Peak in this realist's pendulum is the dream's dialect between the principle and her midnight sky.

Bob Marley's Father had his roots in the Jewish world to that of Syria. What do we suppose in the expelled more contiguous communities with a sensitive West emerging from that part of the world? Edward Said nurtures us in a fluid world of the Fertile Crescent with his Palestinian logue and composure from the hills covered in cedars in Lebanon to Jerusalem, his cosmogonic four corners; cedar trees whose scent clarifies us as it revokes animosities for libertine sake. Ralph Nader's family comes from the Levant, might shine on our technocracy's identity crestfallen to something more iconoclast. Frank Zappa. Playing his mystics in another Arabia, could plant the dreigh land of Americana, wary in service you better recognize. The languages which first record human trends in our slavish crawling toward transformative thought and resource gathering would feed us the history appending our present to see them as this link of give and play with our stories and the healing in common by their incantation. Get a Bop Gun o hoplites of the burgeoning warrior class. Dance for Peace closer to home--breathe like you've done something to open your mind about the obvious threat of Global Climate Change--while taking care of the small things apposite possibly a reflection of self being implied by more creativity & philosophy in this hopefully developing core-culture.*************

Trump says hideous things about folks doing us wrong, and it's conceiveably wielding an axe into the climate of those powers, but about their creed wherein others suffer their shared deliberative irrealism by choice even in possible middling probities accepting the West or happenstance hopefully not disingenuous of progress and 'pon his American prescriptions of insensitivity. I'm asked to go along like we've never been colluding of any alternative. Any dissonance to his project so compelling because he deprecates with such spite and leisure as we see base instincts erupt precisely from his rhetoric--please imagine young Muslims alighting with potential out of this pluralist Dream--has the F$&king ignorant stamp of some stupid jargon that somehow Democrats don't believe in American homeland security. Plainly the Israelis for the most part reject Trump--read the uneducated Conservative trend thereso in contempt of Israel's understanding--in his thinking--so haughtily wishful--they'd concur with his menacing of say another billion of our shared world's Muslim population where one would still have to conflate their issuant wariness on security that another six-seven hundred million were the barbarians at the gates. Which isn't the case till Trump sanctions a clash of civilizations with more hate speech. ************Nabokov would have called his small memoir Mnemosyne, Speak, though calls it Speak, Memory, which adduces anyone's expectation that memories are more a part of something rather cosmic in nature, those skies that shelter us in the reasoning of temporal spaces, and thus crowd consciousness which is all poured into the sea of those times teasing with sips by reaching back getting only tantalizing drops, barely cleaning our grappling hands of the present. I like being reduced to memory too--that there is ground beneath my feet even without invisive content where I would pretend I've become full-up and immediate. I imagine a person diseased through the effacement of the present linking up with the past. Here I'm allured into my playlist which is excellently sequenced: Temptation by Prince, The Sun by Burning Spear, Train to Skaville, the Ethiopians, some folky balalaika of the Little Odessa Soundtrack... What do I do finding some avian bare arising in these thoughts' idea, leaving a strand of poignant and pleasing sense of merely what I'm listening to but then drawing a blank - I'd been exiled from a certain continuity, still thrumming in nice sounds, the thing (song currently cued) I'm familiar with, while forgetting what came just before or before that? Knowing that I've forgotten brings me quite prostrate to the giant's feet of a Universal Theme. I think, well, my body isn't moving by enlistment to the change of bands and personalities streaming in their "black plastic speaking..." Lee Scratch Perry portrays, and so to imagine being on the flow and in the present I visualize, expect air, watch closed-in walls' disappearance, the art of forgetting that it redounds by illustrating any number of things otherly, that I'm not captured by a mind that is proscribed or chained by completion. ************It is the best counsel and a great poetic device reading the verily Socratic Krishnamurti, lifting up his otherwise sorta plain and tacked-on thinking to the patient scan of the reader who discovers that she or he has begun observing their own thought's flow with the metric of content that would only come from they themselves. Krishnamurti suggests getting-beyond. There is a more usual concern of this American saluting of low-brow liminal intellects slavering like the boredom evinced in their cultural project to the degree inwhich assuming a provincialism to this problem with the Other can't alloy with experts and textperts always ready and never heard warning of misapprehensions to that of the thugs that would gain control of the reins on our government. Go beyond the sense that mostly the hawks on our security on either side realize the damnable problem--calling a spade a spade--of Literalism in Belief, that as Sam Harris notes, Guns are made precisely to kill people like Uday Hussein, and by that thinking name your Islamist henchmen, and yes I want them dead too. But a Nazi like Trump who obviously runs around demonizing Hispanics, Black Americans and those young Muslims whose help in this Dream's Experiment we would enlist, makes it impossible to comprehend the implications and futility at the door of this American political conduct which I think will only turn our "sometimes" (more usually) fellows into evitable deniers if agressors against the plurality that most of us agree we're here to explain. The daesh wayward want us to "reimagine" in all our howling machinations that the clash of civilizations would have us regard all Muslims as becoming our enemies. You're a fool if you're not getting beyond your own contrived cessation of humaneness over the barbarians at the gate.************In your beginning you thought there would always be the one thing and seeing you as part of the one thing, everybody else saw to it their conjurations of meaning were an apex and retiring same promise of reserve and perhaps not so much the subject you might confer to your looking-glass. Monism is different than monotheism in that other gods are acknowledged as arising into the extension of authorial creative forces, though the standard that they have nothing to filtrate in terms of superlatives offered into the climate of that power illustrates the tenuous plateau of Belief as if there couldn't have been lush run-off ready to soak the proudland of standard-bearers. Imagine your monist attachment to experience as the only way to reflect that you've entered the one door of what-is as you are life's first purveyor through its jamb, for every door opened would elicit beginnings seemingly with all things possible.

****************I get going in the day, see the conjoling project of talking heads in one space of attention in the horizon, then everything assumed about them splaying like my wakeful thoughts advancing from threads of halflight. Get going though after glances have reabsorbed me into our bedroom in need of dust-removal, the sky beckoning and Susie shushes me saying to sleep-in. So I do and hopeful some root to an observer unfettered would transfer this whiling away into the hot iceberg of anything else sees what hasn't been seen before in my thinking shores. My mouldering pale wall, dreigh as inquiring eyes irreal answer out of that space in my room with the outside pine too close, so retaining moisture, I reckon it's a one time a year situation. And the self-same ambition for improvement is this annual surmise that I'm back-away matriculator to somekind of concensus on everything I've imagined as the greenlight for reasons to deny the usual.

*************Seek self duty, instead, way receiver to an inventive Literalist's agon? This one time look at those powers' icon, at the power affective in such swathes of common folk left to their ruins smeared and sneered with the same vile reactions sounding like varietals of social corruption, whose first book of passage is gathered in the footfall toward any other well of the blurry doctrinaire to that of our antagonists. My ole friend who sat in on the dialects before Krishnamurti, says to me today, "Long-live the counter-culture." Sabbatai Tsvi::

*********It is interesting to me and I wonder how reasonable a consideration that spirituality is always, my contention, a rational event, always. The concept of spirituality the thoughtful may agree is illuminable--a new conversation's endurance in parsimony or a fool's trial--and can evoke words like "the numinous." And thus episteme is immediately one shoe first waried like an availing concern on an enumerating scale justso in reflection it is ourselves of levities and anticipating defenselessness in extremis if we take back consciousness strung 'yon as the horizon. That you append your conduct only to suggest the magnitude of a would-be escape or that final you are things like you plus a release. You are ever the awe-cooled foot dawdler to an ocean's shore, there at the hint of what-is, but can't get in.

***************

************I listen to my voice sound out always a sense that you've spoken the words I feel. I watch my feet imitate unknowing in sleepiness as if I walk out from the dream of a strange land. And realize my thoughts because you're alive in the patina to my antique lure over nature. Way over, way gone, the invisive emergence of the world defines my countenance.************ love this step to step's content of thought's dark sea. Merely placating a gemstone's model of this mind made-up, that I'm gratified from anything consumate as a spark or usual suss out of this imagination, the glad next trace of light from the energy of consciousness must be a patient, secret blue idea-force, a victory.

Transformed like Gray Pages Looking less Dun & more Yellow still in my Eyes, like Light.

