's beautiful embrace, I think..**************Those plaintive days can seem more usual, the feel of langor when roommates and friends all are launched into our city splay. And how does this city funk up in forms where I've once emerged looking through and upon an aerating white staticky tableau, before me, shoulder high, like Lexington is only this certain project of light? A vision truly, and as consistent in recollection in time's stream of internal calculus as letting-go of a world is observable. Lexington's evanescence and my decisor (-agency) advancing in less cumulate sense, magnifying personalities as immediate in hometown watchtowers leaves me well out of it. I think, Why feel lopped off of dynamic waves over identity, now carried on horses with no faces?****************THE shadow knows, and is proven because I ain't got enough her. Once sussing about wrought thru time in daliance meant to surface between us. Sometimes I am completely wooden, futilely animate, in a tear's thrall, but you just don't know. And not in those indefinite shores, so remote--I wouldn't languish. I'm concerned to get subtle approach, mindful just then.*****************Yass, Yes, Jazz, beyond now. Yeahs are yeahs, culture soooo not the vulture. She's tradition, but new. The new message, the get-full. The biblacy of torn bibles is beat and social dust live under the feet of the tea-makers, fugue-takers, sounds arrive for you and the hip toward her best affect in self-actualization. These are songs of vulnerable instruments, oblivion mentating vox recollecting, oh yeah, the purveyors to some soul..***************Yass, Yes, Jazz, beyond now. Yeahs are yeahs, culture soooo not the vulture. She's tradition, but new. The new message, the get-full. The biblacy of torn bibles is beat and social dust live under the feet of the tea-makers, fugue-takers, sounds arrive for you and the hip toward her best affect in self-actualization. These are songs of vulnerable instruments, oblivion mentating vox recollecting, oh yeah, the purveyors to some soul..****************Seems only right a year on from a tobacco habit impossible for me, so dissociative & final to imagine its succour, its drink, but now to think in thanks and praises. The upsetting rather banal dis-ease coming to the disease in a theater of my body at war with itself, framing it as I imagine "certain" physical success that those around prove ought to be my norm, is regained somewhat that I feel motivated, alive. A psychologist had been to our business, recognized her from the place where I go for counseling, and I wondered how severe my languish must have appeared to her that one day... And just then, 'pon her leave, I called the gloom and dust of work all the decisor of reason less evanescent and cigarettes only musterion answer to ego amplified by pathos execrated from the behavior ward.*****************I want to tell the sea to reach me. Whiling away is the sands of change in all it can do. The 10,000 things of the Dao is become a deluge wailing in awe over a fecund deep-aside. I vibrate on but everything seems to go away. I imagine a feast, but it will be the last. The phantom-wont in luminescence of sister moon takes any seat she likes. I fall asleep wishing for her spirit to traduce sorrow & mundaneity, & her fire burns; it's an arising morning whose reality is principle to every beginning, and in shades of this present moment under reifying boughs giving-out, furrows blind through into the two threads, black & white, of the new dawn.****************I pace through Raven's Run today with sweet Cami Watts, the olfaction in streamy effulgence from the creek past the old mill tastes like the rust in my blood. Imagining something of final form enduring in the truck of my blood, come earthen evidence to nothing ever to wonder on impermanent record again. That antiquation of senses amounting to a seat of a thousand deaths, flows through me, now into me educated in micro-sensed world, mattering little otherwise feeling content with I & Nature. A lens over all of brother sister woods, avian monarchies, deer scat missed in my footfall? is where I think of Ivan Turgenev's Fathers & Sons and his anarchist posit of a new day thus, assessing the acacias of Russian-pathetic lands, and I get to see these Ky adjured cedars.**************

Yass, she is !!

