OF Late---Only the NigHt

My f#&ked up dream of Romney, here, I can almost interpret. Katie Couric long ago may construe a more wakened familial portents, once. Here's the same kind of thing, to answer why me if to contend with governance toppling a final sociation, that of a ghost town: the haunts of mind (dreamt or lived) and its furniture dispatched a...s resource, bettered by provenance has one read Ghosts need little... My brother went up to Vatican City, rounded its walls (all the way?), and said kinda, fuck you to the devil. He hushed exhorted, "Not this Jew, mutha fuckers!" But imagine older brother! and he reeeally gives a damn, really does, and says something One time in this last 46 yrs *my age, almost vile, but clear about man's misdeeds, "People die for that." The power brokers of fraught & silly media don't even hide their humanity from me if I can imagine all their thwart of I & Nature passporte is just regimened nature, still nature. I'm disgusted with the likes and ranks of Rommelney, and who I reckon an alternative is luck, and better - Obama gave Dylan among others the Presidential Metal for Freedom just now--said tasteful things about Dylan, in a comprehensive tone - but I just can't apprehend this dis-ease of spirit and wholeness. These clever absolutes sometimes with empty gradins but you to sit and observe --aren't clarion till one suffers. Just making the man another hopeful and usually unfulfilled incarnate--inhumanity born to human perspective (...these politicos, as if). The transparent thing, me born in imminent surprise, I only know spirit (humanity) and wholeness is the only roof--an insight over being tied to a future, needing a roof, one can't run. The future is tHE pathless expectation--No place to be--I'm an incumbent dreamer inverted in an accord with truth without intentions upon me to condole any entity - an unviable self included. How can "they" have what is sooo dear perchance & a reason for fealty, and watery redound in buffered security, that I am stained hidden? Marley says of course, having no friends in high places is well a family affair, maybe, courting getting over the "little trouble."****** *******Soliciting silence: toasting the rest of it: If there is a G*d, solitude is to the credit of the adjured absolute. ******* ******On this special chair, I mean chariot--as from a place of study from an objective repose as I can suppose, I reason yet another 1000 expirations, dreams suppurating, and an angel to ask for potency in its homeopathy to remedy the dream's irreality. Fill in the ditch of what each one means w/a dose of its turn in nudging me wakened toward an authentic goal. Matriculating ground zero is upon a media spiting every glance--nothing helpful to ornament feelings of the foundering world. Before ones eyes hit the frozen sea within, the ground is your best friend, then it's not, and then later again it is.******** *******Mrs Delph, she was Thai, my social studies teacher--at 10-11 yrs old, and Mrs Chin, my Chinese piano teacher were the only teachers of the East I had, and to be romanticized. It was the key that unlocked the lightning, hitting the limb that held me, emboughering me, now has delivered me to the forest floor. The East's rally in compassion, a romance of discipline to imaginations' mercurial engine... After a sense of explanate-beings, that of lightning/thunder cosmogony described in its Thai's tale, made everything written looming in the same dirge. Yet, in lament, when the world stammers to complete one in exemplar reflection--doing as "I" do, a mourner sometimes lies near many sources to still waters. And after milky rain, the grass yields to to no law, but to be under a footfall as ubiquitously as destiny expecting a path to avail. What floor of slumber entitlement, dream repose in causes from wiles of subconscious impulse, stammer to be declared? How late in the night could it have been before vision and revelry alights quietude? And composure in nights bluey blankets, as under a forceless current--ocean having expectorated an eternity gratified, even in day's surrogate breaths, philosophy makes the air lighted. If I had legs, I'd be on the ground. But some fugue in unknowable self, trialing ambulations past my mind has elastic temporal gratis, granting only this & no other reason to don wandering catharses. *******3:43 am (last night) and it may as well be 4:20, and just now, I added sentences, in what I wrote the night of a lynaghs rock show--Friday Only the night:: I evolved from requiring sleep to dream--needing to sleep, to a derivative feeling of wanting to turn away. This I know. Once dreamt, I hoped these subconscious thrums would be answerable to the frozen-sea within, now with a shunt to self & wizened anew inner-essense. Attention is high, while stimulation without alights to a wealth of intentions redounding without. I wonder if some indefinite chorus - the paltry content that could've been said compared to the luck any one in call & response will say in florescence - is actually what I'm reduced to (the indefinite chorus)? Like a strong banister pulling me up from looming temporal lair into domiciles centre of gravity, the kitchen, Dostoevskii's The Possessed, makes me a riven ambulate toward the compliment in yet more that I'd retain from these meditations when life's bucket a go a well to the inanimate dialect.