Slapstick and my Cold Kicks

We're all animals that dine at a lifetime's table. The Dalai Lama related a teaching, saying, the deer drinks replenishing water - the stream can't be missed, becomes invisive - why say she does so for you? And within the conference of taste that indicates a thoroughly on-going feast, how the victuals of experience are praised and adjured, reckons a level that may be in agreement with our vitality of mirth. Our minds compartmentalize, some calling everything of an eschaton's nod at our future station, the heaven and hell's target to our laments. If one were to imagine an encounter of full-on eudaimonia, instincts almost allow for a caprice in prostration to something or someone as a complete vehicle or plain embodiment of life's ambition to be happy. Except, how else would one encourage our privileged own happiness than to project and vibrate-on as anything but a goal of identity's sake, and rather approach this world barely lasting in conspiracies' riddled loss just as the years divide us from tribulations blameable to that of an argued Absolute, political, social or universal (whatever that may mean) bound to be trialed by chaos, as confident episteme from the case of our unknowing! Catastrophes and holocausts have endowed our pillow armies with the meaning of greedy survival, why does everything and everyone have to be complicit in those sulky and fiendish moral battles? All Lives Matter, but the plain disambiguation of that fact is that Black Lives Matter as a community implicit to our goal of American Exceptiionalism, whose dream and implementation should be born to our shared Democracy.

*************To look up into tree canopies determines the most ethereal breath I can take; where else as unbothered is the whole day in the swathe of such objective pneuma? And their polygon splays of light, lovely through amelioration of sharp eyes, designed to play in apposite mirthful intensions plain upon silent ground, dance among the most recent of our perceptual fetters rattling so to be matched by expression. But I'm frozen, hexed by meaning, swayed to feel these agonist hypnoses common to me, imagining ravenous sentient greed, I'm the game of conscious Hangman toward a world awakening like an ocean's swell refractalizing its climate maker's glimmering message, that slowly and by a mounting effort second nature objects enumerate by invading the present as if their dust becomes their washed away garment of this here colorfield immediacy. Immediate, now, but with the grace of the world of things lopping comfortably ever-was and by an eternal saunter their lauded velocity into its summoning, their encounter etches its surveillance as slowly as one traces leisure from a star sometimes obscured by shadows of rescue.***********Drumpf's son promotes "deplorable" symbols representing the furthest Right view to append White Superiority, Drumpf himself lauds completely insane racists and conspiracists like Alex Jones and somehow our unfortunately bamboozled political opponents engage this "conversation" willing to break present institutions, intensify blindly toward an abstract come vile power, till we're divided and conquered, classist even moreso in that Corporations are granted personhood satisfying their only argument imagining Democrats wholly irresponsible of a Job One way forward. Read the tea leaves Conservatives, you're making moves to deny the existential reality of our plural union - sweet to the taste of a history that ought not be erased, and teachable within institutions which may reflect this Union. Why? Divided by a corporate ethos where the government can no longer help to protect the environment that we share and ought not exploit, and employees working full-time but who barely obtain a standard of living to make it out of poverty, somehow sounds-out a Liberal Agenda not Huge enough, not a Great American Dream to awaken from ...lulling in the vast washes of our population that can make sense to this completely self-absorbed Billionaire and his Fearful of the Other constituency. Brother and sisterhood trumps hate.

************Got nothing to do, then read. Bored, ready for life? Get an ole book made of trees and sit there and pretend you're not stupid. And pretend that your emotional entreaties don't need an exacting encounter with someone or some subtlety where your pretending really does cause you grief. You think, well, the flow of your norm isn't just any kind of myth, but, you must admit, it has to be your concession that psychologically you've paid all the cost, you've stimulated all manner of extremis in contact with the soothing of egoity's flagging the project of your worth: there's the real news - all your changes have usually been written down...! Read because it is your developing meditation called analytical meditation. While that has provision as a goal in itself, I would call meditation observable release between warm receptions and a sense of my raw soul, sensory metricating and jumping past self-preservation in thoughts endorsing whatever. Reading just whatever then denying the author her or his intuitions because now their idea-force is become your mantram of mere feeling determines an appositive from enduring the multiplying content implied upon an ever deepening misappearance of wholeness. Putting an illuminable foot upon attention only by safekeeping an amorphism in an unbearable likeness of being is cultivating differences and change through a very human game of mnemotechniques, the art of forgetting.*******************Just so I think if language in some subtle primary effect I might presume in the sense of a young mind or one laden by frustration is its sequencial concern and surprise iconography in getting present, this natural relationship that leisurely offers a control on time's more ironic control on us as incremental as dunes evolving around our thirsty dreams. It looks easily magnified in literate thought drawn of the coming single word setting off my need for an extrarational sentence. As this word contoured of nothing else than a material hope plies a certain median magic, one word of instinct that the next in line only modifies the last, One inflates Two details, but can't improve beyond Three and so on. This mind. As a little boy, before literacy, really as wonder of world comes to its details, I walked Laurel Grove where we lived, down to Quail Creek to climb the dirt mounded up from all the new construction of our neighborhood, glad among ant colonies belching through earthen qualities of an importuning all living environment. Among tractors sleeping off-limits, piles of lumber, bricks, refuse and houses unfinished, seeing their flesh exposed invertedly of Pink Panther insulation, all this encouraged conscious parrying among spirit bodies speaking through appearances in their silent garments. I'd play King of the Hill standing amid flagging but sometimes exercised subtle bodies, comparing in wont of islands in the stream the heights of my more formidable conscious success, and I understood, fate is aweful and immediate and it is all other.

******************Here's the "don't give me too many facts" Contrarian's Party (the Right) rarely making it to the table splayed of reality's victuals and not the Oughts to their concretions of Tradition, and not least of all the oh so frightening Scientism occurring to concerned and well-informed brother and sisters of the dundering bereft to honest Faith, where Global Climate Change is ignored. While one ought to by point and discussion recognize this sense of American Exceptionalism which would meet its denouement for change, for whom like apes banging branches at us but now with their (d)evolved gun waged toward an unforgiving opportunity, they accede in threatening their political opponents and in yet another way they've come to specialize in destroying the very institutions meant to help. Drumpf slavers over media feeling fully capable that we would imagine he's a perfectly fashionable product of our cause accompli to that of a flag-waving demagoguery just as one's thinking is lost to classist babble and ironies of a loved Machine racketing in Identity Games is uncarveable to any warm sentience. He watches demonic summoning of those artifacts with the greed of Belief, White Nationalism and nothing so wrong that it has become obvious to you.************* I know an inmost route of mosquitoes measuring thought's burgeoning, grounding me on some rare conscious couch, the questions in my nerves are lit and bleed me, amounting to the solemn repair of body out of Dylan's edenic map - Arya and their Others or Semitic then Arabi marshes - body arrived, the last place of any acquisitive bullshit desolved, one would reify in physical success. In True Democracy convention I take to my porch more usually ...take a call there so to telegraph the day more clearly. The wisest consensus, more better calls, have been these absolute spirits telling me, Drink the Kool Aide, who says the taste of it apprehends or disestablishes the lateral taste among its realistic table set? Imagine this episteme's vehicle of a determined model for a Mind beclothed in the Sky, raw to those figures for a thoroughgoing vitality, visualization, merging with appearances. An abstract world of convenience, those preferences for self-preservation are all on the menu (and conspire or even suggest), so stop conflating appetite, put the menu down and just eat. Feed your mind and give away what it grows. Have a heart improvising on its motherly banks - in the swamp and heat of such prized certainties - to heal where you've thrown yourselves in consummate relationship; beware of this self-consciousness from less grasping but with more passion's tantric hand on expression.************* There is always this mind game I cultivate so to stir up my senses and being able to gainsay memory after the ways of it becoming disadvantaged, I'm amid the world arising in catapultian letters. I lure and learn over words acquiring depth while seeing its empirical shores lay bare certain burning sands of perception that are smoothed back at the realisms of my vaguely antagonized tabula rasa and usual thoughtlessness by too hard of an inmost scrutiny. Like marring embers, humbly, I just play with words. I chase the run-away current in this sensitivity to my reifying model depicting a mind-sore of always late thoughts truant by communication. Just now I'm watching Eugen Weber doing The Western Tradition discovering our civilizational antecedents, where Egypt at her most thoroughgoing metricate for a history anyone is glad to edutain, 3000 years in one leg of her portent African soul vending is stolid and as magical as a tree in human contentment for survival - 3000 years! And Americans have begun this examination of Freedom for merely 300 some years, that at least within our ranks we might Live and Let Live if history could provide reason and juridical truth and insist by improving our public institutions. From Judeo-Egyptian idiosyncratic hagiographia I can dream a voice emergent like this rather wizard-ridden bogied donkey acting-out in its mantram bray contesting the on and off again seer ancient Hebrews prop up as a trickster or prophet in granting blessings and truths of wonderful or dire fates, implores Balaam, only to mean, Go back from this mountain pass! ...this equid's intuitions are superable to the language of your signs and your coming encantations.

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

Yes, yass

Isn't it exquisite several steps upstream from one's nice Indian rug (my Afgani rug...) a sharp little something once tracked into the house that you're now clung to on the concourse of hardwood floors have met the swathe favorite place you prolly actually dream about, though Mind is active there and actual space and pitch of mind remain palimpsest, your sitting place, would-be asana rescue in temporal moods, clarifies footfall and even advancing this thought.

