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

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

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

TV's Irreal Tea

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

Mother Night

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

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

A Reader's Digest daliance in Meditation

The clasping guffaw opening alligator is Mom's sense of beauty, so beautiful. The heart rock my brother Mark Lakes may have found in eastern Ky somewhere. The pocked stone is one I brought back from the West Bank, Ma'ale Ephraim--it looked like one in every couple hundred with a former biosphere vapor emitting botanical life giving it a superlative pebble look. Our image to the antecedents on human sorrow come from The Last Two Million Years, a Readers Digest encyclopedian book--a yeah to dreamtime somehow. Human beings have trod devising their earthen senses probably in our present state for maybe 100,000 yrs. There are alligator species who have little changed in 200,000,000 yrs. The dragonfly has taken to the skies for 350,000,000 yrs. I'm awed to observe dragonflies just as when my first memories conduce moments in the natural world of our "lot" in Texas. Swamplike, its chocolate, fecund, ronching, Summery invitation to my disappearance into a void of wilds to enjoin living creatures freely expressing whiling-away where my intuitions make me feel I am closer to that then, different & a geist to its ephemeral reality now. Over at our shop which breadwon while we hope & endure the place of our making, my family's business, all those years, entailed butterflies & dragonflies around overgrown spaces amongst the building's creaturely isle of mute reprise to their anonymous season's arrival. I notice dragonflies zoom & pivot across the newly painted blacktop on occasion and knowing there is nothing of a subjective need that makes the bizarro redolent taste as the high that really lasted for the ecstatic insect, it intensifies in definitions of its ill-certain victuals, it's weird the animal would prefer its toxic trip. Literally drawn there, the nitrogen from petroleum only stimulates her, while flowers with their same appeal just past the drive grow in our courtyard with the buried cat from Rebel Rd.