Who am I to say I've always been dream-recollected, loading begun in imagining realism to more vital self-mythologizing, now all clotting up the ends of 20th century earth by her loss in the 21rst ? "Come bury your thoughts..." and by whose still waters takes thinking purveyor and buries him too among objets trouves of perception-doors, & abandoned keys of lone-geist alleys?**************************ALL dark, rather SLavic features--even within Americana erasing what is beneath-- bloom in old-day's soLitarian vagaries thru my studies awe of our past in the home of my youth, Mom's presence, and my visor-extremis weLLing in Winter bLindness, thinking on not looking into skein traffic, the glorifying shine aLL windows assailant in city brightness, is-ness, are eyes, whiLe aLL eyes are sky windows. Reflection is the extenuating mind acting in the eyes. BiologicaLLy eyes are mind, a part to the communication gland, as time in bottLes are an answer to the vaLLey of tongues. Back to my car after a waLk, the perfect unleaved trees against an even dirty cotton sky in the side mirror is closely how I imagine the eye seeing the venous fractaLs if the visuaLLy purveyed is onLy poured over her own visage. Eyes know the myriad: potency in the arms of fecund surfaces, a worLd carved by gloss and change. Just sight as feeLing and unmatricuLate. It z like thinking on origins, one persists to accomplish first doors, moment to moment, and through the years awash at the door-step. Mind is reduced to sentient direction to a beginning, but isn't spiLLed from the vesseL to its memory encounter-- "No one try to find the answer to aLL the questions they ask, --yes I know it's impossible, to go living through my past." B. MarLey StiLL here, not there. StiLL-eyes want to refLect.**************Getting more exercise--waLking around the neighborhood surrounding the shop. Wish it would be an obvious positivity in change, that I'd remember an uncertainty, then say, "See, there is a less dynamic worLd I've come from." And meanwhiLe, anyone wouLd suppose not aLL of this deficit in a wish for improvement is what goes on, so what is change--that I am becoming...? But I lament in a-way of manufacturing motive. LiittLe flower petaLs are faLLing across the sidewaLk in places, a street over. Two wafting bradley pear tree flower pieces assigning a notice of communion I'm just getting to hurry to compete toward the worLd of dust. The petaL trying to catch up says--likely to land sooner, "wait, wait, I'm going too." The one at 9 o'clock high says, "It's just there, and I haven't said the ground beneath her feet is so greedy that you could imagine air thermaLs as your once reach to our day's solar finis."****************You know when as Jimi riffs, I'm sitting, tho' in elegant miles in time, one big road, this once conveyed. Barely listening, only wondering that his guitar sounds one way never delaying the vend of East, different next only because sounds arrive by sequencial streams. Now mind has sound stand out, nothing in ply except blue Valley of Fire swirL suns. Music faLLs over me, I see that it gets a-way, & thoughts aren't much to offer meaning, only in that it's veriLy a stream, surface design w/o Spring transferring its high in the day as any vessel to a wine-dark sea. Makes me alight starved over what I would've known.**********************Oh to harvest bLueberries back in a special pLace, NY's air and mountains, the CatskiLLs where I'd vacation aLL those many years, has made in me many of the definitions of siLence which wiLL ever round me out in the tote of a deep-aside. Over across Casten Rd where the bungalows sprawL are bLueberry fields and mushrooms which the others made up of Russian reasonably secularized Jews, hunt and pick as they would have in their oLd worLd. I & Nature, so momentary, and the concretions of hot-icebergs in appearances aLL the more I suppose contain me, onLy micro-manage perception with the sLightest of agency even toward our macro-worLd: grant that had you waLked up and greeted me, inevitably I have more to judge than the wish over the mean of nature. I remember specificaLLy going through the woods untiL I come to a cLarion stream, seeping in aLien anonymity, its qualia of fractaL deep is only 2-3 feet. Sitting at its verily rocky margins & near trifoLiation, I say, "damn, damn, good-bye & thank you--I believed in being here."***************Reading under a tree, one of the few pines Lining the back of an EpiscopaL church--where my kind of attendance, wasn't, and tethered to happiness IS, is their space exegesis--couldn't have gotten better even gluing moments yesterday, in the sun, gaLLoping horses in the day's event cLose enough to be ecstatic, Limby refuge from drizzLing rain is contemplative path's few first steps. Herman Wouk's couple of wizened temporaL bridges across our portrait of Confession occupy memoria-teLos, analyticaL, wind and his arising roiLs over the burning in my chest. This place is looking down to naturaL springs; a yard over I had been stung on my stomach by a wasp, its creek's bridge denizenship in a scuLpture-post verily discovered, whiLe my brothers dance like warriors around me swiLLing time as free as its toxins argue in my bLood. If history truLy asserts Ashkenaz as the ethicaL landscape where I am proven, further back to Scythian, perhaps the tribaL CentraL Asian to European root, these studies of authoring eLLipticaL spirits, are in its yeLLow horde a solar tribuLation--whited out in pure Light of ubiquity--if I'm drinking off the fecund surface down its radiant stream.