Expressions ennoble however present the sense of our recent handful of days as they appreciate, but I can't help only observing weary feet 'pon the ground of experience to that of so many in their migrations or long-distance gatherings of resource. Humankind has wandered these proud lands for a 100,000 years in continuity as these beings changing so insignificantly, one can imagine several people around them as coming to urban reality as imminently as their grandparents near in dispensation's cusp with the industrial age transitioning into our technocracy even more artfully in its fettering machines. Beautiful animal's feet, say, ready as the conveyor ranks their usual footfall to any extremis of it, looking laudable and wizened like tree rings as if increasing the acuity in our attachment to earth. I walk like I'm throwing stony enervations into my palms that my feet coordinate and flex like hands grappling for free space. I loved encountering my Zadie, shaking his glad hands, tracing my conscience in good order which consoles like his usual walk in his ambition to be healthy, that he had mapped his Lexington travelogue to bus-stops and all the distance strung toward the day's conscious satellites where I too invent myself under this self-same life's entreating Sun.************* We only ever need to risk yoking our lamentable selves. Answer sometime later the sense of change (the more of you warning of maven observation)--the thing about it--one leads into the present demanding that the reins of experience be unrigged from an otherwise subtle grasp on this world of any color you like. I saw my eyes in hers. I'm as tired as dark fire she detects in the back of my blue slumber, reflecting homunculi thoughts' mortar full up with inquiries from without, at arm's length a present world, there but underneath, though my eyes cling loosely, can't actually approach. I think Big Os, but mostly the gray of a presciently dull-colored air from nearby Circle 4 exhaust, somehow illustrated and replacing whirling traffic audition with the haze of a deprecare world. I can still breathe I hope to reimagine.^^^^^^^^^^^^^In just a handful of years, man I can tell you I am glad to have escaped waiting for the answer, in existential query, who am I here sitting in langor, no love but the abbreviated sense of watching lives get past me? And now delightfully caught-up with my sweet Susie, I see giant leaps through the change I so badly needed since she's come in my life with her love and healing. Sad and damning what I had accumulated in the poignancy of physical presence, no longer nobly enslaved by gross regimens as if to stay conscious of me this self-same feeling-guy as always, I smoked too much tobacco and lamented unreachably to you all and me. Burned by the incredulity my Mom would be effaced before I could reflect more presently with her leaves what I tinder in her fire, me pervading these skies hazed with the smoke of self-mythologizing and never full up, her heat exceeds the starry pleroma and I had to go and meet it. Glad of the ground beneath my feet now; praise this living earth and the love she taught me to go on and love with.*************In the window thrown open on a sense of whole worlds' passing, I'm a daydreamer hushed, though coming to my slight reality, answer of sorrow in its dialect with reason, the principle of life. "Music a godly thing," Bob Marley's toasts, entreats the marionette-willed Player and the strings carrying him or her out of their deep-aside, the listener's Hope. From myth invisive players, the playlist evolves in a sonic theater, this car, in this bright light, through Autumn's reach in polyphonic puddles reflecting musical content as rain's cosmic landing.*************What is this fidelity to the surface where I had seen a man raking autumn leaves prone to the scurrying day's commuters? More On than any interiorizing check to his Tuning Out, he looked invented by the report on the pavement from trafficking souls. He was inanely present, almost mired though his pedestrian banner put him in the climate of hurrying powers. But not protuberant like a car competing for assent onto a lane, he had the greeting of tacit earth. I drive by thinking had I been as vulnerable to an idea-force making wind, sun, leaves and space the calculus of this disparate encounter, that my small world looking just as monist in contemplation pushes me from the shore of experience into the stream's glurring middle.***************We're halfway down the mountain, again shrouded by the reachable past of netherly covers. A shadowy veil all unwrapped once upon a time now complements the rest of our way home. Serpentine within, I'm the whip pulled from the master's hand of a world's purveyor. My thousand lives, counting the millionth in a million colors mused in thoughtfields from this one cool chair replaces my more of nature's egalitarian rug. This meditation out of a new yet old study had higher education been my bag is somehow going to be comprehensive, I promise myself. Mother Russia--so good to me (if Cultural)--is still part of the subtle bond in the project between the Eagle and the Bear, gives new meaning to the little red ribbon handed to a Central Asian toddler that he or she may know the definition of Beauty, interesting in its Russian antecedent, the wine-dark luster of Red.*************At the closest intersection to my old Jr High, Beaumont, here I sense some margin suspiring spirit-child, me in my youthful tribulation, where once I wrecked on an early 70's model Schwinn 10 speed, actually laid it over. New Circle Rd thrums just a house and a yard away, but this time of day and this lush life in a world of less crowds were ameliorating in dispensation. The cuff of my pantleg had gotten entangled with the chain; I couldn't so easily turn with the pedals, probably slightly too small for the bike borrowed from the generation before me. Emergent like a jinn, this neighborhood redneck saw me stuck, threw his Martian meteorite glance my way. The self-same dude riding his banana seat bike, drinking a can of beer--with exacting confidence on his strode road--I saw the summer before, says to me then, "I drinks to enjoy." Yes, "Drinks." And toasted me as the libertine warmth is a day proscribing anywhen rolling by. Now he's circling just 20 yards after me, coming from the vacant season-heat apropos streets of Georgian Way, like a vulture of musterion talons rallying perchance he sees his disease more mused to feel his antithetical pain, ready to pick me apart. I immediately felt sundered, something I couldn't have imagined and it not be the case: people were apt to be cruel and no values game need apply ...just stabby eyes seized upon the deception a brother's eye would countenance. And sisters--I'm really glad of her more usual reprieve that all were meant atleast once to be restored from someday piteous. Luckily, I get loose and mean action is avoided.****************Peter Rowan in some inspired Bluegrass lyricks, "The heart is a muscle, it gotta love to live," so backwooded and surging in the blood to that of any reason to unite perspective and presence. We have Freedom not to deny a sensical world operating in consolations or in its swathe anonymity; one peace waits for peak observation anywhere. Some wizened daemon sauntered into the median space between Susie & I on our hotel-roomlike couch and announced, I thought translatable to me, its encounter with the both of us as one thing in its crowish vernacular... Like an enmeshed naming of the both of us relenting certain plies of self-consciousness, Categories of Mind (mine, hers, in a room, out of light, somehow a ground of being) may be unique to elapsing from certain impermanent restraints? Meaning, just beside myself, seeing our presence in a puzzle of space that has the shores of identity in way different places: I'm at least, kinda Susie, or else something even more other in sociation with the event of our anticipating a manifold patience from within each other. Makes me imagine I'm a phantom and myself, at once, appreciating Susie emergent in ways that would invent novel intensions, therenesses, of mind's survival beyond and conveniently in dreams of continuity, an embellishing mirror to append our long-lived hopes.***************In the West we have developed a social epistemology leaving us incredulous as to what these Literalist Fuckers are ill-considering from moment to moment, where we all should live, denying the iteration smelling like bullshit schemes of a World to Come. Completely insane purveyors of their rigoring Traditions talk the same game here of Fundamentalism, remonstrating like liars in the mirror of this same unappendable self-promotion.****************And then there's godtalk. No atheists in wars? In their foxholes, so to find meaning is all the value of something Certain in the next eluded suspiciously green earth's ending contest... Though you must love war as a means to rather effectively enjoin a god's fray to Belief, act on behalf of nothing peaceful almost any god would've constructed atleast behaviorally as to emulate in their lush prising magic, an appetite to respect--a fire to quell--Moloks or meteorite heaving Jinns in imaginations are pseudepigraphia bound to rather sickening conventions.****************In my four cornered scarcely dreamt upper room, my windows open up to yours and mine G*d's country, bluegrass in Nature's because-it-goes-like-that atman as vivid chloroplast tongues with their rooted down contents, minerally sourced dirt upon these cloud liminal lands. Watching it, but why can't I see? Though I am bound to a fecund surface, so what unfetters me in the glue of sight is Stoic if appreciating in the tremendum of a constant condition, treading among a slight and kindled hope that I am here and ameliorating as light's last reach underneath. Teach letting-go by illustrating for the youth that nothing's going on.****************

This as Opposed to the World that once was.