***************I'm immediately familial to the release of limbs and shrubs and sidewalks along through the approach toward coveted memorial halls and houses. They've portrayed the leisurely saunter into these places, halloo'd barely demonstrating a person thinking the world colludes and jives us into our appointments and galavanting. I believe the air then. The difference between my animate success and the cuff of the world, reporting it all shunted up while she's last seen before I enter a building of bllinking eyes comes from the cathartic evermore of being outside always the concept of changing my mind, always the light of its momentary domino effect of thoughts enjoined to the rest of the day, walls lid open and are readily invisible. Never so clear a model to bridge inmost realms with ambitions in making dream content embower viable temporal settings, one step and the imploring of time's hard reins in as many years passing my door are letters written homeward becoming empty bottles and anywhens once opened in a life's sabbatical, this day too.************Gave up. Fell to the bottom. Relearned to speak. Called memory something. Sung circadian emptiness. Intonations in your easy speak waved under horizons like blades dipped in contentful earth. Sought a lepidopteran and I dreamt away. Listened to Tic Toc Teac see Moses go down, so then called Jeshua an Aramaean yon event to a political Jesus, his usual posture somehow now gratifying the might is right crowd, in my small corner of the world less preponderant of those spiritual paints, all gone down.***************My ole friend Adel and I are coming home, did some dinner something certainly unhealthy ad assignations to that that make sense now ...belly grumbling, shooting down Harrodsburg Rd. and it had been snowing for a good thick hour which felt a-glower freezing up in the air, but an after thought because climactic proscriptions are done with polemics. We're under a glazy eyed bruisycolored dome, lush slush could have been this tacit chariot bound cloud embraced hypostasis, so Neil Young plays rock realization anthems, "Shadow on the things you know. Feathers fall around you...". The whiteouts were fracturing and benetted, dangling heavily with curtains that made our car merge forward like in staccato leaps, lights hit feathers falling casting phenomena like I'm shifting around misdirected and our black night yawns by peeks and unfurlings. A song from Off the Wall once complimented a solitarian neighborhood crossing here ...Michael Jackson's fu manchu face flecting eagerly. I'm driving but immured in my myth plain map of Lexington. A lot of walnut trees stood south west from here, I'd live under them as a native, I realize. Adel soothes himself with his looking glass gospel and Rasta music segues at the next light, some of it where he feels a bit unique with the ascendents' verily happy commonalities had they been explained, he explains ...while pathos and biblical laments are in the report of the whole ocean.***************It seems. The Big Man is this decisor of resource careening toward something essentially as if defending a new belief in that power, an indivisible god, true or defecating, if it could be popularly reconciled, that power can't wield superable to common suffering while demonizing uniquely sympathetic opponents. Ridicule should be in parsimony with a factory other than sneering anecdotes of those resolved with some reason to hate.*********^^^^^^^Susie and I coming out of more traffic thread down Elizabeth St., jagging our route into a shortcut back to Southside, it's early, we just did breakfast and I feel recollected in superlative mornings, Mom's cosmos, the planet of work spaces making my way through dreigh hard-to-endure hours, school days, fool days, my circadian mess how they can be as good as now, now all oriented to sundry leisure and so many dawn thresholds you'd think Earth's intercalations are always meant for us, and maybe they shall. From a change in listening to music the News Constant makes contemplative BBC sounds brace me in outlines of concern and worldviews. Razia Iqbal's lovely name mantrifies in my thinking - her voice appeals to me just as great Oxford's tea and cookies (bisquits) I tasted ready as class is about begin when I attended an Intensive Study in those halls once upon a time. Here we come - ehhhhh, vroom - and past what looked like one of our (Lexington's) University appositioned folks dreamily ascending his silent frontporch mutating freedom, his breath is animated, verily a dialect opens, he suspires, then hesitates handing me a corral of saints till then hidden in the cool of his clutter of bikes, tarp and yard equipment embowered by chipmunk homes, their bushes and more cool. In this natural willingness for encounter, my head paints in mere feeling the waking day's horizon so to populate my distant look of this world introducing its regularity, where her figuring and purveyors seem to thicken in my view at first altogether, characters of conversation or out of the shunt of plastique media, maybe phantom dream players, then only to materialize vapors to vapor, anonymities to an unsung, indefinite chorus.****************I want to make this concept even better because it really is stupendous albeit only advancing into no more a material advantage than to perhaps take-it-in fully compelled by an occasion's grace. The thing of Mind capsulating wist of self-approval all things necessarily an event of a few moments ago are telegraphed when I'm actionable then stammer into the day's medium flow, its usual shadow on the things I know, watching what observer self does comforted into its usual avenue, opening toward it as if I'd been waiting at the target wakened state as opposed to a unilateral emerging with what-is. How far I come off of this couch of consciousness, naming thoughts' movement as any movement in attention, and with content washed ashore a feeling like acquisitive asks and reanswering washed away too ...all was in my trance-like booty edging me into an encounter to what reveals itself as my sense of living at visual beginnings of being free and unable at once cold-up in moments wherein the mask I wear implies new candors. I feel I'm more the spider's web, prone as its second nature object, capable as my interest in things would necessarily move around, found as part of the symmetry, while rather than sentient then wondering to act on the world, the world acts on me.*****************Articulated into some solitarian ritual over mere Thought in soul gradins far-over filtrate of image and present light bubbling up, sensory enabled with an eternity's prone brain run on a body's 100 watts come model of cauterized mind-sore, meriting more and more its plain atmosphere plainer still, thoughts' bounty edging me into an encounter toward what reveals itself as surmountable teloi - appearances - not even conscious of surface and residing somewhere in dreams' inmost rhizome of rational motives, inescapable though plastique, wholly and radically getting there operative as airwave's plank to leap from is perspective, identity's creaturely accompli, self-consciousness for an open nerve redundant internal conversation just to reserve coming to timely inquiries and self-emptying ...then to ask again meaning it to more and more devastating effect with intensity shaped keys applied to some nuclear distant estate of ancestry, humbly calling self alas me, one of mantic trees and symbolic houses, what is this life become.^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^The meditation I thought about operative in Abraham Abulafia's world is what The Golden Age speaks to you and possibly just me from the blessed transcendence emotive the glad discipline, an American Jazz art in vitality. Saeta, by Miles, from the Sketches of Spain album, a lot of folks well-intending listeners know to listen and formally ran into somewhere Dionysian, this one thing hidden amongst for me. The ram's horn used in Jewish ritual, we call a shofar, merits an antiquation of soaring and wandering souls. It seems to weave through margins and extremis, looping of heart ambient courtships, clean orientation to skyward presentiments almost become available from this spiritual saxophone. The whole album to be sure it's true is as good as this song's handful minutes apace a pocket of consciousness coming from Minds of meanwhile changes in our parents' near need to get this beat thing beyond the amatory few examples into this technocracy where we're prone like gongs in hesitant peal of classical social skills, say Listening.****************Yass, Old Bull Hubbard, there are "excisors of telepathic sensitivities." They are. They are sensory intimating prised to our subtle bodies. So. The first mistake the mind makes on the way to the compassionate void is to suffer value statements. True, false or whatever it is if we are getting-down-to-it these logicians on instigating people are appetites to the greedy tongue of carb hunters wont in people addiction for the sweet salience in our wishes for salve attention on these fray and tacit nerves. It's all ego, we're daimonic over anyone impelling hellion hoped for minds in florid complexions to a world view proscribed as News connoiseurs or gospels. Practical thinking gambles on the faith of the known. Pragmatic ways through all that language pointing to Change means to stop lauding Bionic Rats teased for their lust and copulation making the labyrinthine mind a garden living with ease and sallow processes through mood and every excelsior vantage on consensus. Tic Toc Teac toasted, "they're gonna raid you on the television set; don't let 'em." They get you in the valley of (in)decision, Bob Marley knows. Swore off the stupidest of inner-scrutinies though ravens land on our shoulders because they do - your velocity is a feeling of being On with wooden eyes - and their avian success is but a piece from dark Firebird reflections in their star lamp empyrean. Spiritually wandering, the middle man stands up in their eyes, Grandmother's soul reposes on pre-time's couch of consciousness ...with light like a pirate of the airwaves she digs 10,000 coves, calls their ascending way a direction multiplying for dream eliciting lepidopterans free to lend their form to the content of the next animated fact defining mind. Jinns (spirits, Sufi expression) throwing down meteorites toward those needing to be impressed with the language of the mind of a devastating kind of creator have a Blues guitar to thank.*****************Back under an awning extending from the roof of Dad's excellently hand-built country red shed - he calls a barn - an improvement in meditation was on ...his lawn equipment lain where among the backyard environs I would read awhile sometimes responsum in glances to a local spider. I'd Ode in that special mess what Russian culture meant to me so through her expediting in all the meddle of reason painting up the world with imagination, this spider friend purveys with chides and models true to my karma's staged ancestry hinting at my path meriting reprieve, maybe as some patient creature. As thoroughgoing a wanderer of spirit appends made up of conscious maps, a travelogue is always more deluged in mercy admitting to oneself what feels right but liberating while homeward. I feel I'm more the spider's web, prone as its second nature object, capable as my interest in things would necessarily move around, found as part of the symmetry, while rather than sentient and wondering if I'm to act on the world, all I can know is that the world is actionable with nothing between what-is and selves' bridge to the moment - I mean sometimes barely dust for tea, but mostly a willingness to get there, slave to continuity.