**************By g-d if there is hell to be discovered, even while thorough-going in the knowledge of my velocity, I absorb every reason to be sundered by it. And to come across a Socratic modus contemporary, he aLLows: "By Jove, I am mistaken, you are different, needs a little work," says Krishnamurti. This is an enormous lesson, because I teLL foLks, Change my mind, trying to acknowLedge that I am stuck like this-pet egoity-trance chained in the backyard of miLLeniaL separation to my love, and now the intercessor confidant is aLL aLong me. J. K. lived down the road from Chaim Potok in Ojai--nice place to visit in Ventura Cty, Ca.--and Potok having to do with my first existential shoes in passporte episteme, fleck of impressions to visuaLLy mine the more heavy question in my nerve confessed, I imagine turning few corners, finding meditation different than analytical alighted East my due, doing, the Brahmin painted retreat from "belief," more like observable release.***************The yard I'm walking past looks as reminiscent to Gardenside pond, its margins as in this temporaL berth is thought's unreLenting reception. Any movement, sight in color, sounds arriving, poise with sense of contemplation, which is just as easily big floats in challenging blind sensory notice, like algae slime, green mercurial pond redolence. In its sprawL, a fluent mythos is in actively choosing her garments wrought hem in sunny equinox, to meet public space, that of the adjacent park in arrant green grass, leaves in last season's brown detritus, where I loiter under heartbroken skies, star impressed rays like blood, the weLL of hearts, consumate with blue pleromas, void-sojourn thrown like roiLs of fountain plash across its fray--my heart drowns before Varuna.*****************Taking a walk around the park, the day anoints plaintive sadness & I come back to the same-day's contagion after the free air. Her certain soul confidence, my dear Susie, arises Dao-inventive, & I teLL her, if I can be sure of anything, she's effortless to absorb the uncontrollable light giving me away in this narrative of broken flowers: "You reach out for people. A certain freedom in doing that. Everybody is so important to me now in ways in which I feel I act on, and nobody may see... But in the end nothing going on crawls over my provincial mind and I fear everything." Midges clot up my linear concourse like flaque along the newly regouged creek. I screw the sun just for fun.*****************The West is genetic in its agonism over Societal cues' first light bewteen Judaism & Greek Thought--this dialect noted by Hitch. Both thorough-going measuring Babylon to run and anoint iconoclast poignancy, or appetite varied over symbology in human cosmogony. Central Asia is the dragon swaLLowing us, its taiL. Jupiter Capitolina is the temple of Aelia Capitolinus, what haKoteL, HoLy of HoLies became, & Jerusalem named by Emperor Hadrian. It seems in core-culture's report to Greco it is befitting Christians and Jews were likely translators of Greek Science back to those in closest investiture of civiLization's beginning. Chaim Potok notes in "Wanderings" there are thousands of Greek words in Hebrew. Realize maybe once in monist contentment, culture just puts us aLL in everyone's backyard, with truth in oLd masks' new interpreters.*********************I have no refuge in continuity. Had I acted on impulse, I'd consider smoking tobacco, the ameLioration if from enduring destructive behavior, (strangely) the event of mirror-breaking, so me becoming recalcitrant from indefinite nature (apathy over who would've been there to see?). Being pissed at myself and the world is a bitter piLL swaLLowed once; its prescription yields to a false homeopathic daemon. Seems the Sisyphus inside me beLieved the calculus of conscious prop--that rock--a resource & wont for an existential artifact that should adjure meaning--in the irony of a would-be transcendent mountain. Impermanence is a banal ornament to the tree already faLLen in its soundless wooded remote wonder. My mind is an ancient sense of Sinaitic ant mounds. Their catalyst in eating acacia tree sap, expectorating its sugary refuse, regurgitating its manna explanate biblacy finally out of its realm of fantasia. "Life" (a tree) yawning into the pleroma not only out of its reach however animate, everything humanity suffered is its specter that the sky yields what earthen mundaneity has us doctrinaLLy deny.