Violet tea--spring belches the florid relief

Walked over at the hilly park in my old neighborhood yesterday. The grass will be cut there soon, but the plethora of violets have never been so checkered throughout amongst the dandelions. Chromo values with such a distinguished heightening of the loam really had a neat florescent expression. They looked of heaped splashes in their bluegrass palette, looked like Rolling Stone tongue, belched into... spring anthem. I may have to go and pick a kroger's bag of them to dry to have flower tea-- I suppose it'll be chamomile-like. I may ask my botany biologist degreed brother if there is anything special I might do for preparation, knowing it's Just to dry them. While he's well-versed by enduring a slowly revealed nature-self like wisdom tradition, adjudging the polis in its impulsive corralling of evermore specters--its dis-ease is no beck to rally. Today, apace with stumbly grass, city-scape colludes in my resolve to be still, unshadowed postulate heady-me in nature's breathy ayurveda persona--
***Stars blinked, my eyes slouch to perceived movement from its orb.
The watcher of humanity winked, sooo through with meager devotional tithes from mouldering aspirants, by way of His impenetrable creative dynamo.
No fountain where I'd drink, makes what thought thinks.
I want to know how to think: the content never the rt intentions adjured. The scaffolding mind glyphs - assailing space industry of my increase in relationship, this reserve of potency, torn from decidely inevidence sky of no fissure; spirit of the blue dome at a glance in phantasmal feast as corporeal as that sup, allows thoughtless sight of their visage...my security in release.
***The happy event as one swore upon the stranger: we're the stranger--we've lost it, regarded a reality shift the pivotal moment toward a glad self-profession--pragmatic deliverance, a ritual dance that all compaternity wanes in authorial shadows, apollonian splendor too, powering stupendously blanched dream sovereigns, and ever self-emptying wakeful days, vascular-reaching as leaves on lucid stream surface--palimpsest lives tarried underneath. The meritable traveller stepping out of the fog, not afraid of getting-away with an un-natural narrative making culture out of nature's dubious event--an accurate telling of the imagination's limit: in meditation I may-not even feel g*d. So the alternative however unsuccessful we fault supreme identity, what is this life become. The hush hush rush convening aum tic toc "service" oNe ahimsa-s his risible (bad) luck to pursue progress, the success of enthronement on the eve of Maslow's heirarchy apprehended without my shit-gimme eponymy.
***hanks jones==lazy afternoon *nice jazz tune...I mean yes, yassss
Faust is ronching on an interesting sovereign in the intro of Dostoevskii's book The Dispossessed--it's the center, but from without that makes this !rst word a place to begin:
Minerals, like an inhuman indefinite chorus, seems what even the humble aspirant as he loses heart, a raison d'etre--this objectivity over sounds-arrival becomes his last best chance to translate his empirical burden out of the stolid tower of Babel's reign. The knotted tongues - languid and retiring --meandering in valleys, thorough-going--but away, lost expression in vain volleys bank to bank in the stream of life. While I walk into a room, thinking "Room" - It avails. A word to gather or importune a reason for the angel to speak thru me as that space grafittis with meaning, now stuns my brain into wordlessness, no chance to mask it with the parade of expression... One word in my head sets the pace of on-lookers composed in mundane approval by my readied project of self-worth, would have, and yet the immanent is sobered by the lax attendance of logoi. Not to jettison the open-crowd=oNe wOrd with probity that can't conflated, my word, if mantram is the ward star's dusty beginnings--a stammer in the world's 1rst vows. The political nerve unlit--no fealty makes sense: the partisans gather with doctrinaire simulacrum. Angels frame vox-mundi, burning in mother's brother's eyes, but it's my reflection--and if Aharon speaks for Moshe, language is burnt my tongue yet without such a surrogate.
***I think I'm crying too much. The volley into touch-feeling only occurred to me after I got on this low dosage psychetropic, risperdol, now going on since '93. Four mgs/a day. I have no side effects of mania or sleeplessness, sexual inconvenience, weight-gain etc. Nerves, perhaps--actually I'm certain. Though I know it's also a weird compliment in taking people seriously. With regard to anything from the rabbit I hit the other night, remonstrated in a glance and swallow, but more poingantly, watching these ancestry articles/reports, Who Do You think You Are? And news war reportage/docs, one which I only have to thread its time and place, and a poor child is deprecated (deprecare Fr., to ward off by prayer) all over again..., my lament in paucity, but also championed--so uncorraborated, I'd fear someone telling me I'm vindicated in my release. Seeing now that yrs back the same voice that answers "What do you want to do?," now answers the inquisitor pain of lives fallen, by saying, "Go on, have this Release." And just these plastic media images draw me toward congruent refinement with spectors of lives in reflex thru my door, me into theirs. Yet, waking up in the morning, I am tearful off and on for a couple of hours--I'm certain she leaves me as the dream dispels, into a lighter day where we would meet.
