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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The mile upon its approach

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

Doniger's Tea-maker

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