****************A real doll tells me something--we're holding hands on the beach, sitting in the dark, unbound weather, martial sea argues in glass-green closely unarming smile, "Tears of a Clown," Alison says, and her head props up in g-d's eye visor handed back to me. She's right till a room's shape to silence within me reaches through mind featuring an object of certainty. The ocean is the tea of continents, one sip and the report, plash, lap, zzzzshooo, redounds as the whole. As a clown, poised of incredulous presence, I stand, rather furtively, here among clients assuming the evanescence of interlocution 'round me. Deign of content lost on me, and while I imagine not listening, project of natural moment's graffiti of my thoroughfare office eclipses needing to affect adapting. I breathed w/5 minutes instruction watching mindful illocutionary on meditation, like I know something. I think I used to be principled in range of movement, say, eye-hand coordination, a sense of staying lithe. Shiva all the more interesting now. Sitting in front of the yack of TV all the yrs in growing up with an imagination of body consciousness, I'd stretch, lay on the floor, touch-the-earth. While now most of my "creative" time I spend if only analytical attempts? in meditation, I'LL sit uncomfortably in positions w/ambiguous sense, unreadied sensitivity, then catch-up to an approach more fluent in reading lifting me out of rank contagion to moments' comfort level: waiting in physical success to remember to forget itself. Maybe in a career of this making room for me in ambivalence, power-spots would become emergent, eagerly sought-out, but no different than its blue pregnant surface of a lake after the rain: one is in the climate of its power observing its comely form, until dipping-in denying any distinction or motive.********************Forgot to take my meds before I crashed last night. So now, dosed the am., I will end up napping before lunch in good chimeric order. Lullabies to get me there, and psalmodies for the remote lands of dreamscape to keep occupied will be employed. Turning my thoughts to light, inner-eye nomenclature with 10,000 coves, become the lair of star constellations, midnight blanketed.***************Squirrels are out in a nicer day, jubilant under redolent pines where there's a robin whose beak pivots like a pitchfork; a liittel splay of pine needles emanate before its thrush forward. A very loud crow just cackled, went over the adjacent school roof, instead of landing on my sluice concept negotiating shoulders. This lil drainage canal makes my ground perch spooky by its blackened 3ft bellowy tunnel, chthonic, more hidden than my thoughts would retrieve. From cool weather and weathering issuant cold now, hot when hot, cold then sensorial & alive, Abraham's story of Nimrod's fiery cauldron-come-lotus bloom, bare a calculus of memories older than weariness.

Feed the felines

Squirrels are out in a nicer day, jubilant under redolent pines where there's a robin whose beak pivots like a pitchfork; a liittel splay of pine needles emanate before its thrush forward. A very loud crow just cackled, went over the adjacent school roof, instead of landing on my sluice concept negotiating shoulders. This lil drainage canal makes my ground perch spooky by its blackened 3ft bellowy tunnel, chthonic, more hidden than my thoughts would retrieve. From cool weather and weathering issuant cold now, hot when hot, cold then sensorial & alive, Abraham's story of Nimrod's fiery cauldron-come-lotus bloom, bare a calculus of memories older than weariness.**************Bob Marley's water-crossing message, self-empowerment, tho' in just this morning's listening leisure from his "Zimbabwe" of Survival, political transition (then boom Zappa's Son of Orange Cty), in his music he could flatly call disco, has this subtlety & primacy to my audience, that I can't even stumble to some sense of beat concern, casual but in funks opening up. All the bubbly, black ryddim bouncing, one-drop, which avails world-view while particularly resonate in intensifying my youth, now leads into soft-machine, gloss morning sky, hipster Marley wagging his finger over a moral landscape. I wish I could fly.**********************Mind bloom upon whose place of respite I design to achieve one thing, is the last place making sense divining her attention, surrounded by her leisure. She's accomplished the task, if vain or in patient masquerade for someday tacit and infinite, before my hand assents. The shade of past outside of me into the begin of begins, Mother's proud land and her progeny self-reflection, the vended me of the morning to collect my soul, all-done, that my thoughts are in an array of evanescent contest and lightning born of yesterday's sky guffaw. . .the now barely a shore-line to evince the deep.