***Well there u have it boys. Our Y chromosome is exactly the same as a rheses (sp?) monkey--meaning it hasn't changed in 28 million yrs. So, the LADIES at least can't deny our existence evolutionarily--try as they may to smother us with LOVE. But IS she evolving. She definitely got more junk in the trunk: you know the prime purveyor of subtle reason to imagine the authentic. Religion with a price or not, tradition et al, moon painted spiritually true--candles lit with meaning alighting responsible appetites. How lush! Physical liberation with cultural instincts, "take your shoes off, truth is a pathless land"---but the nomenclature within (her house), such sleep inclined to soft corners, settling antiquities wrestling pedagogy with surprise gift novel chiding wishful, magical thinking...grandmother couch to "slouch toward nirvana" (*Bukowskii) 10,000 tomes to address just there 'And big floats take notice' (*bastardizing a few words of Kerouac), but she says take it Outside--live prone to everything bright or chthonian.
***This may not come out in a crest of silencing askesis, but it's as I see this day perceptibly resuming... Anyway. You know how if you wash your hands, this primacy ablution? Nothing to derive and revere: it's mercy, but, for example, the deer drinks replenishing water!!--Why say he does it for just anyone? What if it is discernable the voyeur you've become to imagine just how one "knows" what he/she does: our hand's acuity? Why memory would get eager to discard grave continuity--suppose. One may start rapidly, get most prone part of hand due to its tasks of regimens, then from fingers to palm... Tho' a hand doesn't care--it is digital scrutiny over escape, rapt but w/the ends out from the tie that binds. I'm a limby tree of furtive reaches. Assignations of I and Nature--I can look up to wonder the aweful in these enumerable relationships, anything would bespeak the strong eliciting of what small wisdom the spirit thru aerobatic concourse, has physical apprehension my goal. To know water. From dust, the physical, to the unknowing world--the physical, from which sentience suspends me now--it dominates in ever more referendum of my change. The feeling that a cat thinks your toes--she'll make her retreats or entreat us herding us, her sustenance provider? I'm terminated by the suspense she can ever tell me, any animal tell me, what it's like --my symbol petraglyphing on its gentle slope inclined to my attention propositioning her subtle tabla rasa.
***
Devised a theory on bullshit last night--3 in the am. The discursive is explanate as rhetoric, as in the book "On Bullshit" would incite (which I only had seen over an interview). Lee Scratch Perry would shit in champaigne glasses and hide it from his harpe Swiss wife. Jews took to graphic lingual bombast as a last name to oblige tsarist census takers. (taking the name Shiest or Drek in some cases, etc.) There is nothing rhetorical in mind. BS is. Jeremiah was asked by G*d to eat excrement as a way to imbibe the sorrow and demise of his people.

Rimbaud says, I watch what I see. The Other, as musterion a cry for getting out of your own way, is all the spiritual content you'll need to know, 'giving away what was never needed in the end."--paraphrasing a friends language. The savings grace "pending" reality (Who's gonna receive me into what everlasting arms?), can't merely be a campaign of identity--the career of identities, always mitigated by change, would have one ask What is this Life Become? as opposed to Who am I? Reason is query, just as equality, in our becoming thru relationship redounding, is not a state of mind--but prone states of passion & unknowing...which is the Question (very subtley we wonder at what is apropos, as luck would have it Someone cares?) Not the mind in rhetoric mendacity--even torpor is captured as upon a wall's white-noise vibratory properties. In some One as an answer, all things are possible when you are really unable--in all beginnings, anything is possible, perhaps as from chthonian sensitivity--the dreigh or lush site of life's exquisite dust "like a forest of life underfoot" *P. Smith--depending on your taste for self-reflection.
***
Letter to Pops: The condoling theatre, a son at the middle of the gradins, dreams his kaddish becalled identity. Kaddish is likely the holiest prayer in Judaism. "My son is my kaddish" says a father imagining the well-being of his history, part of a history's lost pace his son intones, but serves to reconcile, saying that prayer. His willingness to also right that timeless jumping off point as before a shadowed door withwhich his awakening was to bridge. There are two possible energetic exilic doors of perception, repelling us to middling success--alighted when we see there is "nothing" to wait for. Certainly an attribute of root-race lines met of souls into fates, leaving a new fire to kindle inspite of blanched memory. The quality, say this opportune experience resolves, is a plethora of symbols of eternality--imagining maybe thru belief, and likely found in our senses evoking the authentic--One can only manifest what is and there is nothing ouitside the known. Nothing - there to be discriminated...! In contemplation, in peace, in thwarted souls.