There's the door. You're always the 1rst out of it.

"Life as we know it is full of sorrow" begins a book introducing the 8 fold path in meditation. I'm inclined toward thoughtless rosy-colored mourn if to discriminate abyssal memories in lure of more unanswerable things. Lumbering upon a bridge toward attention on sober declamations everyone knows this is no where. The rivulet willowy melting air on a lonesome highway seems to promise furling travelogue, breath bound in colorless grasp and space, into release where I live to meet point B, & everyone else evermore certain on the horizon's two threads. The bread of my brow has all the lament mushed into her symmetry. My cultural intensity is time corralled in the well-being of my history, while no one gets where I've come from: I'm programmed to imagine a solitarian tear out plenitudinous sky-fountain origins. With no acquisitive motive, I & We, conscious crowd could answer that--I'm no more than a splay of sentient furniture dumped into an outward fact of annoying mean & maya.************** ****I'm outside. Outside society--a long-distance run a ways away. Rock n Roll is self-realization effort. No help, not really if I'm equus/ashvin led, hand on my shoulder, and I'm alighted to dull air. Air is my existential garment. Futile and transparent. Dull air, sometimes magnetic & unusual: D. Byrne lyricked on Fear of Music, "some people never had experience with air." Chorus: "Air air, Air, air." I'm ill to suspire in it less than I'm cloud clarion, in suspense. The rivulet willowy melting air on the lonesome highway seems to promise furling travelogue, breath bound in colorless grasp and space, into release where I live to meet point B, & everyone else evermore certain on the horizon's two threads. **********************Life is a conversation. One has all the intonation a persona, her long ends, are lent in sum narrative becoming. So what of no content & space & time alight like big dream floats take notice? The mantram of sounds miscellany, arrival, the word apple having fallen--it's fallen and ready to imagine in its tree epicurean counsel: the diet of consciousness, what one frames as resource & experience immured in its taste, sensorial power.*************************You spit in the sky, it fall in your eye. You keep a snake in one basket. What is more lending of change, likeness or image? Prohibitions in fascinan's potency like hot shade, like cornerstone exquisite dust in paradisaical silence, the tea leaf clouding one its 4 libations. Equality is a state of mind once her couch of consciousness burns in patient conviction seat of awareness took breaking an ascendant's legs akimbo, breath reduced to air, air stolen out to blue of the dome filtrating temporal denizen song of songs to the lash and mummer of space.*******************Grandmother spider finds her way thru my eye. The fly above me, I'm sitting on this fb blue colored carpet, tho' space pre-cyber, guffaw alliterate, maggot brain salah al-badan (=judeo-arabic for liberation of the body.) Wander arboretum only for strange strangling grasshopper, in her skillful effort to burn in my chest, show me breathless stars, fiery lungs.****************I need the perfect sands to lay my head. I know where. It is actually a place, golden colored ground of consciousness. A place of my making, 5yrs of this now 8 yrs later thrum relationship bullshit. My basement flat, cave transcience with its birth opening. Her conversation cloud sluice post-Orthodox word technology aero ride bombast, all a bored yiddishkeit, and still her mischief and damn her stillness, & my flight.********************Egressed certain toxic emotionally nigh margins, putting the menu down. Talking to serpentine sundarban waterside Zindapir (Saint of the Sind or Indus) like in a daydream V.S. Naipaul, Rory Stewart, Alice Albani styles the telegraphing East. Green deep where infecting eyes transparency yet past glassy lost surface, agency must live monadic and elemental, creative like a window cutting off abyssal gait, Rilke conversant meeting his peon & nurtured teacher/student on his supra-temporal path meandering animist spirit bodies of water musterion. Where else but in the insistence of water merciful and esteemed paradisaical--it is Tawwasuf/Sufi.*********************Scratch toasts, All things are possible when you are really unable. Some say, & agree, to be self-aware be happy. It is also other and sustenance. And while happy nothing happens (say "without" so benevolently) but star assemblage and intramural common sense contest with dream. Sounds arriving louder, in the corner of an ophan's room, the circular angel human market place augury seat of awareness overstanding of expression. In colors brighter.***************My old Russian professor's wife came to the shop this am. I see a rare life - the while I spent around campus post vagaries toward a degree rather exercising likely academic goals, but intoning certainty she mirrors in collusion, the reach of my well-being if only alliterative, bookish contemplation. I step into a magnetic web, reduced to lost time, viable tho' if episteme shows itself. She's a teacher--that's all I need to know. Finality of some peak language visibility in all but 10% of what mind contests in wandering sea thru the skein of sky chrome on her surface--I would take in every paltry ocean-drop over again to suspire in mindful days enlisting thoughtful shelter on this ply-career in all the reading I tease out of halcyon kaleidoscope.

Quit Cigs in the Month of my Birth, I'm now 47.

Fire and the infinite sadness. I wish there was something to sacrifice in deprecare of apathy. A broken heart is blind. I can't record my dreams--her fuse is to conflagrate otherness into plaintive nothing. ************Arendt depicts Plato, who fears the ridicule in all laughter. "When we laugh we pay for all the innocent blood, that they shed everyday, oh chilrun mark my word, it's what the bible..." is Marley poised under the tremendum of similar idea. ** I went to family day at IBM, Dad's work. The mirrors, having replaced hubcaps, globular on the corners in the avenues of machine floor, never 'flect my visage making me feel meta-physically incidental, just mundi strophic from objective reality veils bellowed out of bright lights in fractured hallways. ************I think in ways of media's psychology. Becoming objective by not acting on a sense of following up with contemporary cache the latest news and everything else may vaguely have me introduce what passive edutainment causes me to turn to, name-your-talking heads. Yet I am reduced to banner ethics brought to the denial of distances to imagine uneven reason that I am curious why the visual industry stays viable. The art may replace choice while the machine is conducting consciousness. *********I dream; I live and dream--I'm living a dream. Tic Toc Teac voodun stylee-- I doff my hat to Scratch. ...there were neighbors doing cloud mischief behind house-fronts. Nite-vision pantheon now assenting in definition of "people" as if otherwise I would've assumed the mirror of bland echos, slightly side-stepping me a dozen-over, or not 'pon the otherness one is not really alone, acts only on his own behalf so feeels certain his solitarian ethos stains something true to physical success. I'm at work sitting comfortably then, Ascent of M... splurbing in my ill-attention (youtube) to waste a feeling on elaborate historiography cinema albeit educational probity, a discipline marketing of world artefact, or watch it later. Beginning a new book, strong feeling in me, about Sefardic Golden-Age and then the muck of what is in between us and then, words ghiyar, gur, ghetto. And the frenetic emblem within this dream, pacing almost running overtly from the seam of the 'burbs, the once lived bottle of coke I found 10yrs on from its litter-grounds, by the creek 'magine a branch of Elkhorn, there it is, cokeless. ***********I should read Hannah Arendt, The Life of the Mind, or The Jewish Writings, some of it for say a portion of numinous in 15-25 minutes of strickened intellection--I should, tho' haven't turned to her in a minute. It would be subject to devisement in elastic or tremoring Gershom Scholem appropriating thought's exercise like I know from Trends in Jewish Mysticism, Mom's book when I first became rancored in consciousness to penetrate magical but crystalline otherness. On the Mystical Shape of the G-dhead is hymnody of wind & the passionate mind mantram catalyst once, while the mystic of conduced life study, teacherly angel, has social scientist rigor from Arendt, leading me to power-spot, goal to this Jewish student. I like how Arendt boils down the refuge of certain thought, and beating her there to the degree that a minor battle on practical awareness in any relic of victory is become salve. She may ever refine "kavvanot"-- meaning "concentration." An executed arrythmic socratic test on thoughts one adjures in luminal expression--thoughts reach for unity by her ledger, acquisitive mind in the median of its fire. *************In one real way being courted by late night pedestrian angel, like a flashlight neonic on peripheral city-scape, on chrome bushes, on walls corralling homes, facade-agency painted even on air, caricatures of everywhere in the world sleeps. I experience the same deficit of say "timeliness" whilst the luminal once raw dispensation from cold-lamp fever had me digest an incensed ancient menu--banal porage, dated & receipt of a newly lived impermanent record. I waken and day-dream surmise, while the world guffaws in her sleep-wonder, necromancer shivite burned. **************I feel stupendous and out of my skin regularly. But, I give myself a few minutes, forget why a regular thing became distracting. Depend on profound techne-forgetting by the ornament of stress, yielding to defecate impatience. I'm weathered by an immediate need for change. No registering ciphering threshold, a moment decisive in what is beyond, but prone and exercised into mean solarity's arm-twisting court, I leave off wrangled by intellection, inspired by offence. *************My cat in old man guise, like stepping stone between my Zadie & Ralph Nader, winked from behind, rather overstanding, the methodically blowing floor-fan. Her aged eyes out of green ever resilient present-aum--she nods toward natural past, trees of their first evocation in earth, and intellection phantoms. Capsulating the project of one lone brow bowed to familial society of mind. A feline avian mind meows in chimera dust motes, light like a feather. She's the heathen I always want in an animal, culls the office carpet on wooden floors here of her fur she could have more easily lapped off her meticulous mane. No doubt her physical success is the project in these four corners of her pug paths. Train percussion of this moment in daliance, patternic temporal boot-step in a wave of silence, a shore of nigh climate--thunder-rain & railway jamming usual traffic thrum--all heavy & weightless "being" at once, is wrangled into observer upon observer, watchman time, house-maiden angel...a gift I was promised, and a recent conversation of good repair. ************I see the difference between perceived society and actually the concretized egoity of belonging. Once "otherness" is undeniable identity becomes non-distinct. Check my life if I am in doubt. I don't know society through my filter comes across as the appreciable silent sought-refuge, story of river-dwelling, song in chimera mountain written in the sand media of its eventual alluvial garment. When time crystallize absolute spirit by being in the climate of denial's same sea. ***************In what light when folks point to the word journey do I imagine merit by any definition of change? In the shade of time in approbation and control, light-step--and knowing I'm loose, and triumph through broken chains and adjure broken-ness. I hate doing here what travelling by crystalline goal in different activity, generating novel patience, or upon what "other" moment in objectivity my life is become. When theys shirts look well-formulated, as comfortable as the definition left in places of glyphic repose. Human market place; intellection in ashen 'flect of conscious stars. 4 directions all accomplished in once a refined bloop of good artefact in time. ...of a precipitous step, before tangled in the roots of wild agencies, the chaos of TV eye boundless in blank cyber lights everything tropic in wailing iconoclast conquest move from antiquity. ***********No more sequential art, script, say pursuant of cultural relevancies. Rather reading from linear newspapers and nothing subterranean about it. I always desire luminal, symmetry trick. Book of life, chapters of dreams, symmetry in the glitter and daliance excess like desire in the brain--the theoria gland--machine of catharsis, thine heart emptying in wooden eyes--if the sad man would stand behind the inflated tear. Imagine BMW when Rasta conveys fulfill the book, one must. I'm as likely to commit to timely nature on book of life by as few symbols as memoria alights. ***********If I am wandering in the cosmic house by day, I scale its facade in dreams by night.