***************So at peak observation, that it's possible claiming I'd have a view with ideal acuity, I feel I've perfected this one sense understanding a conventional pattern listening to Mom paint in and out of conversation wakeful and worried. Kind Mom but in the immensity to her cosmogonia, there I am, lens on just one subtle inquiry that she may fancy I'm of that self-same sinuendo dream, mindsore, heart, heaven, night, reason and awakening from it. I remember listening to my beautiful Mother speak: I didn't know how language worked so I thought each word plainly modified the last word in the sentence as intimately a list could follow just by enumeration, so in perfectly assumed qualia that Two leads to Three because Four flexes toward Five and so on, I wondered how in the world the Other would ever be revealed. And I imagine in my thinking a library cluttered with feeling, first concepts gathered in repose at the foot her bookcases, where even in wee hours I'd get up from bed and find my way to them consulting letters, that I believed in magic, actual magic in symbolic universes. I thought if memory would impliment models of my alliterating self then I could use language acting on the world in continuity replacing by numbers this life becoming metrical with its anywhen, boundless upon the ground beneath my feet, open to a natural expression, all proliferate as egoity sorts us out, vapors to vapors.**************If you see an academician in your head and knowledge has become your friend, then as subject to wan fates in self-knowing or not, nature heightens the sense of principle in fealty to you as peak observer. The thing I'm sure about as episteme may confide in just anyone is imagining at one point I've climbed to the top of me, looking at a net thrust into empirical lurings, this same net of flat toned self-same language awash gathering all the usual conceptuality, but now behind each letter and impulse is every other possible word and mantram (utterings) that would agree in metrics and gravity merely elicited from a single symbol at the crest of karma, speech and mind, a wave drawing into its velocity the unbounded matter across an antithetical path. I remember listening to my beautiful Mother speak: I didn't know how language worked so I thought each word plainly modified the last word in the sentence as intimately a list could follow just by enumeration, so in perfectly assumed qualia that Two leads to Three because Four flexes toward Five and so on, I wondered how in the world the Other would ever be revealed. We are uncarved blocks (soulful), an unwhetted self inevitably despite the clamoring attempts at change one might assail, speaking with boundaries' silence, they're the educated walls where our expressions lean.

****************I'm struck seeing such intelligent eyes. An actress in Edgar Allan Poe's gloom emergent fin de siecle insane asylum portrays her concerns which lay with respect upon such a face, "the muse inside of minds of crazy faces," - Dylan once lyricked - I think till now, imagined deep within my nerves, a place I thought rather usual within me if ever there had been one thing driving the splay of passions given that some high functioning self-knowledge is my driver. My morning mind creates this survivor in me satiated from nighttime's well water and its taste of refreshing shadows as either a great logician of instigation, running for the bucket grappling of the splendor roused toward something different in the new turn 'pon this Earth, or a flowery mind and amatory fool of whiling away. Hitherto in the looking glass of self-consciousness, all the eyes of a world answering its subject, our world of dialects between I and Thou, I and Nature or say I and Selves become textures in meditation, an invisive concourse only illustrating the hang of appearances we share re-remembered, bending new corners around meaning on whose caricature of our nearest self is the dearest thing one can give away.*************This sage, lavender and a citrus blend tea, which had been neglected by me Susie recommended, now here midnightish, is finally cooled and nothing need adding ...this patient cup soothes me into long looks gratifying thought's ward on contemplation or its bluer flame theoria (I wish). I light on as perceivable uh world of things contesting approach and vision like inmost currents have accurate swathe in proudland aged but redolent, alive in looking glass bones, this spectral living shore persists to recreate walls within. All of us are conscious as watchtowers in ply moments and thus gone as sand castles of dreamy lasting ruins. Helba colored like the Arabic (sometimes) cardimom seed tea, but the sage in it and lavender makes for a good August light libation, and so here's to Hamza al-Din, oud player, the taste of a feeling for something in a near but plainly deep aside.

Elie Wiesel, Robin Williams, David Bowie, Prince. Please paint my horizon full again.

appreciating this sentence (last night's thread) - here's the sentence and sense philology of it: "There's some singularity, a view on evenness in toward the dawn of waking state that reflecting our footfall deft as Threshold's wonderment whither it seems interesting the pulse of an implicit forest transect becomes noticed, one would look down, the forest sparingly entangles our sight as to just what is before us." **** **** Literally since around 1995 I wanted to write that down out of a dream about more hill and dales I'd breach on the way through then my neighborhood than what-is, where I lived 27 years, back from its local shopping center, Gardenside, was the jumping off point in the dream. But more usually I had walked to and from late in the night anyway, here in the shadowy lure coming to Lansil Creek and the near old stone wall, densely colored brush of grasses and underneath them moulds and my pitch of mind. A Crowley thing from his huge "Confessions" I think got me down to perspective. He persists in his own dissipation describing Mara the Destroyer awaiting Buddha with the project of some temptation, while I read to alight a rather visual sense of moving-into-experience, that while an Other Shore draws one toward reception, "down" among the content to appearance things whelm the observer, folding up, around and over human intensions, furrowing into a completion of the encounter. So, I knew, in coming to the gates in the forest, I see out of my thought's translating mask and move first by instinct looking down, just before me I saw my foot falling ...certain of that at least that the ground beneath my feet is a signature move, a natural move. ***************I sometimes let the torpor in my brain and in the air finish my sentences. The thing is is that I feel full-up aside from the fact that I'm only expressing half-thoughts. An early "contemplation" which is just my young mind sorting out a lost distance between what I'd been up to and watching everyone in the river's flow made a sense of dread but worthy of me to compete with it, this realization, I'm not one to actually speak much. I only knew I may never reach the depth to understand how conversation appends so easily ex nihilo, days and experience erased but for your coming around me imagining it, defining continuities. I once couldn't talk; seemed to me cultivation of stillness became so matriculate it is where my inmost logician was making victory. This condition, though I felt some irony in it, meanwhile, had been my two steps forward, one step back moment to consider what meditation had done for me till then. Meditation is a good goal. I want to look as deeply as it made sense to me then in the place of all my changes.***************I believe in a Living Loam, a loving loam, whose resource to change is psalmodies of loving Rain. The type of loam that won't harsh my mellow, thereso the One and Many loam of threshold inconsequence. A wide open land of plollocking rather deeply impressed cuts and demarcations of some meaning as our not invulnerable lives yielding a narrative parchment underfoot, the lure of being, but only upon these mind-sores to assign an observer's history with grave machines, architecture and excess, every day modern life, real reason to exculpate evitable encounters with Nature. The world goes with tradition and their tradition's apologists - tote that bale, this Job One ethic has come to the storm of wont on licit frontiers - so veers Right, putting business models out of reach from regulation, while I maintain dreamy and full-up, well heeled before vulnerabilities in the wavy habit of trees rooted Left, opened on you, my eyes are turned to plants. Though, this is all too much within me, beyond all reach and control still shown the door falling down in thoughtlessness. The sense that just enough reaches me and adducing plain facts fatten me, there's too much to know, too pendant a world decorates us in ceremonies of weather, sidewalks, fevered News and easyspeaking breath. So I'll breathe, watch it rise up in me and keep this fallen spirit walking the plank of humanity. **************

Once there were closed crowds whose ethos is winsome in that kind of club mentality still in assent with icon's stone-age martialling as connoiseurs of pathos, expressed by sacrificing persons emboldening sought believers by ever blindly effective gods. Now there is Citizens United as an equally empty reason behind giving personhood to a commodities usurer. The henotheism of grand gods wake their sacrifice down escalante passages of fire, the first being an ethereal god's human being, burned, but not before his plastique spirit is taken in by the horse, then burned, while transcendence already turned this musterion ghost into the next greed of wholeness bridged of fire into the next world, the ram to billy goat, then our earth takes all to flourish with rice or barley sacrifices that grow to one day please the absolute spirit appending its navigation in hierarchies of physical success and ultimately before whom or what it is that sought us. ****************