Intrigued Fascinans & My Open Nerve

Mnemosyne ambitions were my earliest incitement unpacking cloudy language, feeling everything ignorantly & stupendously walking around our Austin neighborhood styling myself an ideas' key collector. Now I'd wonder over conscious props & models of contentment. Memories work with one and against reinventing one's vessel enlisting presence over bubbling, ululating inexact confidences, flowing ideas of eternity. But then I thought I was stained with material things so imminently that what I set down earlier things-of-second-nature are energies remarkable through their sense culminating an interior me not quite thus-gone. If one visualizes what it is that feels and sees from within as self-being a shapeless mass in toto would be her senses in an amoebic sprawl. Thoughts are written in corporeal auditive horns blowing like the suspiring players tasting sounds of aerobatic fate. If dreams come from a dream organ and places in the world were at our beck, we'd see ourselves end to end, feet & legs in slight bowing bands reaching to our fingers from arms twining from an ever supine torso. Their enormative margins--in senses--poised upon our lucid holed up thought furniture are exceptions in appetite from reflections in a golden eye.*************I don't know you through an existential garment still worn amid the crowds of the bazaar marketing magical thinking. A god of the mind's eye blinks at collisions with impermanence whose cosmogonical reference is as elite as your wake into twilight painted of morning glyphs and redoundingly star-deferent horizons. Your meditations draw truth out of the same silent evanescence as mine. But your concerns, martial thresholds, plain ideation are triumphantly on offer. You are telling all of this-world's ascendents to wont & source how you should be discoverable in your condition. The who of an apex resolve upon the moral landscape makes inner-awareness the space of upheaval so that observable reality be joined. Notice the pronoun.**************I don't want life as we know it, so much sadness whence escape becomes the smallest of sense comforts. The potency of its way adorns the moment when the two threads black and white can be distinguished in the blue of earth's sky dome. Healing will be our education no matter what. One certainly knows what her mind demands, hopes for, where we feel unique promises, that intercession should happen. This is what confidence says of suffering between the ascendent & meaning.*****************I think Susie is a better critic to however mindless a praxis in expression I mile than she feels suited to argue. I feel I'm of worker ant egoity in this porch-sitting technocracy and she's one alluding to a bit more elegance with wings. Though now it's cold & I sit in this family room chair of my few lives spent, I want to absorb the rather glad escalante' light she senses, a world of Two scattering the kind orange light beams caught up in our ryddim bouncing, this world endures as coal to her luminescent sapphire's warmth. Our birth months are the same and I ask ole brown shoes what makes May lives fecund in Spring in the green of emeralds with splendor universalizing like self-same minds in slaving for wont to a coming drought to this-world's everyday waking signature, the Sun of lethal beauty, with Susie's smile in complement candle-light, her wink with hope, her night of new stars.*******************It isn't a kind of prayer in a traditional sense that I threw against the wall of my confidence for change. I realize some architecture in layer after layer of pieces to an internal conference on-going and that I am only meeting the event of one kind of inquiry on things with potent language awash--like warped pallets of words asleep--meshing over the stuff of mind as it concretizes with living burying another distance strung in living.. It only feels like parsimony in a long dialect on the pondering edge of consciousness rather at its imperfect embankments, and now meditations are imprecating in plain wishes.******************Look here at the world with its attempt on our thought values. Such an imperiled space to relent perspective, maybe so that one gets to the repair of relationship if only in your eyes turned to plants. Heated conditions of forced thoughts emplace--as though I've evolved--this more reasonable consent I have to have you change my mind. I thought closely in my Krishnamurti feet without having the contentment in being introduced to his non-guru-ism yet through what I heard on Rastaman Vibration. Bob Marley & the Wailers work it out saying: "They stab you in the back And they claim that you're not looking. But Jah have them in the region In the valley of decision." I heard this sensitivity in his poesis having what is terrible manifest as only the mechanics to portray a behavior ward of minds through One-drop music as the rigor or atrophy in one believing his/her thoughts make implicit the thinker's mission in a hopeful condition, (Jah's grace). Yass, I will, I do, & I want to better imagine things off-set in the valley of "indecision," and then having to rein in the pain of one's chattering mind whither to assume half-thoughts are meaningful enough. I think I can do this. Man.******************Kenosis means self-emptying. I imagine a lament with the accretion of awe from fear. Or just a kind of awe, really... Similar to catharsis but one is translating an Experience wholly incisive by her own essense. It is amazing how certain athletic feats make sense just per the competitive ego conquering by real physical chronometry. So, your own experience is the sort of compelling attitude, while the player is the artist of composure and kenosis. The competitions' ground are her ends of self, an apex observation she plays from the least integrated player's rhetoric on practice and her ingenuity to have the pack consent with harmonic moves.*****************Imagine, an unconscious sense to a harmonic background, the ryddims of things brought to light, light shed of paints making splendid continua from those elements now come as Source or Enflamed Fascinans to that of a tree, the sea, our moon, the horizon's mountain theater, are all meter to song.*****************Okay, so I felt down & out once and those who have been as humbled know that hell isn't made for them either of total concord for this moment's just escape, though you can bet it's not hard to imagine you felt a similar reserve like that then too. Socially not up to the salience behind the other not as endeavored to feel the change one needs, academically a world isn't becoming a figure of success where I could rely on personal victories, as a kind of parsimony these effacements easily assail the usual impinging world. Because I observed in rather healthy or plain lives going on around me, when those who have a pattern of getting into places of their making, those personalities will change toward real confidence. They don't have to pretend, or as I absorbed, one self-reflecting over the manufacture of his/her motivations, here are really big life-events feeding their concerns so poignantly adorning their ground of being. I realized if dynamic is what I wanted to become, it isn't only by my hand that I change, but it is recognizing the sure grace people can have without their minds in the way of their mind.******************Probably in my last year of elementary school is when I opened-up to the likes of Dylan or Marley. This Greatest Hits of Dylan's leaving me in solitarian content to his personae, that his being embraced by formidable crowds isn't somehow part of who I answer for, receiving and comtemplating real writing & poetry, that music, had been proffered for my remote inclination. I was only a boy and with whom he was speaking I rationed an imagination of salience. In the place of my making, my brother's room come mine, eyes flush against Mark's rider of his air-brushed flying carpet, two-toned black on yellow, turned away and wayward where dreams allude, I see Dylan also facing in contest to the myriad wrest of his sound. A Semitic purveyor upon Arabesque designs moving through swift aerobatic paint, while the dragon also on the wall lurches back into stillness to the in-between spaces, family machinations are only imperiled by green youth siphoning adult plain-ness of resolve. He's turned toward a world, alighting to more self-reflection from a translating face to that of musterion than his cadence spanning into this room, enjoining that he would be actually present. Which is a goal of his sounds-arriving.