My eyes grew like moving dunes into the exile of a Sinaitic sky, lept into the blue just as menorah candles and a nod to the home hearth or a light offered over to me from the Kahiri construction guy. I'm in a terrible fever, not noticing his hubbly-bubbly is coaled-up and our Egyptian fellow roasts his fish, shares a glistening onion moments before buried under some sweetly orange-illuminated brambles. This is my approach to something temporal if the complement vision in having been at the feet of an evinced antiquity. Directionless then so fed into Krishnamurti's Socratic "Truth is a pathless land" pronouncement, but I liked being roused to wonder, content within, that I haven't gone anywhere actually, still at the feet of giants. Just be humble before an experience of imagination's marriage with time, I think, but consider an anywhen's sabbatical as one's own mnemosyne decisor. Now I love me some Mumin expression; suras are a give and play in world news, products of knowledge, will have managed egoity with a plan of iconoclasm. Long over Jesus unblinding the ill-compassionate. Know better than to refute advice on cosmic initiations, because it is Wisdom to me and of the would-be Wise, that an expert on meditation makes healing definitely an education on the condominium between the inabsolute, something creative, and personhood (having humanity). But don't tell me my contract with good is spiritual and not religious. If you dig pop psychologies, have any ambitions to get out of the ways of yourself, or are certain to reflect in this musterion world deeply, even poignantly, then religion is a self-actualization effort. And spiritual.**************** Without a precedent in living another life, I find myself conjuring a place to jump from out of an interior ward subtlely where I'm wakened in the art of forgetting. Just by imagination I realize there's a Siamese cat possibly evident having seen it haunched up in its people's home window, mentioned as a rival cat (?) to our one-eyed Tiger cat or arising personality, terra-enthusiast, thus stalking the street over, kinda inventing the block in between me and my elementary school. Lived in my thinking now all these forty odd years just like the 7-11 at the top of our Quail Creek neighborhood, where I knew a gun battle would ensue, I was sure, whose shadow in fascinans would covet me in security but as prone observer, the one who got away. Tiger Red soda I knew could be retrieved there and it stained my lure in making a conscious map as most everyone is first apt to do at this developing age (psychologists record)--I'm five. Once I tried to hitch a ride from the guy driving his rather beaten icecream truck while he had been vending several houses up the hill from our somnolent domicile. The icecream dude was dirty and I thought too piteous, rarefied in the space people call their condition to decry nothing reducible to his libertine salutations of any illustration per everything liminal beyond the I & I encounter. My five year old comportment amounts to those ply encounters pulling someone outside that sense of solitarian continuity; I could take flight to the margins of social-living thinking I am too coarse to be understood. He said he wasn't aloud to take passengers, he could get in trouble: "Your folks wouldn't..." this and that, he says. Me asking him made me want to be intuitive about the world and the people in it; I was tremulously hopeful.

**************The lush trouble in being led to the corral of reification (by this thread) is that this untameable concept humbles and motiavtes me, demands new eyes. Out of some sense and pattern to a conscious crowd--being a product of many lives painting our condition--we are everyday people. I imagine a genius cue in our thoughts' ward that our families would have us appertain a belief in continuities. Relationships so swum us into the same sea, what magnetic forces illustrating sentience in its deepest reserve become the animate fact to even our minds never actually rallying to evince, rather passive in second sight, as if mind is wizened, slow in fidelities, but moves below it all from an athlete's courage. Everyone is a genius. After all the clamoring roads which chip away at our lives' megatransect in our simple nerves and sensory education, one reaches everyday in plain selves working with one and against better judgment their attention on physical success. Peter Rowan, a Bluegrass player, lyricked, "The heart is a muscle, it gotta love to live." Mind and hearts in the tree of life bear fruit by the rivers of water, identity florid in resource and riddled through our individual reflections, we're changed licit in pursuance of blind pygmy islands after their flood of impermanence.************** To train my plaque of thoughts against the window screen onto being I once imagined nothing to rely on as continuer of the existential and thus anything that I might act on, speak to, hinge and hedge over is in an intensional stance and is guaranteed feeling like the first time I've done well ...this.**************We're used to the mission of transcendence and mundaneity in small bands of hunters and gatherers rather than following the mothership however wishful of her salience to therapeutize on source upon her navigation toward social and economic rights in a world encroaching ever plying its new definitions to fit seven billion people into our backyards. And then of course there's counsel from wandering through one's thoughts as if an angel recovers what is contemplative, makes room to serve human myth effective as the coin in this dreamy realm roused out of reality. An angel for every thought.************Light, water, verb, char, sap, sand media, effluvial disco, emergent Innana-revelling authors author shpielen about India's Chendamanagalam around Muzuris, Romans early penetration by Kerala, those remnant Jews come this earlier Mother of nations who write a contemporary's atmosphere of smothering new millenia's ceiling having those emigrants from Charax their ancient Persian Gulf community long ago improved as if to meet the morning in the cult of self reliance now can be celebrated beyond the hypostasis in cultural evenflow wont to homogenize beliefs that burn with eyes through mine, hopeful in the dregs of creative ones that would be served upon the plate of experience and can adorn the table of inner-being.*************I find an "out" feeling expansive as if to awaken in a snow-capped lair though rather somnolently seduced in I & I reserve, dreaming to stir in a dream having gotten up there impossibly deferent to any path. In some composite to the actionable state, electing actions to prepare the habituation in mountain's peak, I see the habit of trees coniferring in sweet pinion sap if only to freeze this purpose in perpetuality of fascinan's landscape. It gives me purpose with this sweet, kind chimera's license only to relent the clamor of instructions to arrive--no surprise--one is there before being there and now your gone inquiry to accept a mind character--the likeness subject to observable reality--is this tether of your would-be escape. Emplaced to my sides is a white smother of frozen ground over books exemplar to labyrinthine hands making spare synaptic gestures sometimes from elongated arms webbed to trunks of pure enervating world-maps, legs or feet reaching to reach or rather step-mogrify with diamond heels and magnify dreamy signs in flecks, wishfully within paces of what is opportune way over, far over in the present, other shore changing as you are from just the same splash off your own self-same clay definement.**************To train my plaque of thoughts against the window screen onto being I once imagined nothing to rely on as continuer of the existential and thus anything that I might act on, speak to, hinge and hedge over is in an intensional stance and is guaranteed feeling like the first time I've done well ...this. My translating face knows the whetstone and the pathos of the blade and is honed at once as a diamondlike ornamented chandelier. It glows in our foyer with unknowable bumps, blips, so I barely look, flicker past a warbly mirror ...embrase even cross anywhens with my face just at the threshold of a pointy frond to a low cultivated date tree. I equine-lip and meet the fruit. The plum-like white film on it soothes like chapstick (powdery bloom). Dreams behind the tower of music are hillocks of culture jettisoning an enlistment. Its sense readied nowhere before me, here but underneath, redolent to convince the dreamer of eternities so like Egyptian pyramids however unfathomably distant in man and woman's sun arresting sorrow. They act on the human heart as splendid as clay like its dust-pure heat complex lucidity, a color religiosus blessed of resignation. And woe stable community: the ancients knew several things and they endured; do they teach it? How did a civilization exist for 3000 years? Why won't the ancients rain down wisdom of prudent survival? Literalist avenues won't invent an alley toward laudable accretions of her neighbor and more inflating tears--one world of everyone saying it's all but done in banal deprecare sips of coffee, while all our Western Traditions, the big capitulations in triune ill-condolences are all eschatalogically stupid (end of days scenarios). Redeemed, mmm no, sought mercy, thought, well you know, the Wailers (Bob the Wailer) making room in a united suffering, sufferers nigh, Abdullahs or Obediahs, the Wailing Wall like touching a spiritual satellite in measurement of illusion toward new patterns of history, visual theaters, our reflections in the splendor of iconic maps.***************Breathing-in the creative or "black smoke" and watching it dance in the shadow of our thoughts, then exhaling the "white smoke" (Maitreya Buddhism) where suffusing curtains plaque onto our window to the world is the key to meditation: I'm saying your heart gotta love to live, depend on that. The vashtu discussant, pleaser of space, assigns one tone in the arising of negative thoughts, then skillful thoughts are marked as compassion apposite a willing meditation. First posturing that you may be in attention, eyes closed or opened. Second, breathe at slow paces while inwardly one senses the body taking over, welcomed in release just beyond the dream one doesn't want to leave blank the subtle tremor that escape is vital, could be soon. Breathing collaborates that we'd imagine our nature in responsum to senses cultivated through time, place and community, its composition. I'm mainly telling myself this, only that everyone's design on the little peace they deserve should proliferate, and into plain frustrations or worse, I know our meditation must ally.**************I inhale this clean institutional academia and social gospel, sitting and digging a book on rock & roll primacies, disco similarly, say the way Bob Marley could have alluded, the architecture to its inspirations etc so far, here in the foyer to one of the new BCTC facilities. Susie is asked to help photograph the young women's Be Bold conference, so I post up, watch the shrill exhortations of many, see others confer in the change they want to feel. I once had been jettisoned to these blinking buildings for six weeks back in 1993 restive over the funk in my worldview looking to be merely smudged on these inestimable walls whence Eastern State Hospital plies my vocabulary to be freed up in my own thoughts. Somewhere within probably 500 feet from this present perch today (then) I had lain on a library floor--irreconciled to the day room countdown to cigarette breaks--reading the only thing historical that they proffered inducing me to study which I dreamt in lush ambitions--picking up on analytical meditation beyond the doorless university in that kind of footfall--making me feel security now I couldn't have known then. Drown in supreme knowledge and meekly crawl to shores of new Wisdom with her esoteric survival. Kerouac quotes Yeats, "The best lack all conviction." Lacking nuance, institutional resource and advisement must ally to dreams seeding the manufacturing of motive. The one who knows can't speak, so conveyed by expression though they martyr founts of verbs awash, the ascendant feels glad to aerate as bubbles in bouncing rhythm with mystic music and its godly thing.***************I look on this world with these beat events because Mom made my eyes lepid cocoons in dreamstate, extricating the metamorphoses from them. I'm driving I think an '81 Ford F-150, black & red, shadowing Parkers Mill Rd out of whose lauded space mind-hand reaches for the glove box which helps me negotiate an answer there as in The Town and the City, Kerouac's first book, when one destined shrouded traveler sees his brother seek the bottle in that grappling move. Imagine Big Sur as dissipation also sourced in its starry-interior poesis and the coin of his woodsy realm--where he's falling out from behind his eyes--that reflections tear his flesh like bad music--though Jazz still has his propitiation in that sabbatical midnight sky. There is even a moment when in Mom's nature I see the impulse of good together just as I am her elaborated future, I am the purveyor to her chimera dancing around my home's nerve center, her teloi of cream & coffee, mornings ever-lastingly spare of those entangling days. The sculpter of my egoity as real bliss, like unknowably remote seasons upon a giant effortless inflation to the pleroma's parturient blue, she presented me with a conscience and I'm certain to doxologize without marionette moralisms if mnemosyne speaks.