In around 1979 I would've been 13 years old, a junior high school student, living with my three brothers - all pharaonic to my spirit body apace the shadows of fettering time - Mom and Dad raising us and I'm the youngest. I roomed with Eric and already he had distraction for me, only later evincing his computer service and forensics company giving up that lauded technology - O technocrats of classic social realism - seemingly then its roots were interpretive, where I lie down by that antennae'd TV wondering at the freedom I could review in this thought field, MASH playing late at night and I see what I'd rather do than the clearance of school and its langor. The TV stupidly plays-on ...couches my heart in a hurry to evolve out of the sieve of silent coolish shadows and realizeable or voidant but not complaining, something on the floor, something simply as part of this thought disorder I mitigate made observing the actors almost ghostly as to say a very real subtlety in their lines emplace me within the night's orb, behind my thoughts in character through some histories' shtick and responsum to mood or light or the dialogue availing with a sense that it's...it's now and on-board...this mothership, touching the earth...it won't even be you (me) looking from this side, I'll be graced by Loretta Swit in my world's gone-feeling, though I'm eternal - Right? Concede that to me, sitting prone to implore the black and white forever for awhile, yet doused of palimpsest moments, I think, "Where am I?"*************There is nothing surprising that a Jew would anoint a creative world, if you follow me, as the observable reality of an impersonel god, as Jews refer to the not fully written name for a greater reality, G*d, upon media that is itself impermanent. By a way of enjoining a respect and feeling of continiuity, making sense to a very usual consensus of cultural Jews, an idea of an endless god or the god of All or Nothing, called Ayn sof, is taking away the god that comes to court, rather like Job's occasion enduring his strickened world without a receptive demiurge, the artisan deity. So Wasserman Schultz as comfitted to Jewish ideas as I assume she is could have recognized Bernie as the Jew he imagines himself to be, and on the ease or complexity the liturgy permisses which is a studied sense of Meaning one can only anticipate but is traduced merely from Faith assuming a mission behind it, a mission making implicit suggestions about reality that are superable by Faith and mean nothing through Reason. Shelomo Gabirol is distinguished as having developed this idea (Ayn sof) around 900 years ago. He lived in Golden Age Spain under Muslim rule. Toward Jewish Mysticism, he had lived during the socially cosmogonic era in the first solid inroads discovering Kabbalah's essential meditations. ****************The One who was seated like your maven observer, poised like a bulbul, nightingale, in an orchard but of this world - where an angel in a lifetime's intercalating watch-tower holds the light sparing us over till another year - now runs apace me and you. The Down to You verses some world too distorting and not you that it must be captured or endured, consummate as the Cold I Up complexion of you, beyond all reach and control of self and still shown the door of chaos and thoughtlessness, peak resolve only to wait it out then to seek escape in perfect illustration, apathy and revulsion's counter, It's All Fine, there's less demanded of me than my suspicions ought to carry ...that sorrows You vending your soul's insight ...is me too, man.************** Breathe everyone, you have the volition of what's been cool, not the ardor of a decisor on fate and creation you thought you were. Listening to some modern philosophers wanting to see a model to the perceptual vantage over reduction of uncertainty, that staying in relationship with nature, semblance of truth and appearances is inclining self having become at least answerable through plain endurance. You are an answer to me, you speak, I feel. Which is sweet and my world but capsulating all the fray of Absolutes like Love or Mercy and awaiting reins on Time pendant upon our developing moral landscape, soon the thrum of what-is becomes our idea-force and voice.***************Talks a good populist game even curiously open-armed (if not open carrying). Eschewing science and feeling left behind there, blames all eventual mishaps on the battlefield as some principle of their purge through the ranks gone awry in their true Banana Republican colors. Oil and coal over Green Industry is the black and white of it. In all of their dehumanizing of the Other, which shoulda been a shoe to the head to Wake Up, and demonizing of politicos ever as low brow in his and her own reflection, here's an image of their single most monarchical principal, Ronald Reagan, visiting a Nazi cemetery giving memorial like sins of the past need just a little more shade. Kenyan, huh? Know your neighbor, for G*d sake, instead of inept ways of revering your leaders clearly making wrong moves in respect to our common valor operative in a Living History!**************Memory is the mathematics of our genes, a model for human instinct, our brains and second nature reality, culture et cetera. Metaphorically, belief as fate can memorialize input called mystery thereso identifiable while transitory as the thing evoked from earth's empyrean in her immensity, she laughs hideously and beautifully at once pealing like a gong upon a living planet's original desert, the void of oceanic star anonymities which may exaggerate and proffer reduction of uncertainty, how we feel to imagine meaning, so real information if alluding to expression through perspective calling for personhood and humane-ness to be an answer for people**************Only to win in the thwart of power, some people tread like dragonflies getting high on newly paved blacktop never realizing that its sun-glazed expanse has as much nutrients as bags of wind animating what gets brought home for supper. Flowers are pomp in lush scrutinies, landing on two feet, Homo ludens, the player, becoming a free agent is apace the mile of night - power undone in its climate - iterating an unfettering, looks to the vomitoriums' waxing lure where actors of power hide within political stages in chimeric veils sundering days of coolness and requiring light through America's night long vistas, realizing, the observer has his and her own role, retrieved like ground footfallen parchment impressed by leafy symbols, stone grammar and loamy redolent wandering. None of the eschatons undo reason or time, a mind can react but in a plain solitarian sport, and so finds out what belongs to self florid or dreigh is behind one's own eyes. It's not so much a sluice of all the savory meats coming to their brand of homogeneity in the least comfitting design on funkiness as it races at breakneck speed to a world of pathetic killing floors - while we imagine what happens in these mounting lifetimes unpacking each generation - but it has become a revolting problem of a kind of conversational pressure.*****************Wearing my Jaws shirt having seen it I guess the Summer before, allowed to sit on the floor at the front under the screen at Turfland's cinemas because of the crowds. Ah, and here we are in Technocracy. I know at least it seems healthy to imagine I am projecting the thing I am, as if in peak concern the becoming of this thing implicitly amorphous, that a conscious prop is transitory like the habit of a tree is an architecture to this changing mind. The science of it all works well into one midnight visage of plain media's vintage; a National Geographic-like documentary (TBS commercial?) is playing stupid-comely on the TVs above the bar at Wrocklage. Music. Kerouac once and forever diagrams the deposit memorializing all eyes of sad repletion and ironies arrayed before him while winds blew snow off the asana welcome niche, that he undoes time's chain and unreason, climbing in his Cons and wrong gear just to sit there and believe mercy, her and in that solitarian or florid court, taking tea. I walk from the back alley behind the bar. Think "sharks" and their murmurrations, Jennifer nods. Spirit waters are tapped and the wine dark sea fills the screen of only blue. Sharks inspire and shift into visual currents, giving directions to my focus through murk, clashing and rosy colors, seem to be underneath the moment and sprite seas, expediting with feelings and sentience. Evocative and aquatic, Noatic fish give way.***************I have a strong and I guess mandatory usual apprehension that I can communicate with any kind of ease at all. The sense, emotionally cycling, if methodical to relate listening inmost while falling to a schedule of encounters always hearing similar if not same feedback, just knowing how that might dunder new ways of living these same lives is what merits an entreaty with change, the difficulty we all might face. I like to imagine saying something always for the first time. The thing I learn from most is an imminence front, the surprise and sometimes rapine sieve we navigate to lift off through the colors or sensations in our statements of presence, getting there, being in the moment. Only to be present which would herald a breath in the gathering loom in sum of a natural rhythm to a day - this makes up our plain ambition, our corporeal study of the ledger in whiling away.*****************Running with plenty o'iconic shunts at once something out of biblacy's consolation, but then like comparing fires blading designs one night differently than the next, something absolute in the model gains inroads, circulates through tissues that are thus-gone and sometimes executed in the melody given evolved reception shared from the new yet old. A kingdom as applied space to a sovereign seems to be the drag about what is more demonstrative as a meaningful resource on proudland - cosmogonic of Sisyphean report - the face of ever amorphic creatures perceiving their fugue of sympathies in appearances, have plastique ways through it so much this natural counsel of our more humble more usually obscurred selves evinced as its surrogate. Visible reality is over 90 % of lights warmly interred that senses make redound, what our minds chime to as the content for the wonder of what-is.**************Wondering when the stream's capricious clot or to beck you with less acid as to say, the rigor of the patient cut around the proverbial bump in the road assailing and impeding a current toward a more complete statement of presence makes itself denied as something as negotiable that having done well among the tethers of our more candid tasks ...eschewed the thing about our plain inquiries in what this life has become, a "developing" thing (but among the dross every other thing) and with intuitive impressions like models on halcyon answers by way of assuming an approach to absolutisms, so as creative as we wanna be in this world - the surf of the more esteemable mind - may level continuity only doing that in the next - these things we laud to discover in our attention.***************Imagine receiving intensions from a sum of moral landscapes now possibilities in usual privations still the mean earth up to her decisor fate elaborated in us and distractions conflated within our 21rst century's more baseless literalisms that it can be anything like the plain wisdom available in cathartic pop psychologies giving way to raw if subtle appositives in the change we seek. Give me the box of antiquation, but on these local streets where I plan to walk forever.

The Way into Feeling, Feelableness Measured in a Creative sense-all things Touching.