*****************Presence claims drifty models and my getting caught up in redeeming attention, I'm of a piece. My eye plainly cuts open onto an inventive nature, as slate-air emptiness arraying in suspiring light discussant of clarion air. I'm Escher's Encounter, true to the bridge ambler purveying this and that toward splendid grass, over haunts of stream thrushing, a caprid meant to stammer upon his crossing. Or as it's drawn, the shadow opposite figure--the other inviting--and the all-lighted apposite one, union of turbillion meeting thoroughgoing of selves.

If you've never heard it before, Karen Armstrong truly discovers the Bronze, Iron Age G*d of Israel and the space He would've occupied in musterion thought.

This was my Zadie's scale. I know I have a 60 yr old pair of snub-nosed pliers around, and probably an even older pair of little cosmetic scissors which belonged to him, my Mom's "Daddy." Zadie is Yiddish for Grandfather. He and my Grandmother, Yetta Goldberg, whom none of my brothers knew nor I (though Mark was born and coddled), came to the US as infants, their families yet to enjoin this future, their immigration is right around 1900-02. I had the passport of the soon to be palimpsest Czarist Russia, Zadie's Father's, Russian as xenographia met in better than a century ago crises come bureaucracy and erasing what is beneath. Names like Veroba and Gubanko and Kasden are our patronymics, curious like this one of Ukranian ancestry in its ironical way. "Gubanko" means fat-lipped. And it may be one of many Jewish names meant to deflate the censuses in those days and before sometimes intensionally depicted the humility of being counted, so "drek" and "sheist" and perhaps Fat-lipped laterally gets imputed. I may be gratified to imagine an askesic purveyor of distances strung if only out of the gaze of reified Fu Manchu masks, these translators of a biologic clock greedy for the sun.