Mother and Raven Night

Mom's birthday is today. Passed January 9th, 2012, she was born on August 18th, 1936. Sweet Mom, I'm behind my eyes because of migrations in your ancestry. Dad's once ambrosia matron, heaven passed well-wisher. Dear American Dream provider, your four boys visual everything you ever said about growing up in Kingston, New York, a little Jewish girl, once kidnapped and quickly saved, the middle born of three girls, business acumen inheritor as socially adept as you've seen in your own Mothers in pure magnanimity out of loving family embrace ...though her Mother, Yetta, could be cruel, Mom told me. My conscience orthodoxy is ever appreciating through the journey to being present in the way she said I shouldered, when presence is remonstrate as a late feeling in musterion, that I'd vie to transcend, just live. Mom the bringer of knowledge to my natural prayers, the light I shed on beginnings' beginner, the mushy surprise of her multiple kisses, always the ameliorating power who reminds me healing is inevitable.*************Thought is self-preservation, Krishnamurti summons. I'm reifying the self-same anticipation all thought is concrete and lurps through inaction. If I prevail, alight into thoughtfulness, its emergency illustrates a bleeding essence, that the devastated subject heart isn't so austere anymore. She bi-sects the earth in riverine human beginnings, the earth is her body. Like relationship is magic and proffering though I'm thrown to the banks of a ditch of blood, then relationship is real. With scrutiny and patience in the sense that I am recording accretions with an I and Nature daliance in rather obvious ways. In the place of my making this movie whose image below serves and has accompanied many a contemplative homie, eternally tea-adjured couch where I'm restored, Papillon improves the decisor of freedom within me.*****************We're used to the mission of transcendence and mundaneity in small bands of hunters and gatherers rather than following the mothership however wishful of her salience to therapeutize on source upon her navigation toward social and economic rights in a world encroaching ever plying its new definitions to fit seven billion people into our backyards. And then of course there's counsel from wandering through one's thoughts as if an angel recovers what is contemplative, makes room to serve human myth effective as the coin in this dreamy realm roused out of reality. An angel for every thought...**************Says in Jewish Myth, Magic and Mysticism (thank you Stephanie) the essential ground of Kabbalist thought, which I'm going to break up and paraphrase, appeal to how words intrigue and recover the world of verily a subtlety in meaning and of identity any raison delicti. When Adam HaRishon, the first man and toward heros or heroines, archetypes, identities which consume, when he sinned though calling it the world of seldom evinced escape from sorrow, you are the first out the door of years turbillion passing. He blemished all the nitzotzot (Holy Sparks one avers in contrasts, makes good on social contract) ...causing them to become immersed in the kelipot (dross existence). The kelipot are the husks or shells of impurity, evil, and entropy, values dissuading in fugues unreachable into and trying to imprison the fallen Holy Sparks, the currents of ataraxia, unperturbedness. In the first part of the 16th century Akbar the Great, a plural religiosus devotee quotes Jesus from the Quran, which I barely synthesize from two translations: "The world is a bridge. Pass over it but build no houses upon it. The world lasts the beat of an hour. He who hopes for an hour may hope for eternity. Spend it in meditation, the rest is unseen."*************My whole magic, sense of continuity, blessing of conscious transportation is in strongly wanting to be remembered as my consolations in being present. But I dance as a sentient warrior of every ancestor of this One World's passion play and usually as a purveyor in any contemporary's plain magisteria: Impermanence becomes a worthy game of amelioration having certain experiential thresholds always seemingly hopeful if divine (or just exceptional) taking care of our life's going-on. But I'm wearing shoes of primate displayal, gathering power-spots that would assure my fully filtrating thoughtworld elaborated in memorialized space takes my enduring concerns and recollects me, would recollect me in wishes of eternal embrace in contentment. And don't we all.****************Light, water, verb, char, sap, sand media, effluvial disco, emergent Innana-revelling authors author shpielen about India's Chendamanagalam around Muzuris, Romans early penetration by Kerala, those remnant Jews come this earlier Mother of nations who write a contemporary's atmosphere of smothering new millenia's ceiling having those emigrants from Charax their ancient Persian Gulf community long ago improved as if to meet the morning in the cult of self reliance now banal in cultural evenflow wont to homogenize beliefs that burn with eyes through mine, hopeful in the dregs of creative ones that would be served upon the plate of experience and can adorn the table of inner-being.*************The squirrel with its greenstick vitality is so convincing. The leisure to her intensity, plain and natural power that it projects is only an increment of what people economize in a life anticipating the hunter and gatherering exploits of our bubble, bouncing, rhythm lease on time. I intuit sometimes months of emotional peaks. A switch is flipped, arcing as a limb to bliss in the light equalizing sun, it might be hard on me pulled out of better modalities orb, ...it might be emotionally I would not turn around in myself to get beyond its critical definitions. Looking at growth and life, an animal's reserve powers are netherly intension's surprise haulage in a fecund stream, water lush of water like sentient rain making its surface of gloss and lurp tarry more than light magnanimity. If trees as sky architecture show the sense of Mind in scaffolds of meaning, squirrels are their wind dancers, bring their seasons into the years past our door.*******************On the communal farm where Robbie Loco & I worked in the banana fields of a West Bank moshav (in the desert), worked with Shmuley, the Israeli manager, and his right hand man, a Palestinian named Fauwiz, out of that and nod to mnemosyne I breath the taste of a scrap of soap having made the bungalow apartment, provided in Histadrut compliance (their socialist Trade Union), look roseate and new as a place of respite through meaning and timeliness--redolent in days of merit leaving tokens if only mind sussing the angels of intensity and depth. My eyes scan the freeing space of its yards made dust arisen in chaparral styles--yards unawarded with contentments blanketed of security handicapped spaces--even look with my face just at the threshold of a pointy frond to a low cultivated date tree as my lips meet the fruit, the plum-like white film on it soothes like chapstick. For me the pyramids however unfathomably distant in man and woman's sun arresting sorrow its dust-pure heat complex lucidity has its persona religiosus blessed of resignation and woe the accretions of her neighbor, more inflating tears, the Wailing Wall like touching a spiritual satellite in my lure toward new patterns of history are visual theaters in the splendor of iconic maps.**************If you pick up on folks all inculcated in time--a machine's revolution incrementally filtrating energies puffing their ardors, a clang and peal, it blinks and murmurs--spanning in the commerce of contemporal reflection that one would see the tumbling effect of a life completely--piqued in wonderment the conscious food in its minutiae is as different from aspartame to cane sugar, the plate of experience set while observing cosmic individuations through these late decades like America's 1970s bird's eye view and our eyes waking-up, the 1980s technocracy and etherealizing, the 90s squint into everything before as a 2000 year old servant to fetch water again--may be thoughts whose amending purveyor understands the opportunity of its rhythm in the throes of this anywhen.************Proscribing your moral landscape, just because as children our minds rut deeply in what Justice might look like is become striven like your being approached to fulfill a person's ludens in this passion-play as a dance partner with your marionette ego, a licit purveyor to an infinitude of False Positives, wind and rustling caught-up spaces. The last time you gave yourself over to an elopement with fascinans blinking-glowering white black white black corridors mentating to plateaux, one closes his/her eyes to the observer and its depth. I'm changing through a oceanic concensus enumerating the vie of my trance egoity, becoming stuck to the glass of appearances that intimated the hard to know first few years of my waking state.****************You are the birth of the present and as ignorant of the other shore as l'enfant writing this book of mystery, an inquiry over selves of one's empirical carousel through every tear. His/her fate is sealed knowing the departure from Mother reality is immanent, appreciating and true. Thus gone at the crest of what-is. The nature of consciousness--our amniotic theoria--is not explanate through its content. Proscribing your moral landscape is become striven like your being approached to fulfill this passion-play as a dance partner with your marionette ego, a licit purveyor to an infinitude of False Positives, wind. The last time you gave yourself over to an elopement with fascinans blinking-glowering white black white black corridors mentating to plateaux, one closes his/her eyes to the observer and its depth. I'm changing through a oceanic consensus enumerating the vie of my trance egoity, becoming stuck to the glass of appearances that intimated the hard to know first few years of my waking state. *************Up past the Blackowitz family's rather Munster-looking house a little hillock at the threshold between houses mounted up more in execution than the slant ascension to our Laurel Grove neighborhood road. Here I played King of the Hill against spirit-bodies though I pretended the feeling I projected had been toward my intercepting a sense of give and play with everyday folks having moved into a usual decisor time-line when actually being among figures of recent depth (seemed apposite wandering our middle-class surroundings) leads me into the imprecations come prayers of meeting-the-ground and appearances. However possible to yield ever filtrating our within world as to reveal anything incremental to self-awareness, I get as far relieved of self-confliction down past Mr. Hall the clock-maker's digs, Mandy his dog is my witness. I felt my mind was perfectly available and therefore those values recording inanities could place me in a stream of perfect reason, or as I reasoned it, a kind of escape I badly needed.**************The White Nile part of this river wherein I rinsed my hands and had imagined vying for ablutional feelings while rowing out into one expanse of it is a taste of Egypt beyond the commerce of admittedly a Westerner's sense of their myopic political-religious adjuring or any mission to provoke cosmogonic meaning. In one of the ubiquitous documentaries showing the Victorian Nile region, one lone creature of thousands of species lured to it in the dryer seasons was a little ruffer-ruff bird as big as blackbirds we see here in Kentucky. Its feathery garment is mussed from the terrible Sinaitic environment close by, reprises its avian statement of presence in such a way that I feel Amos Oz's The Same Sea now in cultivated thought. The image of a Mother in her own going-away waiting machinations wants to hear from her son away then travelling in the Himalayas - she's languid of purpose in her crazy midnight muse - the Mother suffers and becomes a dialectician to the narimee bird sqawking "narimee, narimee... narimee, narimee" at the edge of night. That I live creatively by denying a striven world, only the dust and coarse devil-may-care apt little bird may seed the silent void of its swathe invitations to space. Beautiful and so present, her fight to exist may lead to this writ of imagination nuanced out of our human awe while accretions to my hope in its comely perch are actually transitory, sober and deliberate.