************** *********Without any thought on formal introduction, I wrote the following a few minutes ago which would sum bastardized Asian narrative, to good effect, which again will have turned me around when I was very young (by uncertain memories) in shrouded-wanderer fascinans, I hope. The following: What is the concept evoking the face of Fu Manchu? Orientalist cinema from mid 60s--Ireland. Maybe a visage of impermanence, to put it into serene, lost like Rimbaud emptying his mind in streams of thrum terminus, halls furled in layers of eternity. Yass, woe is death; wisdom in rank throes by its commission. Life never hesitates if one's reckoning is its esteem. "Death to all who fight." Scratch, I think once toasted. Triumphal Rasta in banner dispatchment "dentity." If it makes any sense at all memorialized space is at last a ghost-town, like convenient thought, everything in its climate of power topples the effect in superable chastisement. **********egoity & neurosis* *praises & manufacturing motive* Any sheltering of "me" brings on neuroses--to think of the landfill, what you must defend there. If only successes--& yet all the acquisitive certitude to wager goal toward truth: "It make no sense at all to say where we used to work. It make no sense to say how much he [?] had earned, [...] to say what you used to do. It's not what you earned that make you a man --it is what you keep that make you a man," are Desmond Dekker's lyrics off of Fu Manchu, reveals a place abyssal egoity might level out. How negotiable if not superable is one's philosophy of self-reliance? Most complete thought, subtle nomenclature of function & normalcy, having manufactured motive and whose yield living is posit memoria out of avidya pocket, just seems like I'd give a damn that pillars of consciousness are not collapsing, so I only praise. *************Under this constant daily guffaw of a black escher-like tree in the mural, on my bedroom wall, w/a dragon and acolyte 'pon a flying carpet with portal, one morning I wake up and realize unconscious stress, rather immediately in evidence as pressure I feel on the left side of my head. I was ready. I knew it meant phenomena that just takes persisting on an experience that will have all the irreality of a sense of being out-of-body. My nephews are throwing baseball and they were in no way showing me deference, making me think I was rather phantom-like. I walk under the arc of their replete martial sanction that that ball may have my head as a target--reinforcing the magnet and marionette draw of mind fluctuating out of matter. Unchallenged and slightly confirmed in my fluent transparency I walk past into the neighbor's driveway, place my hands, as it were, upon an aerobatic prop, lift myself up rather lying supine but in the air while grabbing dark hands grapple to sustain my repose-- I'm thinking digital fetters in license begin to restrain me weirdly as an imposture. I jump down, extremely satisfied I had smuggled in some sense of my potency in lucid state with all the plaintive dalliance of a long-distance dispensation. ***************Getting up from my chair at work, usual and bleary, I feel like waking is more of a surprise. Just maybe I'm not quite as synapse-wrought, fully in my skin, without acuity too-quickly gearing-up to do the handful of things I would execute. I've only half realized my body as a device of consuming experience. A caprid's head to the deep-aside, were my feet precipitously trying to find same exclusive point of revered high-ground. The bright orange that clots my eyes from scrutinizing the back of my head, tho' not what I expect, probably means I'm a sun-devil. Once feeling this way, teeth on the nail of the picture, the tones of conversation and thru auditive margins, rises--eddies, but no content, skin-toned corporeal images of horns in visual-field, seeing "what" hears--clearly I, and now phenomenally I'm alighted to call & response whose-nomenclature like big floats take notice. ************very existence, meaning his under threat, I have a different solicited guarantee to solar-particulated amphora wine-dark sky--my blessing is his plaintive respiring.**************************************************A bridge offers the pedestrian adulant sky-prone possibilities. Not having gotten over somewhere. Replace bridge synonymous w/gate and put the caprice of language whose potency ought to excersize one's margins for the likely pleroma standard: distance reliably enlists relationship--the more artifact of a river's journey for her, the sate of his goal is release. Cloud attention, if upon a broken bridge. *******************Free man but under the auspices of his juvenile wisdom retrieved. The intensity of reviled escape--his own. While intensity would be enlisted. Warrior but not striven--free man who designs his own vitality-- only to have the climate of the greater will emboldened. The vessel, the machine, replacing choice. What Mr Hall the Clock-maker (whom I met) furls in the contest of my umbrella shelter of time reifying my physical success, is the nature of all informal meditations. Your prayers are born to estimate the halloo of your earliest thoughts. A day within a day - you speak, I feel. If she keeps comin', she's over. When sense of life defined as the bridge toward transcendental awareness, as arising with the writ of spirit in the material or mind redounds thru iconoclasm--why not something with more receipt than just how I feel? Imagine the socio-trance; ugly modalities refining everyone conspiratorially: culture can be an ancient lens to unpack what this life has become in the maya of the present. Bears who swim in dreams are unconscious impulses ill-defined as anthropos. In evidence by the animicules of eye apparitions almost beating the futility the mind, self-asserting, nature's son, would be as ebullient and bold thru the architect of objective reality--but isn't. Why say the deer drinks replenishing water for anybody? ************

Triune memoria of Oranges: Yafo, Prokofiev, & a winter's sun

BLue mOOn of Ky: As close as I wanna get to J Kerouac's "ooing moon" to see its gift in valleys of earth, it seems to me the moon looks down and wayward into the sky--walks backward, ventral translator of my harvest. Gleaming and like a yafo orange, its 'flect comes thru like temporal curtains are tied off, thick tree boughs become veins in their thrum, made its night-event as relishing of companionship as some craven dog. Doesn't inspire its star sisters, but enjoins her earth in a facade lassou of stability. Eternally down-pacing to reach us but then to eclipse the horizon. Receding perhaps, but like sky-fountain whirl-pool in the intense ink newly defined nothing, it smiles to unite with us again in its pondering path tarrying region to ocean's fellowship into regions again. **************Me in the west bank, in a G-d's country: Walk over toward the date tree, not close enough, just dreaming it the while. "Like this, g-d," I say. ...not as alone then, then! but ellipsis timely now in the denied promise - the reaping responsible-world over me, to endure my plod and fool's sisyphus witness to Mt Haroon, no corporeal wail of the eponymous Aaron. Moshe of infirmed expression--Balaam's doing, and mind of calamitous artifact thru musterion, to verse a halloo across the desert floor in that phase moment, watchman to an unearthed specter in "other. All the specter of unread mind topoi, anonymous tongues of unheroic teachers, leaving ground of experience for ablutions to its wanting-- the pug marks in contours of habit are my scars. My traipse is inconvenient. I can imagine suspiring in deer's lair and as if Salvador Dali paints the room of one's pilgrimage goal just past (into that space) an astrolabe when the pirate prises its data to impress it by curse or secret into the heavens above. ***********My mind just said, "Be in a good mood," and like an on-light I am. I nod incredulous to flangy thought consolation, why would I tell me what to do? What is the last thing having gotten me here...and so more convincing-- isn't manufacturing motive the agon of inner-scrutiny? I can't just do modality and provenance thus. I trial her through my unrecorded shrouded tracks--whose porte in convivencia is found in our fray noted without stella of sentient greed to overstand antiquity --by gainsaying languish in the climate of power, the happiness defines everything beautiful, and the tableau recedes. ***********Either one in the crowd reckons strangely the same-sea, or the decisor fluent passage, rather alighted as a vessel, one is, only living in a dream in a sea of possibilities. The perfect sun lighting the glory in desert void of its surface to the verb of its rally 'pon the stars--vapors to vapors--lashes with slavish origins the paint of the moon musterion true. At the coffee shop, late, an interesting LP techne lure comes to mind. Visual to beautiful noise, chromo values like social narrative, so something formless, would be mantram to umbrella concept, word's clarion gate. *********In Alison's family room , more usually promontory around X-mas, we'd sit and muse into the wee hrs. An elegant peach colored X-mas tree looking kaleidoscopic & pure against the nether blue night of universalized Lexington, rather blanched of meaning, airwaves to be dug yet in what it should communicate. Her veil of concern leaves conscious artifact evolving until in dream-state I find the character of my change in that setting: she's assented to frame the obsolete moments, the memorialized space where I sit prone in quietude, lone, and in waning expectation by way of dreamt-genesis the room annihilated in time, remaining a conscious satellite. She's not to enter and convene unanswerable questions to my inevitable continuity I live by adjuring a different faith in relationship. Valerie isn't taking place in my hidden consciousness behind the door of what would-be. Rather like cornerstone once ineffable in the ground truant to inter my desire, Valerie makes real, shining smiles in holy lightness of being. ***********"Religion survives by the enforced ignorance, as to say an informed choice denied, through our young." Daniel Dennett. Imagine the well-being of one's history without favoring your particular creative agency as its origin--contrasting so that there's space for self-actualization principals understood from without. If one is present and would survive an artifact in the illusion of our record of impermanence whether as part of his imagination or a sense of things appreciating in time place and community, then the "observer" is first and last rational while sorting out the other of presence, the very thoughts feelings and actions as allegory to higher ground. Spirituality is rational. The awe is expected. The idea of Believer in terms of Western core-culture if crowd's "believer" isn't closed off thru analysis of early X-tianity -I recommend The Closing of the Western Mind, Charles Freeman - the fire licking at Abraham in Nimrod's cauldron, if we adjure what open-mind is, is like a sister-faith imagining the Great Father cooled by lotus flower here. And what is higher ground? The present moment revealed--as to say presence enlisted--spirituality is the enumerating mind in a vessel to fill the very concern of Now: it is rational to consider the device and journey however immediate for experience as certainties in I & Nature. Hopefully her own. Nature elucidates spirit or an agon techne in explanate egoity ***********Feeling confined on a white-clay path, this dream enlisting thought-world of my trek up into Coomer's Ridge at Red River Gorge, this morning I rode down Parkers Mill the template of its diminution where I follow. In the dream the path visually seems furled but my consciousness processes like a step to come is renown only upon the impact of my last footfall, leaving me as some curious geist unchaperoned how I know a path but without any intuition why I'm on it. The looking-glass of whispers and glances, I'm looking laterally side to side at the hilly fields, which are like warnings I won't remain in dream-state, while I harvest thoughts on the assent of complacency. This corridor of mental nomenclature had parchment ground-of-consciousness, like leaf detritus & limestone making naked bones exposed out of the pitch of earth, its impressions like transient narrative of paradise out of the gravid expanse of farm-fields, feral-nature compared to what actually encroaches into Lexington's margins, the places of my making. ***********Under this constant daily guffaw of a black escher-like tree in the mural, on my bedroom wall, w/a dragon and acolyte 'pon a flying carpet with portal, one morning I wake up and realize unconscious stress, rather immediately in evidence as pressure I feel on the left side of my head. I was ready. I knew it meant phenomena that just takes persisting on an experience that will have all the irreality of a sense of being out-of-body. My nephews are throwing baseball and they were in no way showing me deference, making me think I was rather phantom-like. I walk under the arc of their replete martial sanction that that ball may have my head as a target--reinforcing the magnet and marionette draw of mind fluctuating out of matter. Unchallenged and slightly confirmed in my fluent transparency I walk past into the neighbor's driveway, place my hands, as it were, upon an aerobatic prop, lift myself up rather lying supine but in the air while grabbing dark hands grapple to sustain my repose-- I'm thinking digital fetters in license begin to restrain me weirdly as an imposture. I jump down, extremely satisfied I had smuggled in some sense of my potency in lucid state with all the plaintive dalliance of a long-distance dispensation. ************Uh 1000 deaths individually in a 1000 chairs all in different rooms-- and not a stick of spiritual nomenclature in no-mind once of form. Yass, I am just electric to the 10,000 TVs in my head. And I abideth the spiritual tourist, shrouded traveler, mayan propitiator. (Heb. for fountain: mayim is water) Homo Ludens to a machine-vision in late night rendezvous & traipse thru sensorial reflection miles to pace alighting to looking-glass breaths of night dancing in my shoes. Of traffic thrush, swift to inflate silence in blinking air tincture, glyph to ill-caprice on the loading-begun into dreams on new icons behind craning affirmations of buzzing city intimations. ***********Yass, I am just electric to the 10,000 TVs in my head. And I abideth the spiritual tourist, shrouded traveler, mayan propitiator. (Heb. for fountain: mayim is water) Homo Ludens to a machine-vision in late night rendezvous & traipse thru sensorial reflection miles to pace alighting to looking-glass breaths of night dancing in my shoes. Of traffic thrush, swift to inflate silence in blinking air tincture, glyph to ill-caprice on the loading-begun into dreams on new icons behind craning affirmations of buzzing city intimations. ***********biblacy and the yasss jazz of the deep-aside-- "Find my daughter, walk her down the lost highway." Peter Rowan making sworn and wind-cast leaves of grass where I collapse in my Laban prophecy, dispensation 'pon incarnation burnt even in November rain, her concern in the splay of her consistent rain. The Long Lonesome Highway (Natalie Goldberg) whether something in it or not a prototype in her spirit is subtle lens thru anything she'd have me martyr, vapors to vapors--shadows in my eyes to sister's fate of a dream. I wish physical memory would make confident this resolve to be the homunculi egoity samyasin in whatever irony Rushdie makes spectral in Midnight's Children, meaning diminutive by degree, creaturely & rare, implicit watchman on the most stupendous of unconscious impulses--more socratic, stirring the dusty veil of prohibiting fascinans. ************My love is fertile like the swamp off of Lake Travis. Rich and dank, recessive even in the hot Texan sky. By g-d if this is to be the Persian pardes, paradise--what became favored, soul back then into today's "core-culture," (what one calls a memory and goal of it) whence I would wake and inhere--by the risible fire I stepped into hot coals. 