Ale 8s and Coomer's Ridge

Some late summer's day likely serving an irony of physical success, several years ago, I drive out to Red River Gorge intending on reading Kerouac's Big Sur in view of my version on a poignant spiritual exercise. Going through the entrance past Dessie Scott Orphanage, I serpentine through the Park till Coomer's Ridge looks to gainsay any further trail intrigue, so here like a half a dozen other times I amble down the ravine toward the creek. The ground beneath these feet in its saddling contours is my proud land, all in my ryddim-bluey heart pumping confidence wrought to bang a gong in Kerouac's defense of slacker or beat latitude. I sit at attention upon Corbin limestone, a rock of peak forest anonymity, thick carpeting leaves and organic detritus furl and keep the observer in sojourns to its human-empty haunts. I read a few pages, sweating on them, adorning caricature of these symbols in poesis meant in diffusion toward the bliss of insects buzzing raucously in fractal woody environs, try seeing it behind my eyes...probably do. On the way up I had inched through one leg of the trail with an eye like elephant trunk dragging on any exception the tapestry ground might appropriate, wanting the same hypnoses, that of leaves and inanimate chicken-feet pine impressions, rocks furrowing, the occasional ant colony machinations, anything and everything having made the pressed earth rather like a canvas lent to my senses, my leisure at its command to any article of thought and providential of mineral to my blood in the looking glass of clay.*************Food as culture becomes appetite appreciating at the same kind of consternation as renunciation behavior having diet explanate victuals reimagine a rather probably coarse intra-mantram growl arising as bite, bite, bite, gnash, savour, savory sensual intentions all floating upon the valley of our tongues. Some change in my senses filter exteriorizing bombast, the sharp edges to things perhaps actually not in the way, otherwise discoverable whither I feel I am running into them, the world pining to hit these shores, keeps coming, then it's over...come over swaggering into my consent, implicit that I am more of it than in recess ever reducible to it. When I eat, my food tastes rich, fecund by its premium, altogether too much, though I'm impeded by little other than fullness. Though Holy days have brought me into chance ritual in fasting, I vaguely assented while conscious goals on agreement with macrobiotic continuity make my eyes turn to plants, and wonder what it is that will eat me in the world to come.***************There have been times when in developing expression I knew whatever chimes resolute out of the top of my head that that is become my destiny. I want to see this experiential goal in the dark. A world incumbent as having elicted all its cost and content from a chthonian long-distance run, now with shadows newly embracing from the reach of my blue slumber. The darkness that's come to light is inverted--light streamy and coyly roseate--since daydreams made midnight into its clarion continuity to the sounds arriving with anti-clasms and softness to my thought-world.****************Home away from home is easily here on this road where I've come to live and work over the years since my youth described by its green adducement in making a cross town small trek, during those halcyon days, while only now I'm just down the street from our nineteen-eighties family destination. Into the 90s I come to live there, up the street, with my brother and his two thuggee sons. and may have had some impact on those boys, the place of their making & their world enduring then, because I had a clear, clear to me, goal in meditation, my brand of magisteria bringing visualization into some kind of consequence. "Touch the Earth" is a fantastic analytic piece (as it works for me) toward reconstituting good intentions acceding to power-spots, my habitation in chronometric gathering, touching the earth, the earth in how she chose to meet my footfall then. My body makes an allowance for our theoretically animated earth, pretends it reaches for me as I mellow prone on her yield to space. I would have the lighter of my two nephews walk across my back and legs after getting home from WRFL--I had been a DJ--while I had expression developing there, my feet generally brought me to and from this sociation & my transition from music awash ploying exoteric culture to that of an intimation of Jazz--a handful of really narrative rich artists I liked--crowns my thinking and was to interpret the good luck in an amazing cultivation of resource and source to it. My only hope to imagine how abject and vulnerable wherein a mind devolves had been to bring into contemplation for those boys as all things possible through the ear, that Bob Marley would have given a compassion and humanity not so evanescent to our bullish appreciation toward change.********************I would feel spiritual in starry accretions to antiquation, yielding to inventive memorial signatures of earthen habit and its barely belched troglodytic ralliers, that the conscious crowd has sky plurality berobed garment arighted in the existential, where I can shout in whispers that I am fecund, awake. But what sounds doctrinaire toward self-awareness is likely provenant only seeing once how I'm delivered to the shores of all-things-possible dreaming of truth and my pathetic, very human, exile from histories. Meanwhile as a need for community arises, thoughts on kinds of teachers may well easier lend to parsimony on this value-pained egoity, erring to remand who it is I glean the will to ask questions, and think on the huge regard for mindfulness outside the prise of this or that path with its issuant rites to codify Source. Ever-evolving in as much as a spirit is energetic over the auspices to observable reality, while enlisting our confidences is within the actionable state, having eschatons or promises Other Worldly can not prosper beyond an elaborate presence. One is tied to the sublime if the sublime endured is its purveyor transformed through the impermanent record.