******* ************Voice was needed, after a deluge whet my tongue with only a single stone to tarry. Losing language is the same as being divided over one's loss in condoling whither he'd say. I lost expression & its too dear to break its margin's consignment. Images to intuit are in the mean of what seems a world with intentions to resume while at the pace of Minervan hope, and Sisyphusian solutioned. ****Minerva ? I've only just been introduced to some poetry in passing. Just read a brief note, so had this poetry been her Etruscan persona, I may have it rt that she expects the mind to be fed rapt truth & nothing much of war--in a light-crowded world, a pitch spiritual bloom reconciles self-consciousness. ****LasT nite--thinking, texting at the show, music justly excelsior : to my buddy--"It's a fairly light cloud, I mean crowd. Conscious crowd chimera, maybe. Something always behind this day's crest revealed, back when. Attention abounds, life feeding it--Imma eat, and some vultures don't eat meat. Culture swoops down like a vulture.*********** ***********Mentioning bookish hypnoses makes nothing doctrinaire about the following--rather hopefully poetic. Read dream--Eat shit---a mantram eliciting cheap language or fossilized watery emotions imminent. ( The very water whose future is become unsated & inhumanely absorbed. ) If the trees were the people, i'd be fated the life of an acacia (a tree living extent in more varied environments than any other), but only as in its written life, a mythic unfurling in a book about a nihilist vs believer vs a dispensation of a wealth of answers (Turgenev's Father & Sons). A "still" life in fiction, captured like the anonymity of real trees. Tree-tops in a row of my dream pith all head-lain insight managed in dreamtime, alighted above the temporal architecture in dream flight, makes arborial aerobatics a fount to evoke the sky's evident philosophy the same trove its paper diminuation falling silently with no one to witness.******** *********To get beyond some tiled floor remonstrated meditations--my coarse trials--to live up to music, Dylan's "Visions of..." song w/salient flights to ponder who is with/amongst my minion of ghosted selves (toward ego dispatched), what was begun had been teacherly light-glyphed figures in some kind of proxy. A social tether of what-all Life-academician would have me resolve in an agonist feat. No not talking to myself--tho' my Zadie I heard say, Who else is there to talk to? But to take an allusory sign in the climate of greater will--all that speaks to an earthly cuss, wind if only in the mind like beckoning natural language--a breath, the tune of expression, passion's "mention" in the seat of contemplation, making me see, "there's nothing really to turn off."*********** *******R. Shelomo Almoli is revealed, delimited in his reach from 500 yrs back--introduced in Potok's book In the Beginning. Core-culture (Christian) in its belched-out history - imminent in a dynamic succour - may provide content to a Jewish youth's confession in heretical mysticism... Almoli's dream intepretation survey wil have enthroned success I could ever have confronted w/evading psyche and the heat in wanting its night-insight fulfillment. Birds in arcs away out from shadowy seignorial figure dweet in the prodigy of self-possession: the Night-watcher, guardian in my respite, leaves very little thoughts drift to frame this my-doppleganger opposite self--languid at my margins' bluff, unconcerned--with mine fueled by a thousand advocates of splendor almost unredeemed. Such dreams with consoling bird messengers alighted must be an eponymy for this shuttering, hopping then resigned, starling creature--its glorific (to coin a word) prone cosmic moment, when my damnable brother cut it precisely in two. I saw my hand at the bearing down midnightish careen of the machete, like it was meant to take the blow. I smelled my veins. The birds of heaven deliver meaning to chimeras, that one may intuit why certain colors, or weak chromos, or throaty needs almost tacit, a cloudy wake but with pathos in the small soul's liquid sky. Outside my window, but walled-in dismally, the sense that there is more love than my gainsay to my inattention, I'm rescued, I'm overstood.******** *********** The fucked up dream of Romney, I can almost interpret. Katie Couric long ago may construe a more wakened familial portents, once. Rob, here's the same kind of thing, to answer why me if to contend with governance toppling a final sociation, that of a ghost town: the haunts of mind (dreamt or lived) and its furniture dispatched as resource, bettered by provenance has one read Ghosts need little... My brother went up to Vatican City, rounded its walls (all the way?), and said kinda, fuck you to the devil. He hushed exhorted, "Not this Jew, mutha fuckers!" (imagine older brother and he really gives a damn, really does, and says something One time in this last 46 yrs *my age, almost vile, but clear about man's misdeeds, "People die for that.") The power brokers of fraught & silly media don't even hide their humanity from me if I can imagine all their thwart of I & Nature passporte is just regimened nature, still nature. I'm disgusted with the likes and ranks of Rommelney, and who I reckon an alternative is luck, and better (Obama gave Dylan among others the Presidential Award for Freedom today--said tasteful things about Dylan, in a comprehensive tone), but I just can't apprehend this dis-ease of spirit and wholeness, until I'm clear one suffers. Just making the man another hopeful and usually unfulfilled incarnate--inhumanity born to human perspective. The transparent thing, me born in imminent surprise, I only know spirit (humanity) and wholeness is the only roof--the clarion of being tied to a future, needing a roof, one can't run. The future is tHE pathless expectation--No place to be--I'm an incumbent dreamer inverted in an accord with truth without intentions upon me to condole any entity - an unviable self included. How can "they" have what is sooo dear perchance, and watery redound in buffered security, that I am stained hidden?