The earth would pivot in front of me in hugely gratifying leaps, steps that old cloud assemblages of Native ghosts ponder and pace through. Somewhere in Canyon de Shelly, so alluring to one's sight, I played on the vexing land sure of its imminence by the leisure spirit bodies exude out of its cleft contours amounting to merely weather's palette in footfall, preachments and vanishings. If vanishing was a sign toward proud earth lush and relished in sight, right around Lafayette High School, riding past one evening of literati and ideas, I had to re-animate, come to the threshold of being present with the heat of feeling in my eyes and liquid language awash on my tongue. To do so the only thing coming to mind was an auspicious thing, a thing that occurs in the shadow of sound, becoming by participating in dreamtime from the bombast of waking state. The slow fidelity withwhom I'm sure is the one who has recorded all thoughtlesss primacy in fragmentation, generated in expression, martyred as meaning, I relate my Mom saying, soul tired and in banging throes competing to maintain openness in the face of the closing gates of a lifespan, "So, have you your Susie Q., ...huh?" I look over to her surprised in realizing that Mom doesn't know my Susie whose intensions like mine at that point were not fully thought out or mindfully revealed even to us then over a year away from taking up together, I say, "Yes, Mom, I know her."************ So, I've learned and dropped its preachment if indivisible with the stuff of culture that our prophets don't live today - we can dream them, become plenty guarded toward their glories and absolutes of emulation, but his and her encounter is erased beneath us. Here, diffuse of spirit, alienated to the proximate techne drowning of answers, blowin' into a neighborhood, maybe yours, it's New yet Old. Answers. Who's asking? Why desperate to venerate what is been said so clawingly laid upon your lap after several thousands of years in complimentary re-engineering to its reception? The Good Poetry still intoxicates but from inspirations not to enslave one another ...this is more than a pin-prick of light penetrating, it's called Modernity. And yet doctrine is contrarian, beyond this human idea-force, henotheistically, apprehending the god of Enlightenment, the sense of Truth, otherwise darkens with a perceptual creation called anything like divine, a thinking individual only knows as change: Nature is what I want to react to - it merits discovery, but I am thankful of life assonant to enough nurturing, only to aver life is an answer. The deep aside denies our mainstay, the meta-physical is promised at the invisive shore, but there is no getting-in. A recent more relevant sociology will operate to snuff out our dispossession. Imagine.*************A sadhu, renouncer, I spy in a fresh documentary, content as he even here sensing slight natural surroundings where in time and within modal expression I feel well aware that he touches the earth, replete as formaldehyde in furniture and paint on walls standing in my eyes, his naturalism is feelable. There in self's brackish counting of breaths, self-conscious but not -- that all the animating space and places of his meditation is recorded, so now to know breathing plain as a wilderness tabernacle may be visualized in sum of the specter of the unexpected. I do what I do anywhere supposed - my distractions are good enough - it's true, but having executed a travelogue, I would do what I do here realizing just the occasions to be plaino me there too. Fabling an encounter is portent in realizing this apparent philosophy that Not Much is Going On. A Brazilian sorta hippy, wanderer and stolid intuitor, dreamer of lent dreams looked on toward Israel's Negev desert, scanning it as to make it back the days and weeks before, where the scale of mountain friend in far off home was the opposite shoulder than the dreigh historical mountain range displayed beyond these Red Sea parts. I sat next to him waiting for work for several afternoons with 10s of other hobo types at the Freedom Cafe (me and Robbie Loco), southern-most Israel, and guaranteed inspiration with this dude's hopeful, rather watchtower poise, "someday" he seemed to illustrate, "...redemption," withal he came across in point blank zero caricature out of Religion, though an ecstatic is revealed.******************* Man, I can't help it, though as thoughts escape me, and then only to catch the flare off a self of molten rock, things I imagine a part of me, is becoming entranced with things for a kind of convenience, these existential conditions, imminently cultural, biased, but to explain, maybe you, the thinker, would see nothing complacent waking up and getting to personalities in the past, out of time, and rekindled, alive as somehow cosmic. Among the corral of writers I've tended toward, had they been Jewish, well, confessionally, culturally immersed as I please, my grasp on content impresses me more deeply than usually, but not always, otherwise: Be sure, I feel lucky thereso believing in plurality, the opening is yours. And still. I'm pretty confident a lateral move to suss out voices that ration a contemporary philosophy drive us into subjects well afar even the plain commerce of ideas Moms and Dads, family and nigh community toasts and boasts to our cups running over, our laments needing discovery, the coolest of wine or water for the sate of an enumerating commonality. I read these other historians, closely reserved for the instruction of histories not having me leave off our more intimated commonalities -- everclearly, they vibe a world beyond, and meanwhile their chimeric pen compels me down around the corner, the corner as to say where there are easy assumptions how I feel reached, identifying with them would be any reason to get in the door right off.

****************I just pick strawberries and read and get craggy from some internal fire for silence. I watch Susie narimee in bird-call mentioned - from Amoz Oz's "The Same Sea", narimee her love song. Rattle-up the mower, and mower says, Wha' wha', wafts blahs of stupid smoke - I'm getting on with its motor-battle. Vruum, turf is good doing it like that, that it's done and the illustrative time for me to count breaths in my lungs slowing back down. Just breathe in the elements--sworn to be guided by Nature electing its dweller in the forest of life, night's jangalled cosmopolitan--an expectation you've acted as galactic as imagining that the atoms of selves-being haunt their appending recent assemblage, denied but verily a sense of loss only to shed them one day truly becoming cosmic, here and now, motes for infinity, not merely in the give and play of catching up. *******************

***************Sweet Susie seems to read me well and her gospel plan to reimagine any one moment, probably equally as loose and libertine as I, are her ways of vibrating-on for the sake of anything needing a flourish coming from our reasons of contentment. And I love that. She says to me a couple of days ago, "Well, you have had a high sense of self-preservation." And though I've run around the mulberry bush as intent as all that, I knew what made me deprecare in the behavior ward, I mean, of course, I thought about it and under threat of many moons of distraction. At a young age, five or six rallies in figures I realized then that there were no small hints to an encounter with the world and my equality in it. However usual in its instruction the facts of my well-being still drew me to conclusions that I was self-conscious just as remonstratable as my walk down toward Quail Creek to my "ant tree" talking about "forever" to its canopy and "mutual emergence" with the near slurring creek, me and otherness, the sun in a sheltering sky but mostly anticipation of me there as goal oriented to awe over a mind full and good-enough till my middle aged-ness. Then with totemic eyes, I'm a conscious creature, I'm seeing that chronometric design on my thinking, knowing in images what I say to myself now when there lies the plank I jump from in a concept of self-reflection and skillful conduct, truths negotiated on sorrow's concourse, Doesn't everyone agree in sorrow?**********I feel I cross most 'flecting lines holding onto contemporary noise where any thought put to my diffidence withdrawn from echoing it is toward the rallying effect however sublime things become calling my provincial spiritualism the water, an ocean, anyone can get into. Kerouac faces a creek in the wee hours in Big Sur, so visually, down its gouge the Pacific plocks and flaps into the brink of morning - so to give up her vastness, soothed over a heavy tongue, he drinks from earth's belly while a Tathagatan god swears the ocean womb relays to me a catholic Truth, and his irreal fate. **************

*************Feeling like the shit gimme content from moment to moment is having become so allured in hope as to approach the dreamchair of 10,000 lives that I awaken to its auspice before I'd even gather myself there.*****************If only for a key to carbon fates gugged as emanation then sculpted from a compassionate void - we're made in dun colors like the mouldering daunt of heavens and canopy over Escher's Puddle hint of appearance, an invisive self, replete as sound matches muscular pick up trucks with its wonk of Big Country, maybe quadrad and lanky elephantine stole back from Victorian Age women beclothed in shields of high-esteem, dainty but elegantly operative to trod cleanly reporting roads, Zzzz Ggggrrrrrrr, sluicing toward a horizon before I feel stuffed into immediate goals, then emptied back into our dust animator glazy sun watchtower, meshed with all and cloudy inner-communication's swear, moment to moment sense redolent from moves pouring out one's crowded intuitions - I am spoiled, an' so egoitic to spread the meaning of I into the mile of Other, plaintiff of Dressed in This Lifespan v. Forever.***********

***********Thoughts on "Sapiens" Yuval Noah Harari's book on human origins, thatwhich one would write-down over human achievement and pain is called history. I attached a rather cartoony image from ancient Sumer for good effect as to keep in mind first Civilization's wonder of I & Nature, like in the relatable Gilgamesh lore, while our journey through techne and second nature objects change that reception to People verses Language, mutating our consent to Nature. Where the assent to origins take us are also ways of knowing how we know what we know. Homo rudolfensis in East Africa, Homo erectus in East Asia both would have been around when Homo neanderthalensis comported in their chain of lives toward and around mine, of whose DNA I carry close to 2% of these early Europeans (Neanderthal) due to the co-mingling with Sapiens, us. Down the street, through a perceptual past, away from home, what is homeward? I think-out this early re-occurring space of memory and first dreams, sensing peak resolve through all of my 5-6 years old grasp on fates--the age when most of us first develop and react to physical maps. I likely thought-over fundamental egoity, an animal with variable socialization, change and development, I'm only seeing the world demonstrate me and other. We humans apt to promote techne more usually underdeveloped at birth than other mammals, good through propiate relationship is the key in self-awareness, starts by being understanding and responsive. Big brained and represented by device or symbol to animate the present, one consumes what appertains as resource, incorporates it by dressing in its existential garment, mummers in condominium with its vitality and is hopefully realistic in detachment from it.*********

Like I'm saying this seven times born to this lifetime, marauding as someday's pillow armies, I approach the field where my "ant tree" grows usually negotiated with its weeds and sticker plants, grassy tufts, up-turned construction rapine on the dundering loam and curious sinking earth around ant piles. I'm in the tear of the morning to the translucence of all my life and as if warded off by prayer under sorrow's lights that our only keys are broken keys managing one into whose breach through the valley of tongues comes the stillness of observable reality's will over me, its subject. Our transitory world is evitable to expression and licit by the shadows of torpidity. The wonder having liquid language awash in the deluge of anything possible vulnerable to dialect, I could have eaten a burnt ember and been blessed at once by the Pharoah's minister, the prophet Balaam of Job's infamy. Wind sluices around me and it's a perfect day of Texas getting respected by the sun. I'll go to the far edge of the lot. The creek pours through the feral corner of the neighborhood and I wonder at the sky as some ocean. I thought about my tiny expediter ants in charge of what enumerable pieces of the world to which my mind cleaves that it would invariably be buried or just blown away, like dust begetting clouds, begetting precipitation in biologic thought and metaphor, air to fecund self-reflection.*************