*************So thatwhich is creative Beings made closely of is what constitutes the entirety of what most the universe is made, ...among things going their way, drawn in fidelity of reins on Chronos where we traipse in exactly one world of land & sea, as opposed to the one you're thinking (one of...), mineral purveyors in their indefinite chorus suffering darkened doorways in a concensus world. Why this plain swath present-moment traducing langue of empty veins, as words endure tea vaporously, the old house, one main room drafty in temporal aerobatics bearing word virus emanating faze outdoors, whose grappling wind sweeping away my Dao unintention--is dumb splendor lived, then into otherness selah as inert reason. What of nothing--and somewhere to go--in the jive of ex nihilo, is an inflationary nothing (nee' Funkadelic's cosmic slop)? Energy does that (the particles of your physical success), so that every place is cosmic central, cloud notional if to make consciousness anymore alienated than the tote of her deep-aside or nigh from microbes building human existence, you the aquatic vessel built more of them than you: Expansion and diminution.***************I remember being there then nowhere in the place where people walked. I have 5 mirrors all cultivated under the star ceiling from which I prised my footfall down 4 hallways. I am full-up once, then no one of a deep-aside, trough of blood. At once recording the lament from leaving at the leisure of the cosmogonic house pushing me to her margins, Sisyphus guts the dormant mind. A complex in organs of consciousness work against itself, manages oblivion as one then through the exile of thinking agency.*****************When you think you didn't listen, you only adapted to filtery shadows, which translate your silence (interval of mind pouring thru mind), until layers in exile well out of it (moment's other shore) are tracks leaving impressions in time's immediate pugs thwacking an evident path. What of nothing--and somewhere to go--in the jive of ex nihilo, is an inflationary nothing? Energy does that, so every place is cosmic central, cloud notional if to make consciousness anymore alienated than the tote of her deep-aside or nigh from microbes building human existence, vessel more of them than you. Expansion and diminution. So what if nothing is no space and time of material void? No quantum laws--light moves neither from here to here, neither within or without monadic ground of existence--only to remember reality goes on whether we do or not--in renewed definitions in nothing going on. So thatwhich is creative Beings made closely of is what constitutes the entirety of what most the universe is made, while things going their way in exactly one world, as opposed to the one you're thinking, suffer darkened doorways of a concensus world. Langue of empty veins, a word acts as word virus--dumb splendor is lived, then into otherness selahs as inert reason.*******************I wish I am licit in the first perhaps Shivite flames Proto-australoid (Indus). In Michener's The Source (near east), Gomer is present outside the temple, now the temple-future--a sensual lens through iron age journey to neat pretensions that my well-being is so accomplished in her ply anonymity. From Cochin silk painted of my henna devotee image frames day spilling ingredients of days over books, Zadie's shelved, glassed-in bookcase & a cheap one figure as power-spots soon. To animate arising writer's writing their lone spirits are wrested from night and ready as vibratory blooms, conveniently a few self-same books are free in my Kindle Fire, techne's library in lights.*******************I've heard from more than one person who had taken LSD (now yrs ago, but elicited conversationally & ecstatic) and come out of their trip saying they had seen a troll or troglodyte from space of microcosm to that of imagination. I'm experienced, true, but again over 20yrs ago, and I only saw mind-sore and a lack of agency, interesting enough. This morning of usual trafficky tidings, I look over where the school places a Tolkien-like statuette in a flower garden-to-be this spring, and the blech of institution is teased by eunomic witness & almost a full moon. Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds play Night of the Lotus Eaters in barely a midnight having just happened yawn. Our mythic figure, likely all but unadmired--w/only this tale of thought's funk--is inanimate, tho' it blames musterion day's beginning in concretion langue anyway, I find out how rawk emotes. *** approve this message while discerning the psychedelia of its bombast... lol*******************People, joggers, walkers, out the abyssal flap of sidewalks, true democracy occupiers of americana porches, all look like cosmogonic starlings. They suss resource on top of earthly loam, lost in it as if submerged in origin's land ocean, season's rigor-aside in deep cadence of bouncing avians. All of what human beings are made is just the same as what we know the rest of the universe is almost entirely made. Elementally not-especially what one says of the gold their egos recreate. If you held your thumb and finger together, a dime-sized hole, look through it with a powerful telescope, you would capture light fields having sped 186,000 mls a second from 100,000 galaxies, just so. There are a hundred billion in the universe. So, you are lucky from a certain immensity, which hasn't taken place until you've subscribed to its diminution thru mission that it was meant for you--but you are that. Why?