1970. The space my love leads me through and generating, is damaged, & fetters me in repute of the crime. Still she is the center of my world world from without: hear within tat, know all the worth from a coarse fray solace in my liquid eye almost unpresent, apophatic of the lamp eminence of this dream. ************While falling asleep a king and waking as butterfly illustrates the king is become aerobatic to his former pedestrian reign. He defies the hero, allows the world in, in the confidence of the protagonist. On the razor's edge the book of life is exchanged for a broom or the electric duppy (rasta for doppelganger, looks decisor by simplicity) of nature. ************Moody Blues' House of 4 Doors comes on and I'm truly imagining a full stomach. The gloss and inflated glory, with deference & promise, Mom's home-cooking almost everyday, menu set-down, the crime of my caprice has me commend her savory usual fare. I use the word "mantram" but in context. It means word{s} of no content recited as catalyst to reveal word{s} of definition: "Eating my heart out with stupid day mummer mantram." Mummer of the day is mantram: the substance of one's conscious state starts fragmented, one's more usual enlistment of self-knowledge. A thought: It is unimaginable whether media/ pop sinewy human passion delivers me - appertains to a life lived or unlived? Consciousness is the most refined state of nature--and consciousness is been denied the content of all beginnings. If time exists only after the Big Bang and not before, "awareness" is negligible to primacies, said Creator in anointing his defense of one's contract with good, if the ascendant would refuse reason. Transient or Receptacle: always Who am I, with no sense of "what this life has become?" Scholem Aleichem. ************If Tolstoy wrote in his most present mind in the public square, I am the pedestrian leaving tracks he may have dreamt, follows into encantation. In his cloud-attention the contract with good he will have had w/her, takes place in ciphering seasons of bazaar floors, go-light of a candle's mind-room success. His remote but concurrent privy is by extension only a lateral move and toward a renunciate Jesus if passive resistance philosophy appreciating Gandhi's bhakti is become X-tian witnessing. Two yrs before my Pap was born whom I knew into the 70s, in 1894 Tolstoy had published his The Kingdom of G-d Within You. One is an accretion of compassionate agencies, but rather its conscious satellite, within some crystal palace (I glean from Fydor D. Notes From the Undergroundman) revealing a would-be ubermensch who anoints ole brown (of the true hero) of another man's footfall. ************Sometimes porch-sitting, or rather in the garage facing the clash and thread of traffic, cars slaking the peristaltic road --do it by paces; thrusting forward as if to match cardiac pulses in my eyes by measured light-steps. Enough to observe barely the discovery valence in some one car, that moment before, in surveillance A day of nothing precipitate, onto the neighborhood roads between me and the niece's school, I go to park next to Southland pool and walk over Mary Queen's run-off creek, tadpole denizens survive, crawdads in perfect alien spelunking netherward becoming. Purple deadnettle patches like lawn marmalade deliver a sense they really have no seasonal esoteric concealment (going away is human tribulation), should have never been forgotten. If my eyes pulse to impress its respiring attribute--wind lashing supine from today's clouds flouting what we know of Spring , our weeds are flush and tremulous on the hill up to the back and side leading up to chil'run caramelized only to be cleansed in chlori-nation's pool--parks & rec crew up to task, there now. Unmanifest steps, intuited as emanate footfall--elegant weed-flowers bow while looking back past sky-breath and the pug-mark of chrysalis heart in fracturing plash where eyes answer in visual repair. *************Lee Scratch Perry's layering vox, dubby effects, has good dynamic auditive chambers to meditate on, performing on the mind in his Rasta specter. The 1rst two cds I bought--cds of late 80s-- Thelonius and the voodun priestly Tic Toc Teac, his Message from Yard, rallies in strong artifact in my thinking to date. But then as yantra (devise) in my coarse thought in discipline/self-awareness, framed "thoughts" in a rather concretized theater. I imagine coral shifting, lumbering as if from one pivot, tireless noise & creak of heavy twisting cardboard. I felt corrugated, sensorial interior-spaces within the walls of immense tableau. I held a wooden match above my forehead moving it laterally back and forth, broke from its enlistment, did it again. My tea glass had Geraldo obfuscated at my side, volume off, and a few sips left of tea. I'm thinking it just tastes like fulminate sight of our kitchen while the menu of mundaneity & specials are lapsed, it's at my back--a different tea in the sleeping vessel. ************

Saoshyant-mithra-meshiach.

If you're asking for social cues - If incompetence is denied in the renown of conspiracy crapulence - If you can't stand to be told to change your mind - If you are still a hero in your concensus trance of egoity - What light exquisite dust is forest of life in the ground beneath you feet? When was self-reflection formless conjecture? When did your pen become a weapon to dispatch your contrarian geist, of vaporous agon, met only by her trace symmetry? You'll see true myth, breathless pleroma where it has been written. Birth marked, check; lazy-eye, check; nicotene jack, check Chagal's Smoking Jew. I'm alighted to her trance trace bloom without escape, there really is no where. How can this be? Cloudy day in the lucent pale shelter of refraction. The bread tastes like old eggs, sometimes rare to forget the sense acuity. Today, my water tastes like rain imparticulated, or the smell & sate of a nigh sidewalk puddle. Imagine just a slight tincture of the anthrax-lived earthworms surfacing on the tendrilly neighborhood sidewalks. One should take the sense that everyone's differences are kaleidoscopic--meaning a good thing... criticism notwithstanding. I says to my brother just getting citizenship, had stayed here a no. of months: Check me if I am in doubt (banner emphasis): I am likely rt he's atheist, said as much. I had similar strict mormon conspiracies (per the coming ideation) reifying when those magical-thinkers dug the airwaves, tho' more incindiary. ha! This is good. So imagine papal american in fact, latino, latinos like bucket-head M. Rubio looks-deep, left and riGHt, rarely into crowd prone spell, but corralling as-if all-comers from the scary pale margins. Then Santana repeats some Urantia benevolent what happened to the aspirant is worship via whatever, unless the word Lord is pronounced Lawdy. And now the unevent of a more nativist cold-cool dude. teac toc aumsat -- tat I'm seeing Cheech Marin in the effervescent smile in any number middle-aged female populists on these intervening insurance & pharmaceutical commercials watching msnbc. It must be circadian sight. I'm inclined to believe and rather not believe the glint of human plastique emotions in the terminal eye as part of a natural dialect--despite the veil of perception in its trace making suspect my lightning lip. A blissful maw on the face of cold media, her molten voice solicitous of decisor product, inane behemoth americana wrought continuity. TV irreality still can't compete with the 1000 in my head: TV lava piles as gems in blandishing lighted field, or one flashlight focuses into the plenitude threaded refraction without all of mind-assembly arising in radiance at once.**************To task in senses esteem for the redolent ink off the pgs of National Geo--desert, India, things Jewish, things Muslim, things Russian, the alteros and bajeros discovered in this anthropology book laid amongst some I collected. Talked to a couple wonky nickle & dime bound dudes, got taken for paying twice one dude's price for the rare ones I wanted. An article about Iranians spraying tar-oil effulgence across swathes of their desert, which promised to inhere the moisture beneath ensuring a flowery placation over once dispirited landscapes. I would see contrarian desert bloom in Death Valley among the salt licks upon my visit, its merit is this rare climatic visage. Arabic for happiness is sa'adyah--not sad, my stumble recommend, bumbling issuant to cultivate as much--stumble as in a consistant meditation 'pon what there is to relish wailing in the orchard of existential burden and being glad. Studies erupt in memory of the the Arabic for happiness. Sorta proud-land well-travelled me city-slicker ciphering nature in media whiling away. Time on my hands.************--Flurries romance the road, in the dark, my am. eye's review skirting layers, feathers falling-- --Musterion bad brain weathering gyps channels this season-- --A crowd of black birds peck and dither in the backyard-- --the most cryptic of mind-- --shore is past languish into-- --the counsel of lazy mind-- --the yard looks like a dank seed bank-- --a high aloft crow is chased from prising what he wants from Ky's ogreish assailed yard-- --The rusted sleeping tractor lends the refrain of nature's venue-- --Its blue/green grassy slumber inaugurates plaintive sacerdotal impermanence, avian born netherly chimera-- --the shulamite enlists my repair in the garden thru a dream outside a guffaw pellucid window-- --Reddish limby, embowering, thru trees vascular gaze, overstanding by winter's heavy fingers, one's mind is quieted in scaffolds of nature-- *****************My bro closest to me slightly over a yr with his rage and proper dragon nose to incite an angry yid partisan, an enemy of the Black 100 while martialing in the eye of the Dao poingant in its ward, the yard we made in his furies abreast sysiphus dreamer of. Incendiary mind of anthro-agni-content contrarian to formative receipt on the nature of his cannibalist say Joshua renown--just makes the animal in geist passporte to humanities ettiquette in social science. As explicit as Anasazi moderating the tacit raw suzereign in human instinct, aboriginal receivers of the committed americana backyard. Timeless backyard unique in making the cold-lamp winter moon inveigh pillow-armies of leisure at the profane, by evincing the curious vitae libations of cellular memory, blood. In a cup and carried around this blood, all day and in the vessel that is chosisme journey involving what I proffered fending off tref, rather anything I'd have to see again, made blood seem vain in its potent krill-brew. A styrofoam dixie cup. His perhaps stolen bike, something else "before" the crysalis of religion's similar journey. On my early 70s then restored Schwinn 10speed in a loop out past the airport pendulum swing apposite my Beaumont neighborhood, I get to Little Texas and a tremendous report from gun blast raps past my gaunt frame--I thought I get to die... now.....? Washed up from the intensity to escape, by the end of yasss Dedman Ln --not just poetic device--I look at my arms imagining full physical success. A tobacco barn is in front of me toiled by live-long elements, black and splintered, hushed right upon the road's margins. Looking at my back tire, it had blown and apparently with explosive force... Trees finesse into this mediate palette, eating air - burning in my chest, nodding into the pitch of my throttled heart, and now the gray refrain in every glance in all the days hence molds to recesses in ever courted tableau, interior trance. Objective reality all restored in almost unrecorded earthly bloom.************What otherwise is death & dying, I'm not seduced at weaknesses funeral: I'm positive. --the most cryptic of mind-- --shore is past languish into-- --the counsel of lazy mind-- Misty morning: egressed en het enyeh/ thanks & praises by the castle of my eternity. The pharonic phrase now defined is by a tear of extreme patience...the begin in the begin. I come dragging in here early this morning, my head still thought conversing before the commission of white-noise silence rent from drizzling rain. I go into one of our work-station rooms, sit in the cat's chair and stair at the ground. Now drifts of sounds arrival start registering but I can't find it externally. Like a myriad message born out of thought's ameliorating vox, I still don't reckon a daemon reception. I glance at my shoes and then the sense of recesses emptying of fraying concern lends the present moment. Just ole brown getting done with tromping gray morning, "charged" corporeally, my neighbor's feet of a 90 yr old man it seems. My father's gait is become mine, but apposite rabbi's (now passed...) clomping footfall, his presence alights in the shul's halls frustrated in diabetic diminution deterring his ambulation--soul vendor, sephirah father. Like liturgy generated from inverse approach--an over-turned bucket, whose contents sate scholarship goals would be a long-distance run ineffably relicked giant leaps. Other environ's trek is time abbreviated (shrouded traveller fascinans), space lost in it like me a stranger coveted in uniform black film unrisen sun's earthly nearly unrecorded bloom.