Disarm the World

The numinous is only unique in a triumph de langue, that wit and undone discovery, maybe an electrical interiorization of words to the evermore paradise, still as a scrutinized approach. Only so much while feeling "a fullness in sufficiency" (Nachmanides, 13th century). The world likened as source plodding source to materials' claimant, temporal tune in tune with nature's self, light of the room shedding over an expanse that I can taste of bartering breaths with the next bigger tabernacle of sentient greed. I clamor upon the shelves strung across the spell decisive library of Babel. No wizened thoughtclouds--hope down from up above--need awe of its impermanence any more inspiring.*************On my way home, down Bert T. Combs Mountain Parkway, already dreamt-over roads come streamy white and yielding strings knotting up at exits & entrances only mind of non-realistic vagaries where the automobile seems voluble of horizons, gulping at pitch-shadowy road-hugging forests, the first arc out of Daniel Boone National Park environs, I think a sense of nuance so florid along Wildcat Trail near Swift Camp Creek, is now inneravating me into two dimensions. The span all before me clutches me like light tincture fracturing across mercury and I'm ethereally sunk flat to ocean's bottom while a pure wintry sun's deflated albeit blissful fiery power as directions multiplying is fraught to relay meaning. If footfalling in the magnolian surfeit world feels ecstatic toward ape-like grappling choices for our eyesight, I hunt like a surf excusing mulches of seaweed into something greater gather-er-ing where we're proudland in assent to this otherness as a tear immersed into a well of sweetwater.**************The message is pop and worldview emboldened. More likely the graffiti implying a star-abscond earth but curious urban frontyard. Whole facades downtown sensualize in their project from the dust and heat. Hoping down from their superable space, we're taking an open view underneath, consider a preeminent crowd. Yonder wall, claim its white noise thrum, paint on it.*************So name naming, knowing those through thus and such accord when I sometimes easily watch individuation become promoted, makes nothing ameliorated but are the social barker's sparkle-feelings that would have had our self-promoter glad in crowd consciousness. I read in Wieseltier's Kaddish, "Prayer is a throb of individuation." To appreciate "prayer" with usual particulars, I wonder at all the pain building the myopic observer his suffocating weather avoiding gear while I sort out my Grandfather's recommendation "my psychology," he says, looking over his rheumy eyes, that one should enmesh a sense of meditation to the mummering floors of prayer. And who do I know? I imagine the few corners of my thinking populated with iconoclasms. Once of concretionally mounting fascinans, almost no one, just me in a room, in the morning of reason, I begin: "Who am I to look-on breathing this breath mentating the yeahs of my yeahs... Hee-nay-nee (I am present, Moses almost demurs), while the world is thus gone."***********Are you the kind of Television viewer who either (1) Laughs with your usual TV content (2) Laughs at its surfeit in culturally painful content (3) Enjoys the verifiable silent corner convalescent with homie nomenclature ad infinitum in your thoughtful lair (4) Stopped having reasonable seances over your convenient TV writer's psychology and/or (5) Becomes a reader to the images like yantras, and tries to be educational?************From moral triumph if only detailed in his profound speeches on racial tensions and emerging from that feeling respected, what this looks like, and even the specter of his beginning the office survives till now with human-ness, his good political game of teacherly leadership, to Chump Trump with his low-brow worldview--a bullshit direction multiplying. The philosophic bar is high while American individuation competes with jack-booted franchises, within and without, proliferating economies of the East, xenophobic Russians, Israel's transitory moment to moment cosmogonical protest elaborated in its partners in their belief systems' antagonism, wise Palestinians. Pretty sick to feel flightless from evil pending the demurrer of peace and his war looking like bad actors in extremis intensions so uncreative, unread in America... the forgotten thems-that-brought-you should have socialized the resource heavies by now.*************

Radios bleed in tunes only Ethiopian antennae pick up from an indefinite chorus.