************************I took license talking about you. Said whatever I thought. I ended taking out a poesis report. Your mind & body is bliss doing whatever thou wilt. And time is my cuff to the fugue of your love, however accomplished, but poured over the streets of freedom.*************************Saw a mosquito yesterday when I went out to my porch to play my cunga, last early evening. I am certain--and what the hell? On a family vacation when I would have been maybe 13yrs old (prolly down I-75 likely), Dad had parked the motorhome close enough to a boggy area, mosquito ubiquity entered it and completely covered the ceiling. The ceiling seemed to have grown in a thready insect heavenly cover, while I lay wondering what-next under mine. In my view, this is an existential thing, I am rather thinking some thing "other" is happening to our bunch--a plague, I'm part of a general malaise, I'm the youngest but not certain what that gets me anymore? Once, so many yrs later, Robbie Loco & I take a row boat down the Nile, while we are warned not to touch the water. I did and tho' I heard about the threat of schistosomiasis, the water is ablutional, or a certain touchstone, watery grasp of conscious map in a beautiful way.*********************Wondering on theosophy's integer self-realization currency: why say, Creator-being is closer to objective reality & shrouded mendicant amongst purveyor life's cloud, than he or she is with their soul and the purity of their body? 12th century place to jump from. Soul can't be whet. And whose appetite gets-done when it redounds? This intimately may be an expression of immanent dissolution: what-if soul traduced in the world that we know, held by the center appreciating by tent-poles of consciousness, while temporal high dunes of constant change, change before unwearing this mask of eternity, and for no reason? Which is reason sharpened at its own expense. Good music plays: I don't feel I sway like a sleepy candle and its light-contest of lost encounters. Energy is satori inventive, that wordless place tho' only visually if the sugar-blues fogs my attention, like honey making me strong then weak. The mantle-beginning, sound's interval w/quietude in definition rather than emotion's sensorial relief in sound, is curiously normative--life's posit within a day, moment elapsing into that nuclear age sojourn moment's calculus prone moments of eschaton fascinan's answer. Thought nomenclature is felled light in water's maternal world whose body-human, like an answer, a lauded message from an ancient ophan, angel, portrays a concentrical yantric drop impossibly digressed that a direction magnificates when you are really unable.****************Our front yard tree moans in folds in the ice then lightning damage now several yrs on. Underneath its tawny tremors, vital pores portray blood-water of its developing existence. Accidental shade looks convincing of splay space anyone at liberty from her crying canopy in its leafy green choral vox architecture.********************Her eyes are waters bloop-flat surface, the plain of a lake, but ebullient, and selah trance makes allowance, sourcing her appetite in my star-visage. I hope one day on a dreamy shore we could roll in emerald rays, just kiss. Your fullness is a pile of gems, all day they burnish into light's fluency unto shadows, the sun arises again shone in their bloom.***************My discursive brain seems ill-composed as I drag M C Escher's depicted dragon excising itself from its inculcating box, in this way making me lurch "liquid language awash" (Wallace Stevens) without disgression. The reproven Arabias but alighted in other places too, mystics arising w/eminent sundering midnight viral words, if only perspective illicit or not reduced to enjoin the renewal Vatican, Mecca, say, or haKotel (Wailing Wall), like tremors to self-realization efforts found in the sieve of ronching teeth 'pon expression.********************And those feet, walking through dharma morning, testing seas of temporate qualia, cool and acrylic to touch. Path fraught and implicit how immediate, even as your change is only the path meeting body's explanate step, thwack, the ground met more episteme ascendent, than departure from now-on. My brain, electric cipher of mantram's "take-over" with no place to be - "that" in me in overstanding expression with greedy release, thrum of no-language, words untied, all unplugs kaleidoscopic big floating copper pine needles before I awaken from ole brown shoes, w/my shadow dialect poised amongst lapsed buildings.