***********The propriety to filch something around campus just provoked me to gainsay this event (I stole an iron doorstop--mid 90s--put it back weeks later). I'm always respiring in Pence Hall to study, aum uncontrollably in sounds arrival clash absorbing and fracturing continuity in rather an analytical meditation (coarse lilting presence). Chromo mean, letting go in daylight specter, in all rallying sensorial hypothesis but ebullient yawn of yellow summer mashes a spectrum into suturing roads comely exteriorizing. Grays dry in a visual anomaly, white and black ash the dreams sundering night, wakeful in the neo-mundane lens of days plying monist--there were others gods, but I knew of only one Mercy. LIGHT plateau - dark CORRIDOR; white black white black: I watched what I saw! The last TIME we gave ourselves to the moment may have been our last reFLECTion before the veil of tears reMINDed us that IT had been a Karmic death. A place in the climate of academician power, my own vehicle. On my early 70s then restored Schwinn 10speed in a loop out past the airport pendulum swing apposite my Beaumont neighborhood, I get to Little Texas and a tremendum report from gun blast raps past my gaunt frame--I thought I get to die now. Washed up from the intensity to escape, by the end of yasss Dedman Ln I look at my arms imagining full physical success. A tobacco barn is in front of me toiled by live-long elements, black and splintered, hushed right upon the road's margins. Looking at my back tire, it had blown and apparently with explosive force... Trees finesse into this mediate palette, eating air - burning in my chest, nodding into the pitch of my throttled heart, and now the gray refrain in every glance in all the days hence molds to recesses in ever courted tableau, interior trance. In me now labyrinthine--not raising the stakes to convene a center, however blandished, haze-interred without. ***********Since X-tians suppose water is once transformed into wine, in a similar tho' unconscious impulse when I sneaked glugging down milk from its bottle out of Mom's refrigerator, somewhere between a sigh and a wail I'd encant "whiskey" to fawn appetite in the valley of my tongue. Laterally but now in more refined diet consciousness, soy milk (what I can drink w/o allergic symptoms) has become milk. Cultivating space: a compass of self-reconciliation: Does one divine physical success like the stone on the tongue to sate thirst? So, appetite molified. And as one experiences having just arrived doesn't body consciousness redound creaturely and vital like sight is bluey pleroma and eyes observe from solar satellites? Mountains solution incumbent singularity: you are not alone near pinnacles availing and wrought. Residing in everywhere unmet desert distances repair an ascendant prodigy... If nothing's got your back in an arabia--note Dali's subject with his hollowed-out trunk framing the vast likely Mediterranean--his cane becomes realistic device, stellar to temporal kundalini, to his pedestrian struggle at an end albeit 'pon the ocean's possibility, a void as uncommitted within as without, one stands like the specter of self-possession alighting to no where intervening.

Hai hai Jiddu K

Imagine climbing out of a moment of appearance despite living in the ellipsis of reception lurching off the plank of eternity. ***********It's only instinct to eat or be eaten--the teeth in my room's mural made wrathful sight muted like last morsels of cold fat. ...morsels of cold fat, victuals beplated & denied on the hearth, lies on gnashings of ashy wood desiccation, candles spent, time united like yajna flames guarantee. In the event your geist replaces choice, doctrinaire august, I tell her, by the soft machine...your journey shall prevail, say upon me--you are earth--life's voluntas of luminal season's boasting skies. Mundaneity glossed at her approach, sources in pitch theatre, a mind resolves to pry the light from every event of the opaque fabric of this-once patiently removed-objective reality. No-mind communication, "choiceless awareness."-Jiddu K. The escaping char from parchment impressed in natural genesis tinctured inky sky, millionth star-self at the crystaline marmalade of sensorial calvacade enlists the lot of my redounding fate. Strung distance clomping in yesterday's shoes. An angel did bequeath ole brown. The conversation by my lights I asked the spirit, rather made my case in a pleroma of silence, some intercessor no meaning in pedestrian mile, no portents I made a path just-so only yesterday...just the shoes, thanks. By my nich'ville rd gait, car streak lighted glyph, vessel spilling night chimera fissures, the integers of spry sounds like flaque birds reify what dreams may come. **********Remembering Mom's last visit, at the end of 2011. I'm in the bathroom at the house/shop actually now a yr and 1/2 on, same shadow of malaise. Walking out of the garage into the house, leaving Mom unstreaming after a stony conversation, the mirror talked free: "I don't get to know her anymore." I look at the same contrarian profile, my shadowed head plied to the aqua tile, and Mom's light doesn't anymore design the solitarian apparition. I thought she was the voice fluent in recesses, this place to turn to from the popular light hallooing over the same day's threshold. I mean really: Imagine climbing out of a moment of appearance despite living in the ellipsis of reception lurching off the plank of eternity. What dreams may come. I am lucky to have that mother love shelter, mother night, sensorial smile...memoria. Mothernight. from the other day--that night I reread it and cried resourceless in stow, the vital horde - compassion's maya, it is bogus--the vandals stole the handle. Or as Paul Kopasz put it, It isn't that there is no gas in the tank--it's that the tank has been stolen.--trying to b more stellar than depressing... ***********Whether you wanna know, I rewrote my first impression on yo' doo. I'm rewriting what part of these backpages--your musterion-- that are never timely...So time must yield like a Salvador Dali clock. And you... I mean your salon chic doesn't cut your bangs enough. She must be stopped. Your fresh face does look mysterious, definitely mature, blade of sserenity. That you are beautiful, is behind my eyes--until they're cut open in the revolution of your presence. If you grew your hair long again... seriously that pic w/ you in comfortable den repose, aloof and hope-blissed down to Sidney. Baby, in all I'm imagining everyway but the given--here speculating out of white noise vibratory properties--you are a marvelly beauty to a certain east, both our origins. You may have come thru the gates of forest as certain an incarnation as any butterfly pre-crysalis blessing in ablution to its metamorphosis into the day. *********Theory: Progressives do more with identity than Conservatives. Why? Because Conservatives want to void its endangerment, while Progressives say, Look how I've changed from its tragedy. **********Some ams I'd walk from my street to walnut tree-lined Lane Allen intending on Gardenside's Kroger, going to have a juice. Close to morning sunrise the garbage trucks groaned thru the slumbering streets, and were my only companions at least from its animal call locality, and as they contravened otherwise comely streets. Like meat mechanically removed from an ecstatically dying prey, the guffaw of the beastly truck in oceanic primacy chains my attention and footfall, consumes me. In one approach at the back of the icecream store (my first employer), the rusty white neighborhood's usual alien by its dumpster treasure, toils and screams in auditive taut ropes grappling by replacement circadian thoughts, brainwashes me in the tremendum of immediate conflagrating embrace. More phenomenal or interesting, but my feet seem unfastened thru its sluicing gleam sound veil, hugs me in increasingly gooey ply in the machine of the sensorial. **********My nephew went to the transformative Ravi Shankar a few yrs back. The Egyptian met in once flourished wanderings, Adel, his face rather ornery in mind's eye, turned away now down Nile fugue in time, but like in an arc in dialect something avails overstood in his lightning gaze. Adel has all the temporal paint out of luminary Shankar's mind of fire. If the heart can break when it is empty, in my case, it can open even when love's meditation seems available defying release relenting tho' in normal expectations--the ambulations of her acceptance, music, I'm prone while back o' wall temptation's bluff is barely trialed. He said to effect his heart opened up. **********In the broadcast of a swathe of emptied roadways thru part of my old neighborhood, I clamored toward Krogers to get a carton of smokes. I like the truant vibe, one lone man hunkered aft into the morning wind, as if he's taking to the streets while students allow phantom assignations from the recent morning hustle and bustle traffic terminus. **********Religion is rational: the ascendant imagines and then asserts Time Place and Community. Did you ask yourself to be present for something, a meditation of your well-being, at the "time" of memorialization, this week's pilgrimage, amongst those who will have offered understanding, that your contemplation is received...? If the mind has an expectation for this, in a half thought even rapt toward the answer, you've indulged in a rational event. Thoughts Feelings and Actions are allegory to Higher Ground. No reflection is possible until the question in your nerve is lit. Only a fool rejects the facility of her mind erring to rebuke reason. The thought-graves dug in the airwaves, the aerobatic ocean communicating where the mothership would land. Interred in the floe and plash of crowds and power sleeping by the anomaly in dreams of an elastic hero living in strange temporality. I'm just pretending to be more curious than other people--I think it is a manufactured motive. One's existential burden is the "creative" fact... But I need intensity more than I am compelled to imagine that no one has it--and that is a lie. *********Imagine climbing out of a moment of appearance despite living in the ellipsis of reception lurching off the plank of eternity. No vivid recurrence this dreamt place consolation of familiarity, thru the midnight blue lateral chimera chromo, to dream's palette of pine green, still the loading did begin. Wee hrs hoofing around Whitehall CB drew me first into this restorative sub-consciousness, out of maintenance grunt work divined a certain escape draws me in landed even impossibly enlisting circadian ardor, star-starved under UK. Catacombs I call it, but that isn't quite fair to me had these mostly brothers breeching the same nights registered less antagonistic. Smell of elevator polish is musky redolent, compartment's surface graffitti fingered in her academician hustle... No-mind like the disappearing spaces all shadowy in the margins of renaissance painting having the whole element of that sentient time choking to be known, bark of fire suffuse thru slumbery skein of dust off of cavefloor. I woke this afternoon prone to this theater, day's ascent momentary open to Dalai Lama's plain-mind valuation by way of his long time interpreter: what has this life become. *********Fates deigned in core-culture? Re-living: awe in Ours is a Living G-d, how self-actualization is monist if true to the "other" arising conference w/arguably different measure in Who & What is Creator? It is contrived as the persistant god of the gaps if one isn't wrought in iconoclasm just to suppose an alien Higher Ground and then go there. We are all relics of recent history. People going away etc. I'm more mindful of that than ever. Imagine all the kids getting slightly corralled toward the same effect. Imagine also that identity meant under rarified share in resource is a gift making negligible ours more-privy while seeking commonality and reason for reflecting on change exercises the intentions of the enduring conscious crowd. For those who are sundered by gravid reward having deigned a fate reductio ad absurdum, breaking out of usual patterns is being broken by the patterns of our impermanent record. ************Misty morning: I come dragging in here early this morning, my head still thought conversing before the commission of white-noise silence rent from drizzling rain. I go into one of our work-station rooms, sit in the cat's chair and stair at the ground. Now drifts of sounds arrival start registering but I can't find it externally. Like a myriad message born out of thought's ameliorating vox, I still don't reckon a daemon reception. I glance at my shoes and then the sense of recesses emptying of fraying concern lends the present moment. Just ole brown getting done with tromping gray morning, "charged" corporeally, my neighbor's feet of a 90 yr old man it seems. Other environ's trek is time abbreviated (shrouded traveller fascinans), space lost in it like me a stranger to a uniform black film unrisen sun's earthly backside. *********The propriety to filch something around campus just provoked me to gainsay this event (I stole an iron doorstop--mid 90s--put it back weeks later). I'm always respiring in Pence Hall to study, aum uncontrollably in sounds arrival clash absorbing and fracturing continuity in rather an analytical meditation (coarse lilting presence). Chromo mean, letting go in daylight specter, in all rallying sensorial hypothesis but ebullient yawn of yellow summer mashes a spectrum into suturing roads comely exteriorizing. Grays dry in a visual anomaly, white and black ash the dreams sundering night, wakeful in the neo-mundane lens of days plying monist--there