"Why not tell me that now?" comes an acquisitive mind. Pretending sorrow feeds--tasting her political marrow. I think Patti Smith shoulda walked in after a first listening to Radio Ethiopia, then I'm feeling all cut up from Kabbalah reading at 14-15 yrs old, which was straight NY junk in vascular histories, our family's cenacle habituation in Kingston, but part of real plateaux after the certainties of resource and continuity Jewish migrations give my Mom's side something of an American dream. The dream is Orientalist and having done a little of the studies, our West grasping imperialist map took on North Africa in that light, Napoleon's ledger expressing the direction where lies the exotic... Under my red roundglass lamp with its convex viny designs, "ask the angels..." is lyrically proscribed. Yeah, asking, isn't this auditve shore really the dream in a room into whose reality informs me like I appeal to a hermeneutic naming of this great in-truth amorphous ekstasis in spirit? Plato's Forms: our experience of the Good is part of a better, broader, more elaborate Good. He suggests that there may always be a Form whose innovation is superlative as of things like Beauty, Beauty of only the incremental or all the slightly deliberate embossing of salience pointing-to-the-sublime making one Beauty the One withwhom all reserve is given,...maybe per the Creative Universe, the perfect Order, a surface. And that of emergence.*****************The numinous is only unique in a triumph de langue, that wit and undone discovery, maybe an electrical interiorization of words to the evermore paradise, still as a scrutinized approach. Only so much while feeling "a fullness in sufficiency" (Nachmanides, 13th century). The world likened as source plodding source to materials' claimant, temporal tune in tune with nature's self, light of the room shedding over an expanse that I can taste of bartering breaths with the next bigger tabernacle of sentient greed. I clamor upon the shelves strung across the spell decisive library of Babel. No wizened thoughtclouds--hope down from up above--need awe of its impermanence any more inspiring.*****************I wouldn't want to gainsay that I prevail in scrutiny, even mock certain Religious concerns, that I believe I pass-go an accounting through the project in self-worth. Believing anything makes nothing implicit in however measuredly that one could feel in reality elaborating over merit, swooping one up because ritual says "discover the world in you, meant for you, unto this or that fate." Gandhi meanwhile defines "religion" as self-actualization effort, so calling the kettle black is seeing your "I'm spiritual, but have nothing for religion," is about the most usual thing said in the most usual seeker. Be spiritual, by all means, a rational spirit because you damn well assessed thoughts, feelings and actions only moments before your reifying release notional over within or without a thus-gone existential garment. Knowing is merely numinous, enumeration, seeing oneself as patternic sprites or borrowers' calculus as beyond mundaneity. Spirituality is metricate, the plank we feel on our way back to beginnings, objective reality toward the bliss of diminution as answerable, invisive, you in amongst as small a crowd as just you. Aloft into spiritual perspective, I knew then G*d is meat and potatoes' sincerity, while folks were operating with distinction that the world is Other, tremendous, vying through musterion. I only thought the higher I climb the more likely I would come down land on my own two feet, knowing something of self-being through velocity. It would be a coup to the integrity redefining novel rigor in long distances elegantly strung of clarion survival confidences.*******************I like to devise conceptual grammar that has condominium with viable spirits whose defenselessness is under threat of anything outside an intelligible universe, thereso merely everything though we're beneath the subtle touch of a saint's diamond hand retrieving pronouncements of release from the well of our intensions. "Go down, Moses; Go down, Martin Luther King..." Lee "Scratch" Perry sounds out verse in eponymy: those whose message renovates One Drop consciousness, their message isn't striven on a razor's edge reception, rather those truth tellers elaborate pure consolation, our assent.****************Sometimes the UPS driver showed up while Hebrew school was going on, the class just before ours, and we'd be out in the foyer or more usually I'd be shadowy, waiting and enlisting yonder wall where I could lean, filtrating spiritual contentment in thinking-spaces where I'm suppose to be thinking heavily. At the top of the red-ashen carpeted steps into the Sanctuary I sit and tease gematrias, mathematize what it is the fuse of floor blemishes and designs to reify the niggun (tune) I hear from these cheder, bible students while seeing it in my will to visualize. Little bloops of pearlescent circles take-over at the fray of my eyesight lining-out over the tiles. Astroids-like if I could date it, electronic I mean, a quietude of pleasure if approaching an uncoined arcade game with its moment to moment pretend face of little iconic sprites. Once having alighted to downtown wanderings, living on Third Street, oriented toward campus and traipsing into the crossroads of the synagogue, I plant myself on the outside threshold to a never opened door to the prayer room (sanctuary / now the Maxwell Street facing corner of Joe B's building), look at the weather yielding painted bricks, and peer over the shoulder in this reader's visualization to that of a Russian-Jewish homunculi.***********************To the extent in which I've become accustomed to thinking my own thoughts, the disunity as pleasureable as only being open to them arising, I move toward work goals, once over a lot of years with my brother's and family business, now as only making a road into non-pecuniary, more temporal goals. "Feed your structure," Lee "Scratch" Perry reminds me, "sit-up and meditate," Gregory Isaacs cants. Stand in my confessed nerve kitchen, appraise necessary commitments in verily transitory metrics which are the ones met--there isn't anything but the repair of what all belches one into the present. Then through glossy-eyes in the blur of mantrams, I feel sure it was more important than I first thought... I had really looked forward to it all the while, paths' alumn--no path. Now there is more done even of integers' shadow, negativity has no places, nature is striven, but makes no agonism to the 3/4ths buried reality, hot icebergs speak and I feel. Salman Rushdie phrases it so nicely: "hot icebergs."*********************Elucidate the Forms, like Beauty of only the incremental or all the slightly deliberate embossing of salience pointing-to-the-sublime making one Beauty the One withwhom all reserve is given, maybe, till I feel time is what we need with expectation, potency, some half-thoughts as Mom's paper bouquet appreciates in the smiling ancestral character in its low-burning, cool-lights of our living room. G-d Bless that sadness. Love her heart of business beats, body's comportment across a blooming spirit's plank into telos. Seems to rouse a sense of vast patterns that one propitiates over her katheno-dreamland, journeys, by her hand and plan, by her lights, mama angels all emanate her love to concess its variable and become its crusader. Walls lure to dissolve and Ma computes Solitaire into a stow of memories, evenso got away with it now... imagining, smoking her True Blues, gnashing the night hours in eternal reasons to breathe and live up, Noatic dove of surviving lands, smoochy-whisperer in tunes of wholeness. Apropos her sensorial history, Mom said to me probably once, "Always turn a light on in the room you enter."****************What if incarnations were of ethos, not who we are, but what this life is become? That I could succour a future in as much as the actionable state to identity is easily discardable and our graceful reactions, we "do," moving into experience, toward a place of consciousness, moving into relationship. The Player admits to the soughing earthen tastes in puddles after the rain and breathes the weather's clarified air like he is the millionth in a million days through whose amnioses he sleeps as a dreamer.*******************Faith geometrifying (the Observer ) is the luck of tacking onto reality because your senses were as survival burgeoning as the subtleties in being reduced to truth. Our experiments in truth might be while crossing over to our one-world with the exacting journey as a bridge wakening far over, way over unto our presence, rhythm bubble bouncing moment to moment assent to the other as inevident from reason in continua as a mind potently immured into the veda inwit of midnights.*****************The enormity to our planet's repleting garments, rivers whose other side are so far widening it is unseen bleed while asking the angels why, with more thrush and plashes answering. Earthen wines transverse over the dermis of our wish to control the reins of transportation and transformation by enlisting its condominium of myriad beings through color seeking minds of transitory eyesight, the Ganges flows in holy swathes, surfeiting with plumes of humanity's temporal or spiritual exercise.****************We were in Tel Aviv getting visas to prevail inevitably under invisive Sinaitic suns, Middle-eastern toward African regions expressing the desert, then glare into dun earth shatterings that any one look can be captivated after splendid razor's edge star-shine. Finally there up against rock, pure dust and subterranean vaults my brother and wise sourcerer in all things beat Robbie Loco

& I had mounted and slogged into the Giza plateau. Thus gone and operating in redolent blankness through antiquations underneath one of the three pyramids just past the Sphinx, close in the realm of Metatrone (the "angel upon the throne") or as in one musterion's case, god of writing, Thoth in Egyptian complement writes down this dreamscape--and then I'm the only purveyor to these ole brown shoes, writing the break I get from reality--where heavens of heiroglyphs are superable in stone around us somewhere but not immediately, their raven-like ab'ra k'dabra ancient liturgies still register in a feeling nigh in troglodytic sub-dune chambers. I give away my last circa '86 Kentucky-bank clickety click pen to some school children on our way back to Cairo, near the pyramids but here we're aboard Adel's taxi... and have come now to a vanquished tributary to the slightly further away continuity of the White Nile alighting to an ancient stone bridge, that and an ultimately rarefied and beaten few dwellings, shacks and pure silence in the color of given-up, devoutly plain reaching infinities. "The castle of my eternity" in pharaonic Egyptian, all mantram beautified, is "en het enyeh.***************"Dare a guy in the Japan eye" (or in Rasta syntax an ad infinitum "I"), toasts Lee "Scratch" Perry, is what I think I'm hearing in a line out of his album Message from Yard. But as it may be the case it helps imagining our human origin's habituation sometimes living in caves which are good for visualization where Paul Theroux describes the Yungang Caves in China. In their Buddhist metricate already having erased beneath the generations using them in their varied project doing it by digging past further into the mountains have plenitudes of surfaces of a people's history sundered by the warrant of destruction by the Chinese Red Guard... the malefaction would have been Bamian in scope all told. The amorphous release any spirituality might allow for must have seemed to be particularly upsetting as some "thing" to the mission minded who inevitably bury its otherwise inspiring ethos. Into all our soul eyes, the windows of our deep-aside, there's a ground zero to the florid incarnations in whom one feels one is meant to be. Don't you know the crowd in your awareness is where you lie prone, as if into a magestic tree's ground layering grasp you are facing certain limits, open to them and facing down into their tall grasses? You touch the earth, alight in momentary touch-downs, but perhaps our existential affecting weight is to presume what it is to seize the throne of our fascinans, its media, you, the reflecting tableaux.