**********************A Mother of the latest spectacle airplane crash victim speaks to reporters, but in tremendum interlocution, she bares the Fu Manchu face that everyone is ideally proscribed by hearing her plea. It seems unusual but natural too she imagines in transformative pain, everyone knows her in this lamenting standard. I do--and just like the Afgani yoiung girl barefoot with Winter coming-on, her father looking on to BBC reporter, says, "She won't make it here--she'll be dead in these mere few months." While the child in glowering sad eyes knows moments assigning her end-days, but can't care it's her fate a world can't reach. This dialect with anonymity is all but allowed in what one endures exactly what could be known about inevitable loss: blind spaces convened through people of lost consolations.**********************Squirrels are out in a nicer day, jubilant under redolent pines where there's a robin whose beak pivots like a pitchfork; a liittel splay of pine needles emanate before its thrush forward. A very loud crow just cackled, went over the adjacent school roof, instead of landing on my sluice concept negotiating shoulders. This lil drainage canal makes my ground perch spooky by its blackened 3ft bellowy tunnel, chthonic, more hidden than my thoughts would retrieve. From cool weather and weathering issuant cold now, hot when hot, cold then sensorial & alive, Abraham's story of Nimrod's fiery cauldron-come-lotus bloom, bare a calculus of memories older than weariness.******************

Scream Trees, exhort the lives who wander silently

The icy trees breathe from without. The machinations of suspiring bode well for botanical survival as its vitality is sky assessed, sun alighted. They, the sky & light, are living existential organs working with one and against themselves. Like consciousness, but the heart is an ocean, and the sky - a fountain of electrical suggestion - a mind of enviable reasons to know air. The trees are evidently lived from traduced animation of earth mantram exterior.************** I keep thinking, "I need to call that guy." That guy happens to be just me, when asleep, and anticipating, I assume, self-reflection, like I know somebody there. For half my life I never imagined giving-up, even for the temporal long-ends of the day, the ahhs of not having to face down the world & having sleep there so opportune. And now I do.************** I furrowed the earth, to impress you. My sorta change is filled-in with you. I am everything from the geometry of then, to now its circular ruins.**************** Bourdain, particularly, refines eating w/a less than intra-mantra enslaved slaver narrative, bite-bite-bite, has turned more than the success of anecdotal Jewish preachment into taste fulfillment, that of swine. Yes--and I've avoided these foods (and not others) until now for many years... Here while reading the most brilliant history on this wisdom-tradition, one that I've registered across tendril threads from an interest developing 10s of yrs, Cairene Geniza documents, study on Mitzrahi & Seferdic Jews. From these I once colored most my thought-world if to adjure memorialized space yielding to Judeo-arabic, decisor elements from either community. On Jews & Islamdom while sorting out persons X & Y, the ability to imagine and rather "reimagine" common family, and whose ancestor is closest to rooted-ness, is all the better in concensus, =the miles one would walk in his neighbor's shoes. In whose egoity the purveyor of ancestry over its meritable transmission while thru a lens of blind finishes to cultural rivulets find the other contemporarily just-like-you. Reza Shah, a Palestinian I visited with on Jerusalem margins, makes sugar the taboo screaming indulgence, then once upon time in my green 20s, being served highly sweetened black tea w/mint, sitting at his compound in certain universal passporte affection.******************** I always want to see the survivor in her eyes, the reach in my brother's. If there is no gladness there, I suspect by the next moment, the victory is over evanescence... If immanent like the dreamer tarries, whiling away dreaming the mundane, hope is eudaemonic path to the present.************** An icicle is praxis in winter--sword of emotion's memorial--a solemn, careless, merry-go-'round within itself, it glistens to every furtive detail, the fascinans too cool in irony of what is featured in sleep.**************** Oh, thou americana them asses abideth in "narcissism with respect to minor differences" (Freud kinda says), come enjoin the patterns of these-lives existential without your empyrean upset boundaries. The moral landscape is a history to one, the memory of your world, the pain you examine and experiment with to bang the mind against an absolute, verily your mission. Is it obvious that the next moment is our sate of raw or totally developed emotion? This velocity to be present is impressive, full-up, ever-yielding. What then is a moral landscape discerned over the still waters of time & her heavy veil? Or another way to put it: The moral landscape sometimes is discriminating time over still waters, while her heavy veil parts outside of impermanence.