were others gods, but I knew of only one Mercy. LIGHT plateau - dark CORRIDOR; white black white black: I watched what I saw! The last TIME we gave ourselves to the moment may have been our last reFLECTion before the veil of tears reMINDed us that IT had been a Karmic death. A place in the climate of academician power, my own vehicle. On my early 70s then restored Schwinn 10speed in a loop out past the airport pendulum swing apposite my Beaumont neighborhood, I get to Little Texas and a tremendum report from gun blast raps past my gaunt frame--I thought I get to die now. Washed up from the intensity to escape, by the end of yasss Dedman Ln I look at my arms imagining full physical success. A tobacco barn is in front of me toiled by live-long elements, black and splintered, hushed right upon the road's margins. Looking at my back tire, it had blown and apparently with explosive force... Trees finesse into this mediate palette, eating air - burning in my chest, nodding into the pitch of my throttled heart, and now the gray refrain in every glance in all the days hence molds to recesses in ever courted tableau, interior trance. In me now labyrinthine--not raising the stakes to convene a center, however blandished, haze-interred without. ***********I am however radicalized --to sit and wonder--"ponder" has no account, it lies like a stream drowning me--wonder in exercise of surprise is the stuff. I'm slightly sacked presently in consequence to self-preservation, the laxity and challenge of auyerveda sounding it out in cloud attention lilting attention on my Dali print The Broken Bridge & the Dream. So just now. In dreams one is not alone near pinnacles availing and wrought. Still, residing in everywhere unmet desert distances repair an ascendant prodigy... If nothing's got your back in an arabia--note another context of Dali's subject with his hollowed-out trunk framing the vast likely Mediterranean--his cane becomes realistic device, stellar to temporal kundalini, to his pedestrian struggle at an end albeit 'pon the ocean's possibility, a void as uncommitted within as without. One stands like the specter of self-possession alighting to no where intervening. Defining stupid phLSphY a drop of ocean & particulate at a time. The principle in the conversation on energy, city streets softly veil a din of thoughts by all dreams lasting langor making a bed of populist transcient suturing silence in guffaw of night immuring the present as an artifact of light daliance on our spiritual moon's uncompassed walls. ***********Since X-tians suppose water is once transformed into wine, in a similar tho' unconscious impulse when I sneaked glugging down milk from its bottle out of Mom's refrigerator, somewhere between a sigh and a wail I'd encant "whiskey" to fawn appetite in the valley of my tongue. Laterally but now in more refined diet consciousness, soy milk (what I can drink w/o allergic symptoms) has become milk. Cultivating space: a compass of self-reconciliation: Does one divine physical success like the stone on the tongue to sate thirst? So, appetite molified. And as one experiences having just arrived doesn't body consciousness redound creaturely and vital like sight is bluey pleroma and eyes observe from solar satellites? Mountains solution incumbent singularity: you are not alone near pinnacles availing and wrought. Residing in everywhere unmet desert distances repair an ascendant prodigy... If nothing's got your back in an arabia--note Dali's subject with his hollowed-out trunk framing the vast likely Mediterranean--his cane becomes realistic device, stellar to temporal kundalini, to his pedestrian struggle at an end albeit 'pon the ocean's possibility, a void as uncommitted within as without, one stands like the specter of self-possession alighting to no where intervening. *************Burning a single leaf in the garage is cedar votive. I imagine having served the most elastic part of the day with the rich flames, and innocent smoke. If hooks 'pon the ceiling defining an omitted eudaemonia, having lost the ration of inquiry on change, then the fire I once tended in my old basement hearth stained the muted chimney w/o consequence in my reserve for reifying substance--yajna pertaining, would be--this kind of cloud inflated attention that I feel is deliberate in my overstanding. Skies are the only mention for an artifact in the best of philosophy. Paradoxically, I think I realize I'm not going up but rather within. **************I adjure your demise. I seek your fundamental genesis. I fear for your inconsistancies. I revere your moral whitewash. I see intellection as your concern of extravagance--the context of what sensorial realm one's withdrawal feels exclusively self-same like an eddied contrarian for change. The cypher of my inner-voice has more behind it than choiceless lament. My mission is the mediate space when nature is retrieved while the ascendant is soliciting quieter than a grandiose lens I suppose inspires/recommends my exclusive fate manifesting it. ***********At the present moment: I wonder at the peril of intuiting all the hypothetical sensed memory, not even of human relationship, but all the nothingness of skies and proud land... It's expression must somehow filter in the dust motes promise of veils on meaning. What beginnings must there every be walking into the room doing memorialized-space like it was our beck of some mind of contentment! ************Travelogue ***********It's only instinct to eat or be eaten--the teeth in my room's mural made wrathful sight muted like last morsels of cold fat. ...morsels of cold fat, victuals beplated & denied on the hearth, lies on gnashings of ashy wood desiccation, candles spent, time united like yajna flames guarantee. In the event your geist replaces choice, doctrinaire august, I tell her, by the soft machine...your journey shall prevail, say upon me--you are earth--life's voluntas of luminal season's boasting skies. Mundaneity glossed at her approach, sources in pitch theatre, a mind resolves to pry the light from every event of the opaque fabric of this-once patiently removed-objective reality. No-mind communication, "choiceless awareness."-Jiddu K. The escaping char from parchment impressed in natural genesis tinctured inky sky, millionth star-self at the crystaline marmalade of sensorial calvacade enlists the lot of my redounding fate. Strung distance clomping in yesterday's shoes. An angel did bequeath ole brown. The conversation by my lights I asked the spirit, rather made my case in a pleroma of silence, some intercessor no meaning in pedestrian mile, no portents I made a path just-so only yesterday...just the shoes, thanks. By my nich'ville rd gait, car streak lighted glyph, vessel spilling night chimera fissures, the integers of spry sounds like flaque birds reify what dreams may come. *************In the event your geist replaces choice, doctrinaire august, I tell her, by the soft machine...your journey shall prevail, say upon me--you are earth--life's voluntas of luminal season's boasting skies. Mundaneity glossed at her approach, sources in pitch theatre, a mind resolves to pry the light from every event of the opaque fabric of this-once patiently removed-objective reality. No-mind communication, "choiceless awareness."-Jiddu K. Strung distance clomping in yesterday's shoes by my nich'ville rd gait, car streak lighted glyph, vessel spilling night chimera fissures, the integers of spry sounds like flaque birds reify what dreams may come. ************

From Orange Goose to Garden Springs

12 yrs into my life only to find out elegant visual control shown its bright light on my eclipsing continuity. Little pupil cellular spheres tracked against the floor in my feathers-falling glances. As if this mind 'flect enlistment chancing objective reality--school, or school of life, measures time hailing no bond. Day vanishing, expectation bleakly uniform in all thought's cessation and language acquited could be a good thing. Scaling the awe in the present moment: You are really unable, and all things are possible. But what paints me stolid from lingering bell peal--one reaches and I'm belched out of a lonely crowd, is anonymous world-without limby cleaving to the hot breath of an assailable distant dream, this brand of self-consciousness as the ends of me. I feel reliably unintended in vacillating messianic definitions, the world gainsaying that of my release, suppurating wound staining the contract w/good. If anything marks this ascendant adjured in physical success, it is a struggle to the surface developing how identity lent permutations: the sea's toil, the sea of possibilities is the drowned greed of sentience out of recent attention, has one awaken to the dynamic in the clamor of human footfall 'pon a rat-race in illuminal path. By the transcendent's eponymy of truth, no path is possible. ********If to write about the writing instrument--today I am a fountain pen. Sometimes I notice when I want to get an idea written the last word proscribed replaces the born concept, direction I would otherwise assume had made for continuity. I literally close my eyes write a word, forget it, and another comes to mind and I'm half a sentence into what would remind me I am the subject in the grammar of the concept. Like an old friend shows up, and one is reminded nothing new is in the event of our resuming the day's long-ends. ***********An ornament to what is unspoken like the clutter in the bungalow--my beck of eudaemonia, me in one room of respite, cousins, brothers, & watchman as temporal sprite are out from me and into the hallucination weaved black night of the Catskills. In what conversation, while I'm remote, sues margins losing magnetism in and out of content w/o the lens in subjective immediacy, one reacting in time touches bottom? While in apposite ground of consciousness, language is as upended as material success, the thing named. Tho' memories are relief & thoroughgoing the only reminiscence is a handful of yrs ago--still I see every dispensation in balance w/uncarved block. I mean, there is no going back home again. *********When I was in a place of my making in my university career. 80s. By way of full disclosure, I don't advocate this behavior, the liminality still instructive. One nite really glossy upon nich'ville rd, midnightish mosquito supine in wait, I'm going down to the Hideaway, smoking a joint in my car then walking w/it as I'm there where I wanted to be, apposite in approach to met-goal some stupid beginning rutting my way to point B. I throw the rest of it into the butts in swathes off the sidewalk where cars would prk. Coming out of the show later exquisite luck in finding it while under liquid black sky I may as well have willed, ...chirps from folks on their porches if I act suspect may draw me into their vexations. Just looking for something from guffaw interest, tethers to minutiae at their fore. My hand grabbed the very fobbed star-shell I tossed amid gum once sweet, tarmac bitter, teeth-sentient concept of anyone's footfall. *********The moss is good enough for Rimbaud to go on and lay his head. His haunts around Charleville deign the event in wanting now to know everything. At the "old" anthropology bldg on its bench protuberance, old bldg moldy bricks at my back become merely a trace place, lent his intensity, what symmetry is arrogated, passage unforced by my counterfeit key. While monism reveals my incitement to a deep-aside, I made rounds to campus or various outer city-limits, some posit, basically vague discipline toward meditation--my varied psychological writ of others in provenance of superable reach. In Beaumont prk snow still on the ground and within violable goal in standard stupendously glad power-spot, I lean against a beech tree in yellow wind-dried grasses, read by dissociation of my cold-lamp malaise the reform of the chimera of flight thru silence. **********The sky as the moon's field of birth, but looking all obsolete--the moon bright bites at one's nose as thru blown glass, one layering pellucid spirit upon the next, and losing consequence in the distance strung. In increments of transperancy the summer moon shown its usual grasp upon me, anyone, in front of the doubt, slower to characterize in its mother blue media. Early memory of Mom. She's right ought of view in her bedroom, in the bathroom. In my repose, strewn opposite across the corner of the bed, she and I insist on the last time I'd accompany her there. Mom seems quite sincere, forget your age at the moment, she conveys, and I am almost 6 by the concensus trance inquiry--living timeless? Maybe I would prevail-over, lurched-into existential crisis.... My mind seems fused in opportune conscious map, self-consciousness in one of exile. I'm projecting unreceived glances at the corner of her mirror. There is a designed washer looks like a transparent, crystally, sharp bloom, siezing the mirror to the wall. Iconoclasm absolutes make funny liminality an ephemeral prop, sorts out the elapsing love per an egoity deluge in benevolence. If thought's concern strikes at eudaemonia, prayers inhere this story-teller, wrought youth w/the problem of the world already experienced. ******** ***Why is mind seemingly registered underneath something all the time, so interred in the ground beneath our feet? Plainly and in truant evidence, nevertheless, one expects intentions, mind communicating by revenue in the orb behind objective reality. One's enlistment in present material reality receiving, as if belched into Greater Reality, anywhere discriminated the world manifesting choice, in such behemoth surmise anything could be assumed. Enumerating only-having-been-pleased to be exiled and facilitating a rank subject toward agonist telos, veiled by the alternative, a mind is refined by the contest of memorialized space. **** *******The sun in its prudent skein visits me, infiltrating thru my Scion's passenger window flexing from the day's waking shoulders. The sun disc lifts up and out of the lateral neighborhood, deigning its election in curious patience over