TV's Irreal Tea

Television impels the media-advised with narrative which confers different certainties to the viewer's intensional stance, eye contacted, dialectically realistic in values evaporating into our time's spirit, its spell. All ask what is it intoned and awash to spectral shores as content predeceases an unpromiseable episteme (self-knowing) while the pop mythologizer demurs to stillness of even image? Silence written on Devil's Island prison colony walls in Papillion is verily enforced to put a name on a spellbound purveyor of silence as Henri Charriere would have it. A silence in receipt to familyroom's dusty corner, I suppose, has everything anew in one bubble amassed of 10,000 to that of a past world, which I study, glare and muse over, maybe analytically suspired in a crawling meditation, plastique, where I may use one word for it differently for triumphant senses, standing in the rain.*****************Reflect Krishnamurti's idea as I read last night that meditation is to get control of the mind and then go beyond. With that goal I'll have to accede to his other recommendation, that being constituent of teachers who may orient me--my confinement in seeing a lumpful testament, all my teachers of one purpose--yet are still authoritarian--and is one thing also to get beyond. For our challenge being reduced to truth and not its gratified decisor, I suppose, has everything anew in one bubble amassed of 10,000 to that of a past world, which I study, analytically suspired in a crawling meditation and where I may use one word for it differently ...I submit in the end it would still be better with a teacher. The Talmud says buy them: the what of me absorbed in the who of you, acquisitive nature peradventure my luck in lightness of being, that the mind asks to elipse in resource--understanding--identities as objects to our second nature. Coltrane by his saintliness and pulpit in blues delivery, gets my propitiation...I have something to tell him!****************Sometimes hopeful in the bright meadows over loamy correspondence, Gandhian sociation to my thoughts, thought-world, appreciating some one thing, rather more likely the discovery in moment to moment the least of distraction not detaining my mind, while the rest of the day lies throttling with acuity, feeling level, circularly thoughtful, even tight. Though I imagine this mind mostly like Miles could portray in Kind of Blue, or just Miles Runs the Voodoo Down ...survivor-like funky as my radionuclides, the what of me absorbed in the who of you identity of acquisitive nature peradventure my luck in lightness of being, that the mind asks to elipse in resource, things of second nature. Wakefulness first becomes a world immersing us, explanate in some encounter within promising shores of security, only to do what most of what our communication gland wants to do, the makings of sight.*************I'm a pagan: the thing about something rather than nothing, anticipating the reflection in I & Nature revealed till I'm ultimately, naturely content to ebb homeward. I'm a heathen, oh yass, in stalwart halls with a sense of deep encounter the synagogue anthropos contests and wonderment addresses every equalizing notion of the flow from security. Elie Wiesel's Grandfather turns from his own bard finding its way to our myth psychologies, predicts rivers of blood. History is blood and its body palimpsest iterates as change, esteemed from the fount of its magic. I knew then every move in praise and hope all around me is the congregate's spiritual possession in Formlessness.*****************Nonduality may well be to reckon in between the uncreated, equalizing observable reality, hopeful conscious void--perhaps an ironical impersonal En Sof complexion, the Endless--and a sense of our subjective mithering, identity mis-adorning, whose content delays with scrutiny in self-being to a conference in awe. You may understand an illustration in morning chimera cast back-upon silent coves in your night, then halfway to a day's common perspective, artifacts of dreamstate can't any longer populate consciousness; it detaches from meaning as the principal of reason lies prone to an interval of twilight before the two threads of the horizon are distinguished. You are the place unarchitectureable behind your eyes. Observable reality has its light, sound and feeling purveyor assent as her usual give and play, monadic, her eternity's would-be dancer yields equally blind toward all things of the uncreated. The streak of mummering lightbulb across the room enters one eye then the other through grappling nerves, true in its digitable warm centering ambition, taps my scelera, dips into surface anonymity.********************You are the place unarchitectureable behind your eyes. Observable reality has its light, sound, & feeling purveyor assent as her usual give and play, monadic, her eternity's would-be dancer yields equally blind toward all things of the uncreated. The streak of mummering lightbulb across the room enters one eye then the other through grappling nerves, true in its digitable warm centering ambition, taps my scelera, dips into surface anonymity.*****************Measuring what tarries once by haunting bookcases either in proximity to my whiling away over Zamyatin's Short Stories at home (he's the guy to influence the writing of 1984), then studious rather bookish drowning of time's freeing blur, are moments of good conduct espying an enumeration to Amos Oz's A Tale of Love and Darkness & doing customer service Micro-Computers, imagining I hear a beat language in a rather hypnotic paradigm, bowed at Mom's knee, relishing she'd been these live-long slumbery-days' conscience, where the stress for everyone had been hilarious, spending monies, and courting our expanding family--cook-outs, pizzas, local restaurant feeding us in our epicurean ambition--our ordering, reordering, and RMAing the order from the computer exquisitely designed, but had a requested sound-card upgrade, her techne's exotic resource transmogrifies all these gentlemen's and Ms Mary's mind, giving the players their world-wide travelogue, giving them a cult of self-reliance.********************The end to every bridge crossed over toward transcendental awareness may also be moments of all things possible seemingly, confidently, as we become the first to join the years soughing past our front doors. In orange refraction ponderously swathe into vanishing spaces, earth's shadow painted upon dust, exquisite dust suffused in meditation's tea, is a rite of your tea-drinker's appositive over thoughts of Krishnamurti only living just down the road, there in Ojai, Ca. from Chaim Potok, whose Camp Ramah is also situated in these precincts. The conscious map works like this: Tradition however unscheduled solicits inner-scrutinies via Potok's fantastic images in the less literalist Conservative Judaism's lens on its history written in his coffee-table style book called "Wanderings." More intrigue than fact, but major outlines of Jewish continuity are sorted out, while this sense of belonging comes through my Mother's universe-bisecting heart. So, Chaim Potok is primary from cinema to analytical meditation and this Judaism I like to claim. Its Jewish reality comes from Mediterranean roots, my Mother's side. Her Mother was from Ekaterinaslav, on the Black Sea and part of Russia. And this is where Madame Helena Blavatsky originated. She is the spiritualist handing over the reins to a young Krishnamurti to the Theosophical Society, whence his Truth is a Pathless Land gives us exemplar complement to self-realization without "mission." Thus a way to populate Eastern European antecedents and reach into Andhra Pradesh as if seeing the place matriculated in Blavatsky's Esoteric/Exoteric Writings, remembering it so as that I could imagine the literary artifact when realizing a better established sense of my studies is at the crest of a contemplative note that Krishnamurti comes from there.**********************In The Marketing of the Mystic East, Gita Mehta relates to the reader what the cult of self-reliance can feel like in life-exquisite dust, your prayers no different than that mess, a couple, man and woman, Westerners, whose Orientalism brings them to an illusory rite, maybe a weird confidence between the two. Their spritual mess has them phenomenalizing likenesses. They're on a bed in some however Indian remote hostel, shrouded travellers yet intensifying, eternal solar mirage-rich summer in its design becoming customary to them in these regions... His face reflects in his hand-mirror, which she sees while back to back with him. He sees her mask of all the microcosm to unnameable fusions of mind and emotion, personality and racked behavior wards, and they are in dialectics of their live-long playerhood into antiquation. He even rallies over the invisive glue of her mother in the tearful dreamer standing up in his eyes. Bob Marley could have soothed thru hymnody, Cry to me, down by the still waters. But had we taken the turn the author achieves, the present isn't met with the continuities of just any ancestry, but the turbidity of a forest of life underfoot.**************Stagger into the gates of the forest, careen into its dank floor tasting of the juice of being present. Everything shows the might in self reflection accumulating there, and the shadows of just-because become its capacious smothering. To paint accounts of glad mind nomenclature is nothingness little iconographed through appositive proprioception with clamored over, funk-eliciting glass of inner-tissues.

Mother Night

A letter is a symbol and is written as black fire on white fire. I hope this term I use is cold correct; I can see it in linguistics through anthropological sensitivities. I heard the term used in a documentary from a find in Israel to that of an Alef-Bet chart whose cosmogony is from some 2500 yrs back: it is called an a-b-c-tary. The spelling may be wrong too - I haven't actually seen this conceptual term written out. There had been at least one (likely more) so-called madrassah (a yeshivah-like institution) withwhom its students, while in Arab lands, Syria, so Arabo-Jewish heritage is certain, divines a type of school inwhich the learning schedule may rally in media as fecund as the sands where these students gather. I have read about the ubiquity of students writing their lesson into the tabula temporality with fascinating lateral recitations also written sometimes with pitch & tree sap. My romantic reason to abide as an observer, as if on one side of a text, side, side, in front, front or back, is the verily printed letters of the Hebrew Alef-Bet upon the facing wall, by the blackboard, in whose blind care our dear rabbi could've celebrated my meditation on them. An a-b-c-tary indeed, letters transmuting to thought values, so then are the places I'd jump from as to reach the beginning of a box of time capturing the legs of antiquation as if they've put me there on the ground. The Hebrew Alef-bet here on a decorative plaque. Mom gave this to me, enjoining symbols' journey & flowering in antecedents out of earlier first civilizations, while I begged off from the one with its 10 Commandments. The judgment mounting exotericism seemed more easily a thing to look past for the more averring spaces etymologizing letters for thousands of years written in desert lands, its soft changeful cosmic dunes, the more usual earth's media.