*************** Interesting fruits of my travels, out West, jus' different rhythms, to be predictive & inexact, dread times, surfacing without it. Mixing up dreamtime with realism, not of this-world actionable confused, but vibe of loading the existential, tastes of barely ironic mind to emplace senses w/the hearth of resonant chronos. If formulaic, circadian awareness reflect realities replacing senses to be too current, hardly subtle, but new into the arising dynamic. When first addressing terrible wrecked stela-writ-being in this mind, I am taking capsuls of Navane, Thiothixene, say 20 yrs ago. While appositely what shades-in all the approach of mind's looking glass tremoring on occasion from this drug, create margins on the existential factotum, me, my dog, become unbodied past the ceilings and its provincial day beneath. I'm other, I swear I thought I am only. Dream artefact restoring realism of waking impressions that langor & subtlety are convenient.**************** Felt it a responsa coming correct on academician writ thru school of life: my friend goes to the bookstore today, necessarily enticed, prolly burning for identities to go-down. Oh books, right, the langue de riguer in the splay of imminent vulture ploy over culture, sometimes cannabalist, but always the details w/ready embers on change. Free space like John boy awing into the moment just past the easy at-home narrative, to the source reflection hidden in loamy clouds of authoring media, signature to the cusp world in the guise of 20th century transforming skies of certainty. When we were born, language is in the fate of chronometry & geography.************** A spiritual clown maybe, this passion play traveler in other, and tears of unwhetted Dao's gong-ambulate slacker, I'm adjudged in shadows, moon-soaked, submitting in stillness. Texan neighborhood rds, Austin is my travelogue 'pon diminutional map ...kept me haunting enough hill & country & creek environs I'm rather surprised at 5-6 yrs old I did what I did. Descending from my house on suburban contouring geometry, passing Mr Hall, the clock-maker's bit of tree sprawl & residence, to the ant tree is extremophile eudaemonic, a sense nerve rhyming song of time, emotional nomenclature, place of power. Once I imagined the lost little ant of fortuity is just-there going to emerge brandishing parcellated conscious ward of how I'll ever be mindful of this rally in blindness as homo ludens. Each breath is animicule gesture, somewhere likely in this field episteme bottles lie gladly emptied by the carpenters of the neighborhood origins-- --its glass 'flect in an eternal scream of the season's solar disc. The futile icing on the odyssey cake is served, there's a forest of life underfoot, and it's only life exquisite dust-plain pictures of well-being rousing in blue youthful identity.***************** This tree stands admirably with no conceit an identity is reflected in self-being. Cold, arced but silently animated, nigh & void, pillaresque after the ply of its grown accoulades, creative but only sun and shade creaturely. ...done-for for the winter, but unlocks the sky by its eternal thing reduced in the reach of its still-light, deflated orange star dormancy. Sleepier & wavelike in convivencia, I carve the shape of mind to resemble its architecture.************** Many an afternoon, just to express this life full-up and awed... Sitting, waiting, but weary over the never elastic, "what am I doing here?" What it is that makes weathery change barely a wink from the ground of awareness is the canticle of mundane sounds arriving so that bird-song illuminates a mind guffaw of I'm present in the moment. My inner-eye is vain like the burning ember having been tasted errantly by Moshe. Lawgiving even toward concretion of antiquity minds is still fascinans laid out so that its margins are pierced, and ethos spills the ambrosia of ill-contained exile.**************** Rain layers in layers, a mirage on my windshield--looking out to still rather redolent pines. Beatles with a bhanging sitar alight in my mix monarchical & stupidly produced. Saturday ams were as musically revived, this weekday lines up like the sabbath of many bottles throng space, existential water purported content.***************** It just makes sense that environment is prone for sentient life delivering theirselves into evermore reason to evolve if to complement what not only shapes perspective. If desire and ignorance in earth denizenship is to top unique and enviable perspective, perspective redounds in relationship to fuel a transmundane neo-perspective.**************** In a decade of change & transmundane thoughts, I sat not far from here as my brother's kids would swim & cavort at this, currently closed, Southland pool. Imagining the dreaming envisage of choking sand, exceptions to my avenue of study, social living, breaking the languid schedule then, is elliptical and blindingly hot. Sinaitic, in fact, certain mention of langue d'origine, Jah discovered in The Alphabet vs the Goddess. I think of complimenting her still. Not why the flowery climate of her Unknowable, but it is Who summoning trishagion (kedushah) good to imagine her essense as a certain lamp of beauty. Through all the malaise of tesselated mind, where I hid, I only found her spirit having accomplished this awe.