earth eliciting reserve to sunder it by shadows and artifacts of existence once observed by its light. Last night looking at an ominous picture, its vision anyone would declaim, taken of a sunset (captured one summer), purple across one of Ky's lakes, a single ray wallowing thru the split limbs of a long-ago drowned couple of trees, felt as precise as this morning's solarity visit winking like bellows this winter season, my occipital crown its hearth--eternality as languid in luminal denouement. ******** ****I start thinking of Mom some mornings up w/the rising sun. Not romantic as in some temporal ecstatic event, but it feels like a velvet phone-call while the interlocution has trafficked swathes of a general human element. Just a reminder or concern she would have me alighted and rapt in the present moment. I would easily escape the dawning threshold, the exposed resonant nerve, sensitive and awake, chimera lapsed, the season's machine taking place of choice...if I can imagine her less busy in cessation emblems giving lotus provision to the impermanent record. In my monist path, appreciating in higher ground while time opens up to scraps of possible change, once the vision she watches over me, Mom in her midnight blue flower spangled polyester shirt, I follow star-field provenant, adjured as a ghost behind the celestial standard-bearer of a decisor dispensation...back toward her benevolence. ************ **I wonder about the party in the great rift valley up thru where it goes to king's highway, back then. I wonder about the party in the great rift valley in olduvai gorge, the cushites. Those who have gotten along longer ill-nuanced or deceived by the reckoning of certain toil lasts awhile as the rest of the world lives by enlistment. Consciousness is the refinement of the memoria of nature: Fire. Water. Salt? The first association outside my name. Knowing thus Mom's well-served table, made me halophilic, shrouded wind & sun attendant by Qumran--where do letters taste sweet in such exposed earth ill-ornamented, then awed at the consequences in climatic machine's desert space heralding the 7 pillars. ************The pray mantis adduced in a friendly contract, I could take my leave, but he'd been there so long it seemed. The pity where I resign next was rather not coming to Ky my thoughts then, Texas physical success insect decisor has the patio turn blonde & summery. The entire can of red paint I fell into sometime earlier in my young life gives tableau in what was the creature's animae port, thought's tincture on the blood what-if without. Mark's tarantula in his room, dried woody numinal, next to Eric's room thickly orange blessedly painted my little mind thought it ebullient, I could listen to his 45 of Hey Nina (?), someone-wooing-underneath-a-window imagery? anticipating my brothers had the goods on how desperate sounds become in its raft to serve intimation, the other-inward. Coarse ambivalent sensorial fray, I'd relent if revealed once alighted to nobody's broken bridge, cold-lamp emitting underneath betraying my slumber taking exception in usual peak resolve. **********We are all relics of recent history. People going away etc. I'm more mindful of that than ever. Imagine all the kids getting slightly corralled toward the same effect. Imagine also that identity meant under rarified share in resource is a gift making negligible ours more-privy while seeking commonality and reason for reflecting on change exercises the intentions of the enduring conscious crowd. For those who are sundered by gravid reward having deigned a fate reductio ad absurdum, breaking out of usual patterns is being broken by the patterns of our impermanent record. ************An Adamic first prophet pre-informer of what is thought in the main the prophet whose language of yes, any quotidian, none but a natural element is personified by the usual gender's arising, the humans in everything to all of humanity. None of his verse is known. A way to phrase the hagiographia in ethos one imitates, messianic, lamanic, or otherwise is intercessive if the psychology has value. Maimonides, a Jewish theologian who lived 800yrs ago, responds w/spiritual concerns as an intimation to a student in Guide to the Perplexed, say less concretized than the writ of preachment to expedite in more stark array, alighting in would-be less awakened receptions... once over the salutations of peoples whose travels! divine the contemporary. These other civilizations excelled as much as the respected traditional congregation, give rise to real experience in understanding other "believer's" contribution in origin's qualia. An Adam. A Son of Light. I think Lilith may have been discoverable to Maimon in spectral ways!! She is as interesting as Asherah as consort w/the Most I relatable to Astarte, Aphrodite, Anat... ************Really a self-reflective moment having a cigarette albeit, and watching our shop cat respire on my bosses Miata sports car. Gray skies, gray tiger cat, on a wet-roofed gray car. In intervals of car tires w/its report like newspaper being torn, Scooter flimmers curiosity, tilts an ear, more bound to its bird mind, chirps and tweets all around the driveway, the pyranthea bush barely an interest now to avian harvest. Just a permutated read on his little meditation, barely outside a natural code, how can I be entreated outside of human perspective as if I could know any other? What is his mind capsulized by animicule apparitions of a world in persona, his watch-tower feline-morphic sentient dream-room, outside of him like mine when I'm projecting some different garment upon same environs--this place is accessible by an adjured courtier stunned by claims on time's mellowing ornament? ************I wonder if your mind by definition communicates elliptically? I mean you may be so alive in the heat of embowering psyche, finding you in the agon of the begin, may have barely a fragment of the origins you meet. Where is concern rooted? In what sky does its renascence speak into (wo)man's heart? Certainly the skies are closed in as much as the astral denies the sentient convenant. Always seeing the world for the 1rst time, just as this dream is assignation by the interrupted gait of self toward a nigh home. This is idealistic in precisely a wandering footfall. My step into the gates of the forest only banked a goal in some clearing by observation on the ply of enjoining the last light of day before the canopy smiled hopefully 'pon me of a stream to unleash the bloodclot of time. *************All too busy of a dream-scape was my presentiment of an interlocuttor who hadn't the time to address me. I begin to fumble w/some writ, symbols on paper which hide in my eyes only when focusing upon the opposite pg. A Chinese man comes across the POT square w/the Red sun at his back. He's on his bike coming my direction, so I climb atop the (now gone) fountain, & take in distances academia has yet defined for me. The day is coldCool, steam coming from vents in places, but the bldgs are locked & rather it is the final day or days before the M.I. King library would close for good. Assuming thoughtlessness in asana posture, my book called Pilgrims w/Dalai Lama's wordsAmongstimages--R. Gere's thing, tells of nirvana & refusing it to lasting deficits, spiritual enlistment here on earth--my telling of it. My eyes' recuse vision of ancient times always seeking Hebrew symbols, seeing Greek philosophical impressions too, letters, especially as the lazy mind becomes delivered of the dearest cryptic scenario, where the heart lies. I wonder if mind by definition communicates elliptically? I mean one may be so alive in the heat of embowering psyche, finding her in the agon of the begin, may have barely a fragment of the origins she meets. Where is concern rooted? In what sky does its renascence speak into our hearts? Certainly the skies are closed in as much as the astral denies the sentient convenant. Always seeing the world for the 1rst time, just as this dream is assignation by the interrupted gait of self toward a nigh home. This is idealistic in precisely a wandering footfall. **************It is no longer a question of human origins. Rather the stuff we are made of is explanate in the humility one serves to recognize the fluency or insignificance in identity: our vin is the same shed of refuse out of star-birth atoms, as the atoms in any earthy rock. Perspective if apprehended in the full, one might suspect global climate change as where any responsible socio-economic attention begins. Commerce of identity makes any concensus just a deftly inflicted wound from the whetted blade of tribalism. *************Your brain in this state is very little different than moments before. Where do thoughts come from, or even the boogey of free will? What are the chains of causality? The idea is that there is just the demands of clockwork upon you say in moments of reflection on your motives, your confidences. If you think there are other causes as in things piped in from the possibilities of faith--these too just apply to the potency of your intentions to act, rightly or wrongly, or filters thru, while one still acts on it without any consensus your change is determinist. The message here regards sentient greed as culpable in assigning authorial being. *********** In Dahab of infamy personally, having smuggled shisha back to Israel, thoughtlessness in Jerusalem microcosm after the ledger of superable histories make my excesses ebullient, hypnotic under the close winter sun--seemed a close sun, one isn't in fact--mind you this was 1987. This is extreme in my view to register revelry in toto. Wadi Gnai Mts rt outside of the bedouins and some Cairene business class by Yam Suf, Reed Sea, w/tents and huts selling coarse whiling-away accomodations is also where we stay. Smoking entirely emptied of time-spring's more usual volition--in sinaitic certainty this place becomes a remote decisor jumping-off point. A fellow gives us a tour to rather embarrassing haunts, cinderblock huts, black dirt floors, shadowed dwellers breathing in liberation if this sea were red w/everything a sufferer means by the world empathic. A salient revue of losses where it's hard to believe not every soul would meet similar pain of privations--that immediate in its weak imposture of humanity. The Egyptian kid reflected solarity, a prayer I thought--"Don't say you're American."--like it was a ghost, or the evil-eye... *************Walking from Rebel Rd to Beaumont where else would a body be levied in the remote. That buddha son, my brother's, my little brother really, man, both he and I determine to walk across Southside. At imprecise nods to our common caravansarai, he'd lie in somebody's yard prone & sky-spelled, then to arise like some "body" lends his commission, an exercized rebellion--I thought he comes-correct, and sadly sad. Well-sacrificed this air coming in past the big neighborhood park. I sauntered along w/ him, his steps, telling him of the soma bull I committed to embers by hagiographed strict hillocks in the logos-hollows behind the eyes of Nanny's (my Mother) Grandfather "Vevel" from whom comes my Hebrew name Shraga Favel-- thought's noblesse my once-wheel report from mind, communicating to the more indefinite me. These roads are furrowing unled in origin's daemon--the way stations sought-after artifaction, tempter's smile in season's countenance: "Why doest thou restore one's form in the fog?" I strike in lightning inner-vox--"I fear it." The road apprehending behind the veil, shadow's silent report. The road in plaintive wallow, goes on: "Then you hate it. If you fear it, you hate it--but if you hate it, you love it." ************A new incarnation's unopposed candle tincture, message flimmers then is razed. I feel I'm loitering in a musee' of dumb philosophy. At a visit to the Louvre I can guess it isn't hard to contrive being shrouded as it were unfaithful to any academician disciplines outside of the raw hand, blood proscriptions in my head, in compliment w/the few options I then could exploit. An unlicensed water-color artist places persona into where I frame aerobatic truancy, space's factotum alien. Asleep to remember simply, pastel thwacked onto postcard sized presentation, colors represent dust, turbid backdrop for animicule dust-contrived people under the Eiffel Tower. The accelerated center, statement of presence is a miasma of biologic bastard acquisitive bucket & mop bad-brain, images... Letters padding across the self-same window inverse qualia, the day imported A to Z, fluency to opposite window, undone room lassou, a sun mellows in her earth's house, with all his intensity in a sky-cauldron vertical & abyssal, terminal to the observer upon the ledge of the broken bridge. ***********12 yrs into my life only to find out elegant visual control shown its bright light on my eclipsing continuity. Little pupil cellular spheres tracked against the floor in my feathers-falling glances. As if this mind 'flect enlistment chancing objective reality--school, or school of life, measures time hailing no bond. Day vanishing, expectation bleakly uniform in all thought's cessation and language acquited could be a good thing. Scaling the awe in the present moment: You are really unable, and all things are possible. But what paints me stolid from lingering bell peal--one reaches and I'm belched out of a lonely crowd, is anonymous world-without limby cleaving to the hot breath of an assailable distant dream, this brand of self-consciousness as the ends of me. I feel reliably unintended in vacillating messianic definitions, the world gainsaying that of my release, suppurating wound staining the contract w/good. If anything marks this ascendant adjured in physical success, it is a struggle to the surface developing how identity lent permutations: the sea's toil, the sea of possibilities is the drowned greed of sentience out of recent attention, has one awaken to the dynamic in the clamor of human footfall 'pon a rat-race in illuminal path. By the transcendent's eponymy of truth, no path is possible.