I'm no maven of focus and intuitor in some great way of my emotional schedule, intellectual or otherwise. But thinking mainly and plainly on meditation, I see that it should be done for a sense agreeable to one's organs of consciousness working with one and against themselves and recognizing the inquiry in ameliorating somehow the grasping of our senses that would have one divine values had not something as salient as nothing asked of us become the contemplative within and been our driver. Primary to me if I could point to a place where I'm mindful and in assent to feeling unalienated from some inward inclination to become realized in the school of life manifold to this one world was and is only sitting back to view a mischievous mind moreso lauding centers from without like wet hillocks across a feral park on a wing breezing care-free loose to the reins in the plateau of time.*************In my thinking now I click better, more a content subject, than a couple of years ago with a similar reading schedule, when my middle-school aged niece and I would go to Central Christian Church that held classes for her and older students it seems to improve their reading discipline. They were a book discussion group. Well, I was on-track in the cult of self-reliance too, however remote from an out-going better philosophy that should rival this exoteric model when taking on the whole day at the end of the day in some weak pretense of completion. Reading is such a privilege to set free the fetters of our usual world and I would sit there even as I rally in analytical meditation and read like a sunflower bowed to these reliable thought worlds evoking readers who were wading deeper into good meditation than my ill focus otherwise appended. I can only say the alighting reason for continuity out of measured steps under plain-warm lamps, would-be answerable in patience, washed up and whelmed into the day's corners, created in me a glad founded shore of perseverance.******************There is a name of a once Big Man in Sumer that gives-up another phantom rite to ponder as more spooky transcendence avers a man who dines at the table of that lifetime's incarnation, that he was one who reserved an emigre's temporal habituation, with a mind superable as to live and dream, but could do well to survive all lifetimes, so myth portends a world-to-come, and he was called He Who Watches Life. Look back at the story coming from the Palaeolithic bard and into our biblacy, a deluge, the processions of water that she is humankind's mercy, and the cathartic earth is our parturience out of it. All we have is communication's fracturing lights, then we are merely Stone Age ...and all we have is steel chariots and the report of their wheels on man-made tarmacs 'pon earth, then rocks and trees become our shore of experience.***************Sweet Susie seems to read me well and her gospel plan to reimagine any one moment, probably equally as loose and libertine as I, are her ways of vibrating-on for the sake of anything needing a flourish coming from our reasons of contentment. And I love that. She says to me a couple of days ago, "Well, you have had a high sense of self-preservation." And though I've run around the mulberry bush as intent as all that, I knew what made me deprecare in the behavior ward, I mean, of course, I thought about it and under threat of many moons of distraction. At a young age, five or six rallies in figures I realized then that there were no small hints to an encounter with the world and my equality in it. However usual in its instruction the facts of my well-being still drew me to conclusions that I was self-conscious just as remonstratable as my walk down toward Quail Creek to my "ant tree" talking about "forever" to its canopy and "mutual emergence" with the near slurring creek, me and otherness, the sun in a sheltering sky but mostly anticipation of me there as goal oriented to awe over a mind full and good-enough till my middle aged-ness. Then with totemic eyes, I'm a conscious creature, I'm seeing that chronometric design on my thinking, knowing in images what I say to myself now when there lies the plank I jump from in a concept of self-reflection and skillful conduct, truths negotiated on sorrow's concourse, Doesn't everyone agree in sorrow?***************Of the several authors I read whose writing is elevating the discussion the arc first civilizations take, Palaeoliths till Technocrats, cultural impulses leaving behind or insistent upon macrobiotic accretions worn by apes of recent flourishing, Paul Kriwaczek and Wendy Doniger, from Babylon to India, respectively, and all the word permutations ready as the West is to affirm, so they tell, our cultures are implicitly living in a space of those worlds' continuum of facts. And to imagine borrowing from Sam Harris, these facts are reduced to our well-being--laudable moral landscapes or ones needing an amending breath of this late fin de siecle--perceptive of the change made in casus belli of biases, different facts appertaining the sliding scale as to what remains important in these environs of conscious creatures have a high bar of imagination that could be circumvented with one educated and deft axe of patience and understanding.*****************There must be a lush science to an escape, some moment to moment lucidity finding the rest of the day opened-up though I'd be hauling and moving around the horse farm where I worked briefly gainsaying the part of the day I am leaving. Once I imagined I was under the spell of a capable meditation watching sorrowful sleepwalking bovine drawing my eyes into the trace of their green dreams, temporal fetters, sunny loitering, their avidya (unknowing) unconsciousness. And whose grand dormancy could this have been but mine I submit myself into thinking? With a sunny heat on my face I look-on at the spaces of their wandering, and as it begins at my feet I sit and pull on a cigarette pained or educated at once at the vanity of an indulgent smoke imperative to the nowhere wafting of imagination. I'm a real nowhere man - I stood there and felt accused. Then, I had goals of skillful attention, right thinking, but meanwhile thinking my way out of a solitarian foreboding had matriculated in my head as a mask of teloi to a dried-up fountain. I was turning myself inside-out, changing with only this to survive as having encountered a light at the end of that tunnel. I'm glad to sit here and remember that day's sun as my friend, because it alliterates as solemn candles and this room arrayed in light from an insistent and lovely April.**************This thing occurring as some feeling of beginning the week notional reccess to time well spent, possibly hating work but more than that, amounted to some resolute couch where I lie prone to music and document, sensing things a long way off with walls around me almost giving up to the daylight and world pressing me back into some dear anthem of contentment. Walls falling, and in some thin vision of a guardian to this world's surprise of an intermedian mind, an angel evinces what I am only realistically going to imagine as a shadow. The detective of self has arrived, my silent appraisal of sensory torpidity is as plain as its neither dormant nor turned-on persona replacing my guffaw articulating room where I peal like alliterating chimeras. What would I give up if I could sacrifice this my usual physical teloi of transitory mazes out of this colorfield's temporal chance of self-reflection? Like Dostoevskii, prone upon a thoroughgoing epistemologic plank, maybe blissed into starlight, candle glare, yielding lamp, I think upon these moments, had I only the right tantra to move this leaden thought (world) around I would then see what it felt like to have all the answers, all things would be known.****************The smallness of our worlds are actually worlds colliding. That this weirdness of some empirical telling of our conscience, which works with one and against itself, is only natural that the world furls in on itself, the nigh resolution of egoity's finessing fire, white within black within physical reality may only yield no other place conceived and consumed by its temporal denizens, even moment to moment hardly objective as thinkers under the only light superable to perspective. One feels it shouldn't indict us in these riven or mounting flavors to the existential given, but it does by tethering us to Meaning - sometimes in context - easily indicating almost anything else with the graft of our attention, but as to content and values, that preachment so damn dear ...has merely ascendents running around elipsing with all things asunder saying over and over in their grasping ethos Good Bad Right Wrong True False. Hurray for my side, I watch flags catch fire like wind-horses. Egalitarian days of memorial's apex move 'pon the moral landscape can't still the human (long distance) race while democracy is in the hands of the monied and the penniless are decried as victims by their own hands. A mind of that see-saw stunt at the ready, and only awed to give way, assent like the yeahing of ever good resource, or one which plies her weary caprice against plain unknowing, done with it, oughta slam that jammy and make sure that it was broke.*************So, you had something to say? Oh, and I interupted, and you imagined you were suppose to have the floor, be listened to, fully explanate with all the emotional circuitry where you were going? Not that I don't care specifically about you. I do. This is caring. You are fine, really. Fine to shut your face like any body, and like me during most my life and learning to become a good listener as the primary sensitivity toward getting my point across or perhaps inspite of my true reach into a relative gospel. Because to wonder at any persuasive this-is-how-it's-gonna-be content to your myth of the minute is for me to interject. I'm gonna say what you just said, so you can hear it, and tell me how it sounds seeing your haughty bullshit a little more ironical. But that's to anyone - it really is knowing the words you use matter, and we're all gonna find out why.***********

Alfred Kazin, contemporary author with Bellows, Kerouac ...feels like an advising to matriculate Michael Wood's light on humanity.