****************The being greater than that which nothing greater can be conceived? No, because one asks Who goes there, in case that bleary wind presages a real being, that being with whom your security remains inventive. A conscious prop thus-gone to the traducive Creative Being only because one hadn't asked more rarely, What is that or how does that happen? To whom, indeed. Remember the psychological value in the mirror of the Name one wouldn't question: Never you mind who I am, I am that I am. It fits our anthropic will so sweetly: "I would never question had it only been the wind." If you think that is your truth, how it's been warded off with revision after instinctual revision, there's a mind room where your imminent reception wasn't the guaranteed math of an acquisitive mind.***************I'm alighted as a specter, some kind of lepid chrysalis due toward a fate less than our sentience could assent, a record of impermanence being wiley to endure whither I imagine as auspicious one day, one direction east or west from the contours of this stream, ...now upon a bridge with antagonists inside its reach of my thoughts & tabula of light purveyor in her beat beauty transforming me into this hopeful mind that I could color. I've shut and locked my doors while there's a jetstream coming from these windows conferring in libertine space this room barely aroused. I've only just gotten here, starting what I've come in the room to do. The light glinting through fingering bush boughs at my window let enough sense of its pervasive quality having anyone imagine sunlight peeks at us & participates upon earthen thermals in mind-signatures of an ever-lighted day to author its contentment. A kind of an auditory hallucination? I can hear a flangy radio--Sweet Cherie's Craig, my brother agrees once, he said this house phenomenalizes antique radio audiences. The conversation in my head is of hearts and music, thus gone to preachment, a new silence entreating the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, thereso with no clue but me biologic esteeming cellulose, an inner-voice is my recorded self, presence.***************I listen in my heart to issuant reading goals that arise in my thinking. I walk to the kitchen, think the epicurean is due in part for thoughts replete in that goal. In my slumbery repose, if night stillness shades my mind, I assume letters falling, words in assent, histories endorse a contemplation gluing light to reason. In high spirits I'm mentating in ways that can't happen till a book becomes licit internally; an author's dialect entreating my blotted mind's eye insists on capturing anything to say on cramped symbols & image for human voice, the purveying of emotions, audition, colors, and an underpinning of all my animicule nature as I borrow air from my face, barbarian webs of mantram-said pushing me into extremis, ideas awash while nothing blankets the shore. I'm whelmed at the shores of alliterating seas, while my feet dance over its report of wholly poesic blue plashing, inventively, grappling at the terminus sky adduced as a place to lean.********************Your eyes are loving, impresses beautiful footfall into the contentment of my loam, where it makes the unseen seeable, and a place of slumber dreamy. All your heart wails up while those acquisitive blue eyes la la la in reception. Anything greedy for intension is only a glow of sentience, courting our expanding moments in an arbor of love & plane of understanding, Your reason for being here isn't that it wouldn't have been, that now we can be deprecare, see how I made it... Instead both of us are down from the mountain, we're half-way home, finding the source in reflection all before us. My love is for you, Susie.************The neolithic culture is supposed in one resourceful model as beginning in Jericho, the Levant reaching back 10,000 years. I swear how lucky I feel to have rallied through there once, visiting water ciphoned from natural springs, only a strongly rigged canal coming from the hills, and an ancient synagogue with its consumate mosaic floor as scattered in definition to my fine appeal as it is with principle seemingly an incredible dance in my heels. Neolithic civilization gets behind us by 2000 BCE (before common era) though never entirely. Then Bronze Age, Iron Age. Later around 800 CE another industrial swathe in human chronometry of culture take them from the countryside. Country boy, city slicker, and the power in words like personhood or absolute spirit. The sense still so matriculate in something of contemporary vision on anthropos, its improbable embrace of techne is a newly colored thread to rejoin the horizon when the black and white ones become separate.. Industrial Age and Computer Age are in the eyes of living beholders. It's anecdotal and true, how nice having held the selah hand to have known my Pap born in 1896. Two centuries on and pollution is about us with arresting warrants.*************By the Episcopal church I look into the adjacent horse farm the rather vainly airy field lacking any trees until its hillocky inclination swings over past the back of the parking lot where I stand, has two horses out. Circle 4 just in view mummers & vrooooms in its clot of trafficking souls, and I thought it portrayed just as my caprice to laud an auditive theater radio frequency conventions, the very human plastique (transformational) world absorbed through equine senses. "The thoughts of a king are boundless. He thinks of horses and they become strong. The thoughts of a king are wholly correct. He thinks of horses and they break into a gallop." From "The Great Transformation," her book on the Axial Age, Karen Armstrong. A plurality to pastures locally informing mare & steed nerves in this spiritual poesis, above quoted, is the instruction of Right Order, one's "magical efficacy" in the climate of the power... its universal reign on seasons reciting cosmogony. An explanate sorta Will through ritual of the earliest known Sino-self-actualization effort, called "daode." Thought of as the potency in the way of heaven; the Way, Dao.***************

A Sun God on My Back

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

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

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

FELT SHOT once.

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

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

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

True and Now, What up is?

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