Burnt-Orange Bookcase--its terminal content

There was an old burnt-orange painted 3 tier bookcase in my room about waist high just at the threshold when coming out of the rest of the basement. I live in Beaumont neighborhood for 27yrs. My bro's books were set in it for yrs, many lay in there prone to me as this place of my making kept a concept-to-gather in and out of my approach in this inherited space. One book, Carlos Castenada's, lent images even tho' they were musings adduced thru incomplete anthropologies, no different than Joshua's warnings of cannibals--Israelites bound for Canaan. Concretized biblacy w/o any excuses, which lived stowed and foundering in my counterfeit academician fealties--alighted only toward a reflective margin, another concern in self-actualization. Don Juan's plaintive desert pilgrimages, a thought-world, in another arabia equal in its temporal theophany. If impermamence has philosophy I & Nature soundly recalls, dreamt out hagiographa -as it is in boughs of origins, these are places to jump from out of the 2ooo yr box of time in a momentary conscious prop. Viniculture in its Alice & Wonderland narrative, explained by Moses' successor, has interesting farcical huge grape bunches described like libations dramatized while supporting man's psychic privy. If finding myself laid-down in my favorite place (the sorta protagonist's 1rst initiation in The Teachings of Don Juan) , power-spot attention--no loitering temptations to divest in from the sublime, my appetite to change would have had any alchemical romance fully realized then. Heavens seemed tacit, ground of consciousness portrays vulnerability to any adulteration. ****** *******When I was probably 19 I did construction, pouring warehouse floors for BlueGrass Mini-Storage on Stone Rd. Before the crew got there one mid-am, some cold fantasy, blank concourse Lexington neither seen close up what was far away, nor is place drawing me abysally if only meeting self landed. I go into the portajohn no less than Dali staring in a mirror making his creative sensitivities wrought. The stench was its usual, and with the heat and air just so I didn't notice. The fodder plant next door kept supplying wafting sorgum-rich dissociation, the new concrete formaldyheide-like in cruxifiction with animal meal. I went and laid in a pile of gravel, stimulated, thinking about banana fields in the West Bank--my travels to England to begin with, for a taste of elite jewish scholarly tea. In a way intuiting the import of a lucky journey right before a terrible proliferation in restraining measures for free movement between Tiberius and Rachael's Tomb going south from us, where we would reside upon Moshav Fatsa'il. Summer sun couldn't indicate this same mosquito heat--sprite of intellection, mellowing in gravel exudation of strange peace. A horizon everyone may meet while my path derives from an indefinite relay in fate, season's middling effect makes a journey's giant leap Ky flush against Israel doing Israel, her sun halloo stings my hand visor, winks from the other side of solar yellowy mask. ******* *******Primo Levi was there writing aerobatic evidence in the graveyard of minds to furnish a means of inner-liberation. Inner-scrutiny is the result of fragmentary needs in what one calls the unique understanding where identity lacks fluency. ***** *********At Olivia's apt in Petah Tikva, outside Tel Aviv, Rob & I were staying our last night in the Fertile Crescent, the Mediterranean just within a ml. The meaning of this outlier of Tel Aviv, (Yaffa), like HaTikva, the Hope, Petah means "gate." Peach orchards were the first rather halcyon garden cosmos Sabras (Palestine or Israeli born) miss. Right off having come from Olivia's Mizrahi (Jews of Middle-Eastern origin) Mom & Dad's elegant digs, then to her small less mod place, I feel rather lost again & suspended in a world inventive enough to have me prone. The mystery rather unpierced by my cuss-mind, what spirit awaits, crysalis reserved in vacuous slumber, a new day's quality into a dismal state, while the euphoria of this journey is replacing its alien garment. She points me to my next 8hrs of respite, of mothership spelling out I followed her here, and as I leave she'll contest what is rather less divined as homeward. I light a cigarette in the blade of night light above me furling from the window hush. When I reached for it, it was like a kid wrought to apprehend a truant kite. Maybe I'm compelled--our stay is stunted one 24hrs short, a shams (sun's) lithium quaver in his apprehensive ray--an inconvenient adieu, the apophatic day ward of an approximate night, like upside, w/sky arrayed in the last bloom in aerobatic caravansarai. ******* *******It was my predilection to serve the present moment on the recommend of strong historical language, in the case of Egyptology, Mom's trivia on Akhenaton's son Tutankhamun. Dad at the wheel, Mom hands out potato salad and sandwiches, and a few of us boys lie scattered in state at the rhythm of traffic through the volition of our RV, Catskills bound. Dad's attention to the road plied the further next several hundred yards arcing me into attention over the cooked pavement's reflection one is apt to portray in weary glyph, mind sundered w/thought's pique--an apparition, a thing out of solar eternity. I'd seen such margin's shore the same way, tho' at night, the moon alighted spiritually true, paints us behind screens in solitarian fluency, in phoenix chromatic gauze & suspense. While I'm in my car coming back into the old neighborhood, the road in shadows prevails before I'm realizing to project out of pitch mind, and gloss contagion thought's visual. The succession of serpentine waves is cinched-up at the last glance before my headlights dissolve having pierced this two dimensional equinox. Only Egypt has the contours of antiquity to assuage a command of its newer less memorialized surface, a deflated epicurean suburb--She's magical thru a raven's omen whispered in the silent leap from the pages of Metatrone's prescription of one's impermanence. He prophesized, known in pseudepigraphia, in the court of Thoth, by one account--the road seems to end in dreamy approbity. ******** *********Well, we still have February for an actual devastating icestorm... The trees around this neighborhood offer their icy limbs like prone ornaments. Driving out toward the airport on a busy country road, the mistletoe which grew in the adjacent still preserved farm opposite of me going-out, used to have only 2-3 bunches, now there are a couple of dozen in the lurch of trees agonized but hanging-on despite the local gentrification. The fields of this farm really weren't such an ambivalent drive-by prop; apophasis is a likely standard in calvacades of metropolitans and yet what is not mentioned is a little different than the silence in a dreamy trek. My own now halycon footfall looks sated in throaty frost unfurling in a natural berth. A weathering garment persists by consensus in this Ky morning heralding recondite significance. ****** ********At Hemlock Lodge we take lunch, Mom's beef stew--like you may imagine, but better & with chunks of eggplant. I'm the youngest in tow, high school age w/ two brothers, and one of their friend, a Muslim Pakistani by way of Zimbabwe-- on a day much like this 30 degree weather. The effect natura naturans was blunted. Certainly I measured something ephemeral, an elemental feeling in the forest air. A sense in leafy impressions alliterated, a path parchment-like, a world already written, an opened book having left me intoning passages of smiling shaded and recently covered pages. I reckon such concourse - a surprise in arriving, being cold when cold, vital when clemency is spectral, but now ole brown was yet defined--a mendicant enchantment, magic sung too confidently by way of stronger & earlier surmise of objective reality receiving. The thwart of purpose looked grasped as opposed to this provenance if Natural Bridge arrays something emblematic, self-conceived. It's worth it "living" if only to catch-up-- mnemotechniques make an inevitable rationale when the box of identity is checked thru an experience appreciating in the rigorous clue to one's margins sussing it w/o sublime progeny. ******** *******Hirelings in Eilot, Red Sea, called Yam Suf actually meaning Sea of Reeds, we were as precise in a vegetable migration. Loam enthroned, sand albeit, mostly other Europeans, few Americans--me & Rob is all who I counted amongst. At the Peace cafe frequented by socially estranged ex-pats, drinking beer straight off in the exceedingly exquisite low-earth desert ams, crawling out of yellowy bricked, white stoned domiciles in the neighborhood. Good tea served too, as good a decent black tea, chai of usual Fertile Crescent fare. Some view to mts out into the Negev kept the attention of this dude from Brazil. I wanted as much in this furthest appeal, his mt in backyard S. American climes, brought nigh--holy, holy his mt and now framed in contested distance, spires in non-sensual redolence, f0rm remittant enough to flex in high god. Al-rahim, Eloh, Wakan Tanka, whosoever trickled effect in hagiography may have yielded an ascendant goof. And I felt it particularly a consequencial wish. So if it were to lapse, it's because a state of perfection is things just so as before you. A mere peak moment, perfection elucidating value perhaps and if one didn't live to represent an absolute, an easily referenced value. Confidence in peak moment may not reduce truth into a digestible source. Value statements are we the grievous sentient hydro-ape making our first mistake if mind alluvium strangles the fluency in one's cult of self-reliance--his/her philosophy w/ its horizon white thread dark thread capsulation. ******** *******I've been out of my element. Except most things possible are painfully discovered. I'm sleeping in the casket of buried treasure and 'pon my incarnational bones--the grave mentions an unknown name--I'm not suppose to be here. My bro's hole n heart congenital problem gratifies a world that wouldn't have been here... Liquid skies in his starchamber, & all I can think of is me pharonic, just dust sterile, and he's the broom. I know it existentially, thinking his trial took place in this mind theatre. In time and in place an egyptian, the elite, will have had relevant & inevitably ever to be transmuted new histories, our portion serves its compilation til now, will change. Upon whose animicule tarrying in the surface of an unknown dispensation to birth vision, protects the emmer from the waterhorse. ******* *******I think my pet at the shop, scoffs at his sister & brother in their high falutin' digs here--but understands their monarchical manicure, world-framed of open windows, reclination. The brujo which arose once in my perifery now is just the cat making the places I haunt a more curious extent of my repose. A "brujo," Native American-Spanish word, is like a warlock in the guise of a coyote--solid imagery developed in Carlos Castenada's The Teachings of Don Juan. I hadn't already read this reference-- while apparitionally apropos, Jerusalem is become decisor resonance--I read it since that Autumn/Winter, gave enough nuance like in margin's shadowy rather than reflective, torn and expositional in a broken surface to abyssal--(no "m") fountain--voluntas well of concentration. And behind me, the chair I'm sitting on has become a little more placated in a silent permiss. The little butterfly thought restored in these places - a ferrel-minded sentience but languid in subtle respite. Animal feline in its tremor-slight attention, hints of feathers falling, shared hale of the moment. He's houndlike really (Cornel's cuz of no-name) & as to characterize spiritbody, but the stealth is certainly an absolute a cat sorts out. Makes sense Louie Armstrong is the first to call someone "Cat" in folk thoughts recommending who's cool. I wonder