I liked the good sarcastic poets on Saturday Night Live warying of summary depiction of women with an image of folded stoic hands. Would those hands be reaching us as hands across the water gainsaying this world whose gospel advisement is get out of its bustle and execution? They are true hands hitherto, but when I feel my way back to technocracies in her less megalomaniac morning before into histories' foliation to an old world and gone peoples, I'm encountering the energies of being present ...because it all matters, these lives matter and live on through me and you. I want to be the face of the rock traced with an Aboriginal hand blown in a signature's oral paint. The heat of his physical economy so vital like the days of a love he would have had and feeling in mnemosyne he scratches on his brow, wipes across expression with a gatherer's hand. I want to point with the hand that refines the difference, not resigns in clasping to categories, opens the pod to the beans given to Babylonian women several thousand years ago who propitiate the season's inundation by scattering them from baskets into the Euphrates River ...lived by funny stories' telling of edenic fruits, washed in the dust from touching the Earth, mythologizing the bulbul's song, listening to Earth.********M Train, Mmm, yass the mantram of a Sumerian's Meh, withwhom one imagines a world emplacing watchtower selves contriving merely you of rare thoughts' evocation, Patti's drink is sublime. I'm on the Darjeeling train; I'll walk the Grand Trunk Road to cipher your dervish vin. Go down Radio Ethiopia. Go down Rimbaud of our meshed grip to the fin de siecle, just one morning wink of a near yesterday. Go down Belief--where she ain't afraid to call the Still Waters a god's intellection--Go down Sister, haunt me.***********AJust as ISIS doubts any prescription to a more ancient past, and generally in the course Western archaeologists have taken (historians) stole, matriculated, bought and plundered from these cultures while "observing" as to care for its antecedents (our goal), their contemporary Players in these traditional societies sold relics with abandon caring nothing about memorial rocks as if to placate a sometimes licit fascinans. Americans need to wake up to our deficits, White self-promotion, banal cronyism and usual lack of culture flowing forth with their idiocracy who are probably the obvious assassins of Maryland's 13 bald-eagles in their mutated nativism training thoughtless weaponary toward sweet carefree, yet symbolic, birds.

********An Israeli is notably if not the oldest then among the oldest persons living in the world today. Like tear drops, his ocean of the dispossessed is someone, we know many, carried with a permutation of names and places wailing with lingering dialect. I like to imagine that it speaks to literacy fostering one's physical success. That it's really a complexion of my own ethos having gotten me as free as my room of cold and then warm lamps, so hopefully I might read into the black and white fire, then before that the layering of pulp and cellulose, through bark and the irrigation of the tree and willing symbols for life, life. It would be an analytical meditation, the Glory through some philosophical reach, feeling preachment to our impulses which reflect the world by dance and in parry of movement, living. And soon we're all urban folks... There, our narrative of birth and wandering becomes spiritualized perhaps or academic. And this.***********

A contemplative, the one one would be, is entertaining the long leisure in the awe of whiling away, patience given to our temporal saints, all John boys gawking at the spill-over out of this world's accretion to the mirth or calamity of change. So, the margins contenting his and her place of observation can be allegory in the eyes of our chil'runs. Imagine the sober stale concern of literalists--and that of Kerouac's sense of hallucination cultivating young minds had they played in dirt below bowed and splendid sunflowers, fully foliated--why is curiosity ever preempted in fettered emotions? Emotion that only answers the middling consciousness, sleepwalkers to the world promising everything between the tentpoles of reprieve--these days' eschewal, rootless vibe of its hustle and bustle--no reason but to reinvent in her common frustrations. Reinvent. Unless we dare the thoughtful spirit in our eyes to set us right down 'pon the burning sands as guests to the dreamy stuff of being, when will the other place you in its recurring attention.************************* Seems there's a going assumption that Thought is something in the way of presenting what is an intension and consensus monitoring our moment to moment little bump in the road. Krishnamurti famously related, Thought is self-preservation. Getting into a place where one can think is perhaps an attitude offering peak intension looming in some consolation upon the agonist bump. I feel in measured conjurations I went through avenues of so much productive and fecund thought that the higher I find myself in tenuous thinking the more interesting the complexion fully-compelled to reach back toward lush contentment or its complementizing dreigh in these temporal offings. If the Mothership is consciousness, we follow her and toward the eclipse of her movement. I always wonder but union with sight is consciousness reining an observer to the pleasance of release into it. Relationship is the nature of consciousness adducible to vision and mostly withwhich what sensories our minds stay busy fending for colors implicit to our wont and harmonies. Thought is subtly going to confirm over and over again we are rarefying the content of what-is with the dream of being present.******************

******************Turning toward a culture available while I optimate by staying prone to change as it occurs through their wonts and aesthetics, second-nature objects and talismans where I merely imagine I'm in the business of asking, their intensions wouldn't any longer be memory but in active dialect. I care to, while I wonder and be still in patience seating me in anonymity, just recording intensions, thereness, spiritual victuals that would be consumed, ready to toss the menu. So much to learn and absolute fools say more reasons to arm. Yass, no equivocation, security is all our interest. But condemning violence should be assailant more usually here in our communities, not shown to be just what those _____ deserve, as it is rationalized by actual fools getting all clotted up and loyal, sweatin' to be on the Right side, or Left s'posin' regressive Lefties who want to separate doctrine from those who tell us exactly what there is in store for you, mercies and judgments, per that doctrine. The Middle Ground is for moderates, but our goal is how nicely unexpected the equinox of the minds can be shown as an inviting metric in the climate to the Power of all the offenders sucking as they do in the Extreme. Birds of a feather, America.******************People tell me I wash dishes excellently, not just to get out of doing them, but after the dish-, silver- and glassware mitigate whether a new meal is up for preparation, sitting there mood-operative illumining home sweet home. Susie and I alternate getting our domicile's things done. She's keen with the compliments and I couldn't do anything again merely for myself, which I imagine in something piercing memory like evaded killing-floors among sleepwalking chattle and a fenceless precinct to my wandering is just been opened. Some neat tea cup or probably Mom's little Pyrex casserole dish emerges and I almost conversate with it - then telling my spirit I'm not actually this dish as my mouth in little unsalient or diminutional movement mummers unknowable phrases, pebble upon my tongue is visualized and birds of distress get lifted. Arraying of Mom's grace certainly these shined-out pots and pans, cleaned and ready with tradition toward diet consciousness and annual recipes are the foods I consume with culture as its revenue.**************

Kinnuyim, you mekkavanim.

People tell me I wash dishes excellently, not just to get out of doing them, but after the dish-, silver- and glassware mitigate whether a new meal is up for preparation, sitting there mood-operative illumining home sweet home. Susie and I alternate getting our domicile's things done. She's keen with the compliments and I couldn't do anything again merely for myself, which I imagine in something piercing memory like evaded killing-floors among sleepwalking chattle and a fenceless precinct to my wandering is just been opened. Some neat tea cup or probably Mom's little Pyrex casserole dish emerges and I almost conversate with it - then telling my spirit I'm not actually this dish as my mouth in little unsalient or diminutional movement mummers unknowable phrases, pebble upon my tongue is visualized and birds of distress get lifted. Arraying of Mom's grace certainly these shined-out pots and pans, cleaned and ready with tradition toward diet consciousness and annual recipes are the foods I consume with culture as its revenue.************I think sometimes one might see where no one is on this ride and transportation with us. But I wonder if like the blue slumber in Rimbaud's now evoked breach to the gate onto the starved geists merely our shadows found deserving to the cornucopia of an actionable state that that is not only the deep-aside, but we're becoming its agonists as we learn to reform before complacency and sleep.*********** I dig it now. I am what I've done: I bent it; interpreting my clay lopped and fecund. Like Marshall Arisman's buddha-dog person, made of door screen material introduced to crowds of Americana filing through as the Spiritual Player's concept of Escher's hand divining hand, then let it be funked. Chil'run finger and prod his Smithsonian addition, and the project only then lives up, lights-on the artist's project of his mouldering forms in self-being. It has recreated a vulnerable inherence to category of mind: I am mind of broken reasons for the Earth to accept my roots, as she accepts my roots.. ****

"We shall live again," she assents it's been proscribed. Living must promise the hope for mnemotechnical endurance, then the survivor lasts awhile in the flame of reason, imperative enough to flourish, as if to imagine an All-Answerable being, a Sinaitic acacia alighting the ground beneath its limbs with ant expectorate, a desert of few encounters, strange contours to resource & spiritual wayfarers, or imminence of monadism, hither manna, sugar. "Stretch out your arms... manna falls from heaven, ...the Most-I," cared for those with eyes clouded of wanderers' consciousness, Patti Smith might have seen to it what I had forgotten. And it is this Tree. Living to adduce the contract with Good is the Beauty in the harmonious yoke 'pon our feelings. My mind is the feather come pen lying on its beplumed pillow reception nightly with an inky foreground, "dip in!" she revels like tongues of thought painting the neonic edges to its next invention. ************

