The mile upon its approach

He speaks from the fruits of hearing if to mitigate his peer's exile. His weapon is the stolen pen which circumvents the myth of self-being. A solemn right is enjoined from psalmodies over one foundation. Bird-song as structure to his ephemeral expression is mantram to sentient greed receding. Coveted like kindling in wintry hide-away, he's held in the arms of sick men, surprised his illness is named an existential given.**********************A song we played off a cassette hauling around in Cairo, a song by Santana, just came on my anonymous mix of a few yrs back. The time of yr records an elastic Autumnal sense, looks myriad aerobatic, chides in coolness. Yesterday's hot ideation, thought & alliterative origins in a short path's polygon shade looks over this swathe of bluegrass plying an infinitude loam, moulds once called, upfull at the stream and powerless on trial. Some trees I notice in the park are changing in their ancient seasonal garment. A muse of 10,000 yrs between a falling leaf and her visage denies its signature on truth's contract of impermanence.********************By G-d I felt dark the day I wrote this--it is what love meant last Winter I suppose. Love: 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.*********************The Tree of Life, Kiskanu so-called in the world one ever knows, its first civilization's ethereal garden, suggests Atz-chaim in Judaism's first prophet. Through his disinclination of actual dialogue, our narrative is merely the vehicle of the world's first scribes. How devoted is one to frame antecedents to the truth thought of as ground of being? Here in school of life, she schools with impermanence. A tree pedestrian's witness making an absent light form across the ball-court while I saunter in the whiling heat, invites longer afternoon qualia. Looks like shady spittle in its canopy splay, objective reality's impersonal shadow's agent. An aged dissociation, I'm more patient now, and then is sooner than a cleverly sequestered mind, chattering thought easement for this purple Rorschach test testing art as agon nature.***************What kind of bodhi tree changes like literalist war waged while the ascendent reifies the Tree of Life, Kiskanu so called by the Sumerians--world's 1rst civilization & 1rst writers--placed in the garden Eden district, her precise heirarchy like crysalis seed to the one day catapulting West's Atz-chaim biblacy? Along their bureaucratic evocations, showing everywhere the penalty of symbolic social ardor even with cool garden environs esteemed, the paradisiacal settings would register with an energy of victory, espousing the hard-won seat of objectvity.****************In one dispensation I coupled every experience with getting away with time. In a mind's simple interred career, seasons' moat dominates the castle of my eternity while I haunt in the mile at its approach. Somebody done something somewhere & I'm hour-glass sluiced self-being proven free of it. Now freedom is this pilgrimage contagion of light, tether to the first step through the door into experience adjures me as footfall makes my wandering impression, the gates in the forest assist the fountain-eye blue pleroma's goal.***********************Counter-intuitively, philosophical umbrella shouldn't be utility when weather is elastic, demanding in a conceptual way. Thoughts need to be stunted, shortened, half-thoughts fury, bitumen opaque movement feel good enough & immediate. Pastel seasons tending a paradise of mouldering guffaw, I come into the room thoughtless. I'm only living 'pon the bridge toward transcendental awareness, amongst white clouds in temporal revolt of earthen space where I travel thought's distance. And distances strung must be an expression of light moment to moment evading consequence in the impermanent record.***********************Poesis grappling thought net catching bionic rats is riddled in ground zero fruity-blue carpeted floor, then in the 90's decade my brother's room had become mine. All the conscious map of Lexington took on a TV staticky projection (in this room), really light content in immediate fray, playing out consumptive intentions of time & place lagoon of south north history exceeding as an imagined well-being. It should occur to me Well-being demands new definitions. Toward hitbodedus, Jewish trends in meditation, Lee Scratch Perry variously furrows language to produce its illoquence in black plastic alliteration. Pivoting studies on what-is-received, kabbalah defined, from exposed nerve arranged language of the "tremendum" mind, the impulse to ply values get louder, concepts brighter, and its technocracy infectious: words slake w/ technology, taste kaleidoscopic.***********************Everything you think -is- this big, an adjured vessel, geometric & proportional to one's normative translator mask. Everything your olfaction calls Grandma's couch of consciousness, father's dusty garage, summery thermals reach over mellowy days, sprite warm air at night -is- a breadbox sized space accompli. This sensorial space where all things take place... Buddha looks out, rains lightly hallooing within, just so, before him, nowhere to turn and only in these solar lens, telegraphing meditation if to cast the present moment a restored vessel of intellection & ooze.