Whence the things of waking state evince the next move one makes, they keep coming till they are over. In the pocket behind your florescent thoughts, hiding with a contract on exile if for only a moment, one is barely invisive on continuity to remain yet enthroned of the diminution. Thought is self-preservation, an angst of your bizarre wisdom, where you go when they get you in the valley of decision. In I & Nature conducing its observer through her rain-dance unloading upon your wanton earth, the tear abundant skies when thoughts lure make all the blue-brown-clear-green veins fecund, give back all it can into our deep aside to remind the saved and the drowned, come to the ocean's other shore.***********Das Ich. The first out of the door; the assent it would be of our exile while never looking back. The self redounds in a plurality of impermanence. The bullshit we call you. The identity of only dream-throes of sand's sojourn. What it means to you that somebody's done something somewhere and it matriculates as the years surface, sun eluding around a horizon, moon 'pon its inky parturient.************Parkers Mill Rd is a complex intermedian through dreams and the realistic invision to corrugate directions meant more usually en linear. Out past Bluegrass airport I'm amid a trek upon a really old Schwinn 10 speed I bought from my neighbor after his chil'runs were grown... I thought it was a late 60's or definitely an early 70's model. My brothers & I had reason to stomp around the community out behind the airport; a friend having grown up there let me in on some esoteric eponymy, but nothing gives. By the time Little Texas Christian Church is imminent just off of Fort Springs Pinckard Rd, I hear, I thought, the boom of a gun shot - and the sense of my own demise felt too easily musing as I ride into these spaces gravid for a libertine wakening of anonymity. Right then an old looking field house, whose porch is suspect in its bare guffaw has me in wonder, zooming away from it. Ducking and imagining my evasion I wail around back toward the airport now in its audible reach, airplanes revving and there's some kind of surviving hustle and bustle. Then I realize - my front tire had gotten hot and blown out from a weak spot - thwack, thwack, thwack, no worries, no gat.************Thoughts once moved stars in a low sky blanketing immediacy with painful generality, repentful dreams, they restore the wishes worth the content of a langue de aerobatism, but now I'm cursed to the fractures of never to be trodden paths of wisdom and intuition. I want to know what it is that makes one spiritual in lives of temporal dreigh-- the heavy & curtained wont of plainly colored light--skies whose wist is changed into the more usually till now unadjudged abyssally freely lent world, where tethering episteme to nothing different than populist purveying of a world to come becomes the heavy-load of the culture we share. This is a Yo Evam Vedic day, Bob Marley lyricked, the One who feels it knows it. Or to a primary Rasta egalitarian poesis Marley's adage with it, of it moment: Who the cap fit let him (her) wear it. The Sanskrit means, Who it is that is Knowing.*************Upon making it back to our neighborhood, our walk, Susie & I, just concluding after coming from the adjacent Glendover suburbs, the sprawl line of our street reaches a house of certain changes for me, though it is just out of sight at the top of the court. Many times I would be spent and fulfilled at once as this street unfurls before me after having walked from UK's campus, WRFL particularly, usually enjoining the night and a phenomenon of dreamstate with neighbors all in assent to anonymity or sleep. If tea leaves could be discerned in the next morning's brew, this spirit of buildings, trace exhaust, sparsely trodded night-streets, few cars zooming by with late hopes of dissipation, trees referencing their sky architecture, only this Rebel Rd could become the navel of the world I get to know. "Kabbalah" stutters in my thinking in many a night going through this Lexington corridor, Nicholasville Rd, especially the words "notary public" at a house in the last stretch to my domicile. "Notarikon" is the word I mused layering the rhythm in my gait and the signage of the advertising of "notary public." Notarikon is the meditation technique to suppose new language by tying the first or last letters of words into a sequence to discern the exegetical goal with its new corollary word now derived.*****************Just imagine the easement one manages if shadows of rescue in sense content avails in our self consciousness--a blue slumber--then in assent to the gradins of observer to the dream of one's reprieve is a taste of night behind it. In every one moment we've given back the next; night breathes in the morning and one experiences its threshold again to begin. Impermanence in the chosisme void (thingism) where we're washed upon their shores, a world more done with us as everything, a diluvian consistency - the world is greedy with surprise in her instantaneous arrival than one could pretend it matters. I love the opened window, starry splintering thoughts of folky (Russian) conservations through the discreet guffaw of late 19th century, Rainer Maria Rilke's window, and closed painful contemporary opinions on the tremendum & certain intercession.****************On a project to Jewish meditation I'm saying it like I hear it, true to a theophany my brief study toward a bar mitzvah, then other things, is coupled by enlisting just what it meant if I kept Jah 'pon a rather J. Pollock impression to the tabula spiritus. In only a few ways into that world of certain Universal-thoughts, antecedents as the purveyors matriculate their sensorialist kabbalism, throughout reinventing memorialized spaces in those histories, there are places to feel where chronometry isn't any longer denied. Bernard Lewis discovers the acuity of provincialism in its lucky theoria with the Jews in the Pale of the Settlement, usually Russian lands deigned for their marginalization. "There was no lack of problems to require the attentions of a Redeemer." So one may imagine religion with the revenue of pathos, and thus as a resource sensitivities illumine that a Source recounts and redoubles one's hope. Bernard Lewis, whose book From Babel to Dragomans, writes while not performing for the Conservatives (that he's been blamed as such) levelling the West in its profligate wanting-to-go-find his Maker, easily is contested with the East's or now Eastern European's rather kathenotheist Indian feeling, Unto those who will need you, O Creator, seek me here in this condition.*************Forty ibex are sung about in an ancient prayer illustrating Shavuot also known as the Pentecost which is biblacy of Sinaitic myth idealizing the Spirit of G*d descending into the wilderness encampment of the exiling Hebrews. Temporal things are generally the found artifacts in the Jewish sanctuary and knowing this early enough for my calculus to embrace Nature in relationship, always the mention of animal characters would satisfy an issuant earthen cult. For instance, Balaam's ass spoke famously to deter the sometimes prophet sometimes antagonist to the Israelites on his way to exercise doom for the Israelites amid the desert Midian lands. I read the story in Flavius Josephus' book Antiquities of the Jews, though it appears in our Torah as a parshat, portion, to be studied as part of a yearly sequence in reading our Law. My book is written in the late 1800s--the translators promote that it is what we might call hagiography from the original Greek. These long-suffering animals, however, catch my fascinans in a dance of ludite anonymity, refusing, as if, even in our technology of words (or in the case of Balaam's ass, the bearer of man's uncertainties stunts in a dialect of warning), while these creaturely companions obviously prevail by their continuities to a history freed from the recordable egoity of histories. Perhaps, the student of a solid 3000 years of humanity in their example of a civilization's longevity, Egyptian, & social antecedents in and out of its climate of power is one who transmutes the King's Highway to a sense of eternal migration and eternities of proud land whose language of self-promotion can be read in her pugmarks of libertine inheritors.************Bernard Lewis discovers the acuity of provincialism in its lucky theoria with the Jews in the Pale of the Settlement, usually Russian lands deigned for their marginalization. "There was no lack of problems to require the attentions of a Redeemer." So one may imagine religion with the revenue of pathos, and thus as a resource sensitivities illumine that a Source recounts and redoubles one's hope. Bernard Lewis, whose book From Babel to Dragomans, writes while not performing for the Conservatives (that he's been blamed as such) levelling the West in its profligate wanting-to-go-find his Maker, easily is contested with the East's or now Eastern European's rather kathenotheist Indian feeling, Unto those who will need you, O Creator, seek me here in this condition.**************There are a thousand years to walk through into these temporal hallways alighting as our actionable state, all-movement concommitant to sound's theatre layering audition with the tastes of black tea & orange honey savoured with attention to Spring's Grace consumed & metabolized like our sun over cool waters, whose reflection may relate to the over 90% of alien animicules making up the body human, after the menu of its purport & reprieve is burned leaving us with one thing to do.*************I watch what I see, but feel like a spirit's invisive pogo in a map of only my prone space, an outline of life's project always at the gradins' cosmic interior. When I walk under street-lined blanketing canopies, my arms become limbs and my feet grasp at each footfall just as my hands: I have four hands whose lure of reality roils out of reach, its Sisyphian rock is revealed in our stream of life as tarrying incarnations. Jumbly reasons to wander, ole brown shoes fold akimbo under me and the world iterates histories of angels placing their crystaline hand 'pon my dense brow.*************So how are we different than our lepid monarcas, reading highway's map, or complexions of shade in city sinuendo homeward? She incarnates then moves like scattering waters' wash to clean the streets of footfall, the day's give & play that opens the nerve of migrations' great destiny. Butterflies emerge from nature, poignant in tall trees, alight in blooms of timely contest who can't demur, because it is seasonal, recordable, cycling, are the shadows of some first door where her sky's Castor and Pollux suppose our waking state, upon the wing among leaves of grass, the conveying North out of the belly-button South.

A Reader's Digest daliance in Meditation

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.