My eyes wander past the lesser spaces of lesser dialects than that of this hustle and bustle most of us attend to daily. In-between places neighborhood feral cats populate whose freedom from human touch illustrates my yard in stillness so compelling that I know sun-bathing or wrestling with sleep on proudland in this unusually warm Winter is yet another license as to imagine roaming under her skies. As a boy then young man, living with Mom and Dad, I sneaked out of the house once among handfuls of time taking to the street only when getting home I realized I had been locked out. A lair for overnight emerged in my thinking, a full moon of destiny blankets me in purple coolness. So I went into the garage to lay down with Ruebel, my dachshund, dreaming of his traipse through this living world, so diminutive to uncover his mask as a story's hero, so little asked of him, all I can rally behind was that he had carried something of a message from the dregs of an ancestry expressed out of his little soul, like our friend had been a daemon committed to the spiritual administrators promising our forebearance, that he would tell me just how. His water bowl looked enticing with glittering star shine, reminded me that Carlos Castaneda watched and hallucinated that a canine drinking its fill became neonic and fractalized as it portrayed its energy united with a watery paint of colors determining presence like a world anticipating each move, each gulp and slaver of refreshment. With moonlight's last gleam through the garage back window, I only felt release into its remote flourish, slept deeply after a cigarette ...felt I at least wanted to cry, so lucky being here, I thought, to accompany my dog's libertine wee hours, that they were mine too.*************My hippie anarchist friend and mentor for several years, while he fixed servers or web-hosted and I'd been the haulier of those computers and accessories, will have introduced Jiddu Krishamurti into my thinking while the both of us confer on Mesopotamian archaeologic and urban beginnings, that we would scrutinize those well-spring histories and doubt ourselves as thoughtfully fettered, respectively, trying to rearrange in rather Rimbaud's style to come to some meaning out from an exile of epistolary harmony. My chariot's referee on braking its egression before I'd gotten out of control said toward Krishnamurti's sorta chohan, Put the menu down, and just eat. A sum of his conversation will have come down to a simple prescription while attending to our plate of experience, that just anyone deals with the scrabble of his or her condition not any longer sometimes able to evade thought's condoling distraction, our goal on self-preservation is to stay in relationship. To the head of Sisyphean hillocks, at peak observation, the stone looks imperative to a dramatic fall, and as its purveyor we ask the question, does the will for survival explain this existential role as dreamers shaken from our chimeric garment, the night of our day's long end?*********** Kerouac relates that his body had taken form, that his mind will pass through. For rhythm in whatever is a sense that the surface of expression illustrates my Willful ways, his talk-talk unmesh a world of sounds arriving into something, as I understand the writer's sincerity, that only I would have said, assuming anyone ought to take up the task to mythologize self-being. I barely capture his impermanence poesis, above intro'd, and wish out of the same mind-sore like a fine mind, a flourishing hardly contained fuel of dreams, content to burn in cheek-cool skies. I said once, One moves into Consciousness, relationship, because outside of it, self-preservation remains unrecognizable in our thoughts' ward.************Bill Maher says, "Truth is dead because the internet killed it." So, this redounds with everyone digging that someone in his and her class identification--and consensus egoities--says as much about a would-be sensitive hearing as the next closest thing, the thing about it all, a classical illustration in being socialized. "Social Living is the best," lyrical and the truth of it, makes the intensity out of Reggae sound like the best way in getting full-up, Winston Rodney -Burning Spear- lights on. Light, truth, hai hai, you and you and I are readers in the complement of Babel's Library arguing and musing over our soul's concern in mote ubiquity still like always but revived in an electric sun's intimate smile of warmth. I look at you in cyber truth--though if there was consent one may imagine raw instincts, coveted impulses and some portal on spirit-- and everyone can give a real damn that our world stays compelling if idealized here--our share in media--but because y'all should know, in real love for you, it is good you are with it and of it in this dispensation.***********I'm not a soldier, like my Nativist older brother or former military brother and Dad, or like my brother closest in age, guns (o'plenty) don't provide solace. I haven't yet gotten drawn into CSIs like my Mom always watched and Patti Smith absorbs, as well as detective show genres, in their way of one to one psychology that thread narratives in and out of daily portals. Taking News is always iterating war and rumors of war, which give context for knee-jerking, fairly blind herd mentality and also license on techne--it would be wise to seek this unusual mind-set of such high drama, I know--our conduct are lights over it as passers-by the dead and willing sunderers to the living in rehydrating migrations as core-culture instructors and creators. However now the phantasamagoric Homo ludens can't hold his fellow player to any script, destruction plies effacement rather than reordering. The Directors are ignored; to believe in a god admits to a rite of murder, but fellow congregates can't name the same enemy at the gate. His weapon has already coupled such moribund self-being that we are all becoming swathes of his intimidators.************* I think to get-back, restore and resonate with this moment. And the funny thing is while I iterate or concretize by mantra so to imagine that Now-to-Then objectivity is sometimes easily in my sway, next to attention on breath and unbreakable wonder, I feel even the pattern in passive contemplation is a rabbit-chase by a shore powered in wholeness then only awed by letting-go in winsome rhythm like I'm attaining balance, a rhythm fettering however, lured by it beyond the mesh of the grappling ocean of what-is that it seems usual, relaying to the plain end of the living playground. Suspended by small solace to imagine however I could be acquainted with such and thus Mind, I only feel glad of it - here's my Thanks and Praises.**************I like the Australian questioner, asking imminent Darwinist Richard Dawkins whether "picking-on" folks with religious affiliation would aver those Believers toward their practice or rather it shows them the problem with the infinitely simplistic god that the creative things we do are what scientists are in the business of executing through reason as to why a complex set of physical rules set in motion the proximal living beings within it, making research, rhetoric and perhaps ridicule to enforce this understanding, would actually help.************I'll be watching maybe usually a documentary or any media's proffer of laudable space and feel my eyes imagine being in some odd and lovely stomping grounds to what all and whoever it could be, holding on to the precious sun opening up some citadel with lingering stairways into its embrace, holding, holding, timeless as it were just a few moments imploring an encounter that would have me stay just a little longer. I love good research, non-conspiratorializing histories, just as this one here and now a series over India, The Empire of Spirit, by BBC's Michael Wood really improves the viewer's recognition to spiritual cosmogonies with the sights and lives arising across central and southern India called the Deccan, and everywhere throughout the sub-continent. Several years ago I read P.J. O'Rourke's Rolling Stone's piece about northern India, up into Afganistan from Bangladesh its eastern beginnings discovering a travelogue about the Grand Trunk Road. Not as imminent with a visual escape perhaps as videographed documentaries, the sense of an antiquation still threatening evanescence but on-going actually is befitting the emergent memorialized human migrant and chattles' sleep-walking highway with more black and white of the article's revealing print while the slight individual sprites in a world of transformation ambulate in remote patience wave to the sad man prone like the world held afloat on the lagoon of an original paradise standing up in my eyes.**************My feeling on keeping ___?___ things redounding is that they are easy pickings: an episteme somewhat Universal whither necessarily I reinvent had I chased its ideations around the corner - thinking it is more present than that, contriving, I say equally, the musterion unique to their complement's enlistment, while restored into the profound Other, excelsior but not of an implicit family. Because to adjudge perspective makes every thought's stroke in the waters of consciousness an object of broken bridges to this phantom marathon--having taken the river as paces left off from ambitions of any threshold, finding its slow fidelity as my allegory--I only know an inquiry on beyond the beyond of "me" from moment to moment through half-known relics of root pronouncements. This could mean "anything.

"**************Salience is found in the long arm of being present, as surprising as our clay bodies of egalitarian wit to that of its complement in dust and the grace in just getting here. Yoke time, control whiling-away like the priest reining-in the King's horses as the King goads them on to no avail. The Chariot of spiritual allegories, like the Throne well-lofted by one sphere of incarnational probity, both respectively Hindu then Jewish take on impermanence, being restored to One (florid) World. A priestly nation, say, the adherents to Mosaic Law, may have a similar antagonism as the Vedic Ikshvakus of Andra Pradesh, interestingly the region fromwhich hails Krishnamurti, out of our ethical sociations since the populism of Chasidic thought is of untermensch beginnings, and even though community's conduct adduces our Literacy inroads, otherwise an assent to the plight of the unlearned and the mystical arises with them. Populism. My feeling on keeping Yiddish (Jewish) things redounding is that they are easy pickings: an episteme somewhat Universal whither necessarily I reinvent had I chased its ideations around the corner - thinking it is more present than that, contriving, I say equally, the musterion unique to their complement's enlistment, and restored into the profound Other, excelsior but not of an implicit family. The absolutes accomplish absolutes in the other here and impelling, but then may fail, thus a sense to improve oneself through a mean history, wary that a rhyme to yesterday has everyone believe it is the same song - blooms and heals as mythic salve to the storied psyche. Story-tellers' first gate, in my experience, can't be the only gate breached to the forest of my change.**********I'm a Being in lush service to the artist, lured to understand techne blowing in our faces with imminence or without its imperative mounting just so, it feels much like cool air on our eyes, so one blinks away--sight rekindled--adjures her last leisurely scan of what-is with only decrees of certainty. Santana is on the mix plays on Between Good and Evil, Practice What You Preach, another sweet land proud song. Soul aerobatic, not "acro...," airy and positive, symphonic but raw, individuality survives out of it as to proffer Americana mythic & creative impulses ameliorating cloudy then cloudless or pug marks on ancient trails to the writ of conscious maps all gathered to the tent of Aum.**********The priest who first fully developes the concept of Karma, Yajnavalkya, is reckoned in Wendy Doniger's book, The Hindus. Just as all manner of vice is given good amplitude, while something affirming one experience I've had in lucid dissipation gets done in full low-down, calling the high that really lasted, is elasting because theoria feels "big" concerning deep bounds in askesic wonder, giant spaces gratify like in dialect with the entirety of my being. Well, no, there is no regular feeling of monadist appreciation that I've become somehow universal. Still, one may be prone to the gravitas of plain knowing. The unusual feeling is having a reference in hopefully an observeable release from habit of self by the force or subtlety through shadows' discernment as I look within. Soma seems to be fly agaric, according the Doniger's research.