and am likely right Isaac Bashevis Singer had Hasid poignancy believing ancestors frequenting these creaturely lights. And home w/the idea Kerouac theodicizes. ******* *******Gun Appreciation Day--here comes the myopic bunch of intellectually stunted americans touting more guns... Strangely, more gun deaths in the US than as industrialized and modern other nations, but more guns on the street is the answer. What else other than that reality (European) would have an impact on these haters? or say necessarily barbed individuals? This f'd up rigor in these expectations to excuse a cooler less political response to now 600 more deaths since the school shooting in Ct. Wait, wait I'm not trying to warrant yet another reason to be less impressed w/the rhetoric. But imagine this conversation: "Do you trust me?" And the correct response being, "Yes, it is easier that way." (Bukowski) That is something to cultivate, as to say developing in a way that has very ironic agonist principles, should readily "compete" w/ a martial ethic, and win the ideal circumstance of less boundaries. "Easier" is what this conversation is about. Imagine the plaintive voice of those chil'run whose lives prophetically suffer. If you spoke in that "voice," see it under less duress, its lightning reach is exiled from contented earth, but our preachment is not to sunder like imminent catastrophe--the rule is awe in a world more available, not less. Do you think about why it makes sense ALso not to have to refine oneself in constant defense? Jackbooted thugs are closer around the corner than the gov likely to knock on my door & depose me (in my monarchical slouch toward nirvana). Notice, many enthusiasts relish the gov intervention scenario as to what revolution is going to look like. Ahh, the Megiddo pedestrian ideal. ******** ******I have never put into words this early memory out in eastern Ky. ...from the margins, not suspect as I was young, what I thought I heard was - & then just image. A kid maybe 11-13yrs old had been rambling along side the country road we? were on, going into Poosey Ridge part of Madison cty. His gait was unremitting seeing or hearing the imminent framed. Just a blood-innocent, blanched of haunting sorta commune, so rather at-home, clothes of farm labors...and allaying in an approach of backroad same direction as Dad phased at the one odd affect. I felt I was already in thrall of the inauthentic while momentary reflection lent the miasma events of who evaporates in the cull of time & Dad querying if to appeal to my older bros. The boy had a snake apparently striking in evocation all around his head, the snake wrapped around his neck. Yellowy grass sprite-like into the uncultivated field adjacent to our drive-by chimes in a rather remote sacralized visage hiding mind phenomenally accosted. And what did I see? ****** *******POTOK out of his book (for me In the Beginning), and Elie Wiesel, have a sense of possibilities, a decisor element, certain exiles, Who actually is put on trial... Primo Levi was there writing aerobatic evidence in the graveyard of minds to furnish a means of inner-liberation. Inner-scrutiny is the result of fragmentary needs in what one calls the unique understanding where identity lacks fluency. Natalie Goldberg & Juden-deutsche: Having read The Long Lonesome Highway by a woman writer is been melodious enough where other women writers feel unique in the same approach, Karen Armstrong and now Miriam Weinstein, author of Yiddish. Yiddish is Jewish tradition's moma loshn, the mother-language afterall. I had left off family situation on occasions, Zadie (Russian) and Poppa (Lithuanian) particularly, appealing to lavender-moods and in expressive mendicant sojourns to make sense of the wanderers event of this language historical merit. The two old men under the interlocution from the yawn of their shared old world, creates a pre-20th century alliterative beatitude: potatoes gleem before sabbath preparation--deceased relatives acquiry in the now obsolete chalk, bluing, and wax--seems typical, domesticity evolved in the deprecare of missing sweater buttons. These men are versed thru inheritance of common-senses in different carpentry tinkering, adjuring in family fatherly duties that could have been lasting... Not understanding one verb between these patriarchs stirring the dust thickening my yearning blood to bring experience into as roundly a yield in such a life--subtle concerns maintained, while their temperate graffitti constitutes the normative fire I expected to attend. The outside of the synagogue, a brick bldg, where I'd lean facing Maxwell St, left chalky evidence on my shoulder. Immediately I thought the muscular posit in place-of-meeting, house-of-prayer, now looked relicky. Traces of it more in its lateral primacy, stained in my world-view--sands enduring ledger where the acolyte had sat upon the ground. Tasting it before it had painted me. I thought that unfortunate. The sense of it is like markings of unconscious impulse, ego uncultivated, in ready media of splunked walls accounting of ethos specter. And then as soon the fate of light applied and toward the compliment of culture...and unanswerable if it would be universalized. Maybe I was less concerned with Who. What is suspect isn't culture, but the vulture of change having left few social artifacts to exercize something contemporary (from further back) with signs of even stranger elliptical now-inventive origins. ******* *****The higher you climb, the more you are exposed. Now I'm about getting to this language one says investiture for belief is credible "literally," as opposed to universalized. So, mission is rt out the window and identity is suspect. Charles Freeman gets to the inevitable appropriation of the crystal palace, "the kingdom would involve a dramatic reversal in values" - that Jeshua, as opposed to the too easily reconciled one... ***Luke 6:24-5***But woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort. Woe to you who are well fed now, for you will go hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you will mourn and weep Something like a primary instinct, posture in this path's tailoring reception, my physical success is the herald of prone verticality, pillaresque awareness well-of-promise in its prerogative of collapse, and horizon's distant guffaw layering of splendor: wind of mind, climate of greater will, atmosphere, pleroma, shore of space content in another deep-aside... Capsulation of emptiness, plain of consciousness, salutations on nothing! The thrall of loamy silence, my apple tree stood in the backyard garden, fallow & mown now, is elastic while I sat rt down under it the last fall I resided so close to country margins. A sense of it was its muscular & untamed limby fro--electric staggered boughs all rounded almost to same halo-reach, but also a decisor escape in the place of my making. ******* *******Exoteric ritual, mimicry in consolations, are the likely filter to this power-thing that sustains the faithful, makes furtive typically strict banners in his/her approach lending the intensity or musterion undiscoverable. The fury in motive (per belief ism) has resource w/praxis in essential reality, tho' self-actualization is elementally ineluctable when relishing identity rather in the tarrying of a becoming, by observation. ************Devise or agency? Agency as geist or something real? Device, experience under conceptual umbrella, would-be episteme offering student of life a prone self-same subject...! Agency is instinct in the acquiry of certain goal expectorated thru a deep-aside, rather the distance-strung. the outside of the synagogue, a brick bldg, where I'd lean facing maxwell, left chalky evidence on my shoulder--immediately I thought the muscular posit in place-of-meeting, house-of-prayer, now looked relicky. I thought that unfortunate.*****************When I was in a place of my making in my university career. 80s. By way of full disclosure, I don't advocate this behavior, the liminality still instructive. One nite really glossy upon nich'ville rd, midnightish mosquito supine in wait, I'm going down to the Hideaway, smoking a joint in my car then walking w/it as I'm there where I wanted to be, apposite in approach to met-goal some stupid beginning rutting my way to point B. I throw the rest of it into the butts in swathes off the sidewalk where cars would prk. Coming out of the show later exquisite luck in finding it while under liquid black sky I may as well have willed, ...chirps from folks on their porches if I act suspect may draw me into their vexations. Just looking for something from guffaw interest, tethers to minutiae at their fore. My hand grabbed the very fobbed star-shell I tossed amid gum once sweet, tarmac bitter, teeth-sentient concept of anyone's footfall. *************The moss is good enough for Rimbaud to go on and lay his head. His haunts around Charleville deign the event in wanting now to know everything. At the "old" anthropology bldg on its bench protuberance, old bldg moldy bricks at my back become merely a trace place, lent his intensity, what symmetry is arrogated, passage unforced by my counterfeit key. While monism reveals my incitement to a deep-aside, I made rounds to campus or various outer city-limits, some posit, basically vague discipline toward meditation--my varied psychological writ of others in provenance of superable reach. In Beaumont prk snow still on the ground and within violable goal in standard stupendously glad power-spot, I lean against a beech tree in yellow wind-dried grasses, read by dissociation of my cold-lamp malaise the reform of the chimera of flight thru silence. ***************There's no place in the calendar like the report of monday bleary in leaves eddied up in a blue wind. Inner-voice is an anesthesia, and I forgot why the doctor had me on the table, having dreamt my cure. The doctor sleeps like the divine mechanic, his measured passporte naturalizes encantations upon his patient whose lens plies his vitality, while the indefinite chorus judges his disease.***************Exoteric ritual, mimicry in consolations, are the likely filter to this power-thing that sustains the faithful, makes furtive typically strict banners in his/her approach lending the intensity or musterion undiscoverable. The fury in motive (per belief ism) has resource w/praxis in essential reality, tho' self-actualization is elementally ineluctable when relishing identity rather in the tarrying of a becoming, by observation. **************The higher you climb, the more you are exposed. Now I'm about getting to this language one says investiture for belief is credible "literally," as opposed to universalized. So, mission is rt out the window and identity is suspect. Charles Freeman gets to the inevitable appropriation of the crystal palace, "the kingdom would involve a dramatic reversal in values" - that Jeshua, as opposed to the too easily reconciled one... ***Luke 6:24-5***But woe to you who are rich, for you have already received your comfort. Woe to you who are well fed now, for you will go hungry. Woe to you who laugh now, for you will mourn and weep Something like a primary instinct, posture in this path's tailoring reception, my physical success is the herald of prone verticality, pillaresque awareness well-of-promise in its prerogative of collapse, and horizon's distant guffaw layering of splendor: wind of mind, climate of greater will, atmosphere, pleroma, shore of space content in another deep-aside... Capsulation of emptiness, plain of consciousness, salutations on nothing! The thrall of loamy silence, my apple tree stood in the backyard garden, fallow & mown now, is elastic while I sat rt down under it the last fall I resided so close to country margins. A sense of it was its muscular & untamed limby fro--electric staggered boughs all rounded almost to same halo-reach, but also a decisor escape in the place of my making.