******************My feet sit more solitarian than me, they've done more. My eyes laugh like they reach thru my hands, see polygon flap shadows obfuscating the depth of footfall in lamp caricatures light dark orange white. My ears meddle with perspective on night star-shine, room of pitch and silence, tether to the mention of a thousand yrs in each breath. My lungs emit verbs of change, burn like embers scattered across the field of experience.**********************As memories last I began a schedule of reading kabbalah gnosticism however alliterative path deigns its Spring, Summer, all the days flux, analytical meditation is become the silent nod somewhere in the wine-dark sea of 15yrs old. Do images get read? Likeness? Only symbols? Fractal ryddim balloon within thronging nerve calculus of this friendly ant underfoot, lives his dudeness soulfully standard, but intellection academician's witness to lasting breath & sentient greed.********************Teachers compose themselves under some thought umbrella 2-3pm everyday--the day transforms, lulls in the irony of dormancy. Small goals met, but challenge to emerge bildung frayed, funk thrum from would-be melamed, it all adds up student of life in-the-making, a sky is limit, while within, the episteme rebellion willfully exoteric or the wonder of her entreating change. Formative in a place to think, circus egoity, id of nature's reservoir, I dream to remonstrate origin's hotch-potch winner back o' wall singularly bound mithering mindful, splendid cephalic reach, like bougainvillaea. Thwack of bat to sofa, nomenclature of doomed dome "beat" of intellection thwack.******************As I sit broken hearted, actual deprecare definition where I'm vital, she's made it entirely convincing who lights the fire. Me, cold I up a 1000 TVs sear and burn over the hearth of reality, static 'pon charcoal gnashings, emerging clarion season, curtains part acrylic skies, cheerful cups banged--there to drain, minds furrowing in sky architecture canopies. This new emotive career slakes in theoria arcade, paint eaten by its tableau, colors of saffron in face of oil, licked in soup, cranberry glass eyes. A whole vessel prised out of dreigh design...*****************Walls refining attachment to star-mote device, a mind operating agonist, will relent, slows down less like a 3rd world guffaw in wont of fuel, than the 1rst world whose appetite is tradition of body neophyte. If pharoanic reality had first cause, they are looking down at their science of musterion escape, seeing us vicariously perform definitions of existence. Look at state of wont, social living past nerves, marrow of expression of the nerve lit, salah al badan, Judeo-Arabic for the purity of the body, has nuance its (definition is) liberation would strain like Tolstoy in your public square writing in an open book of dreams. Intellectual delirium after relationship depression draws me toward fantasy, and this leap from the plank of humanity. Feeling of eternal haunts, heart led in awe, light of mind conflagrating and blue, are exotic symbols filtering in a way that puts origins into this hungry quiescent vein proxy of a day's long ends.*************************Identity has to be measured in bland dialect thru fates of manufacturing motive. One is lucky to care a little. Choseisme syndrome may well be this cold-lamp myth of love lost. Deluge twilight pursuant the day's miasma threshold, in a conscious map episteme is the satellite glossary of bldg's blank guffaw. Facades sing mantra slavery to a certain silence, and I transform from it in the electric hour while drinking in city ooze. ***************Like she's in phantom presence, and I mile in her salient vision. My eyes love the 1/3 of appearance hiding the iceberg of essense. Midnight chil'run's question in her nerve lit plashes a surfeit of yellow god exercised to the shore of my circadian landing, I feel 10,000 stars bound in silence.*********************CLAYs Mill ELEMENTARY--Sitting down next to a blanket of clover, my whole association with the freedom in a dog's life enlivens a certain natural trust, feeling creaturely, bluesky unreined. There's a singular bee in about the same Summery place in its worker goal prising a solitarian detail out of flower essense. It's not the yellow-black bee, but the European looking one, more allaying in tame character, the guy from around here? I imagine, like he knows the place... I project common agency in season's hr. glass diminution, contrarian to the insect life as evidence to the Homogenocene. I tamp a nail in, in a narrative where I don't intend to build. An Islamic mughal once quoted Jesus, conveys that no house should be built on this bridge of life toward meaning, namely His as object of eternality.********************The contemplative goal isn't ordinarily fulfilled if intuitive stamina feels this impossible. But, verily an "in" is reconciled, a hope physical memory vies for ellipses with earth. No escaping the porte on reverence & continuity, then falling out of it. You deserve nothing outside the known when you're happy; it all seems true. When you're not happy nothing is in a surfeit of dis-ease, would level you as its surprise thwart. A leopardish small butterfly mithering to dry now a few hrs since rainfall, registers self-same hope I only just now enlist next to nothing self-aware, pollen messenger anointed. I imagine this change working on me. Anything to do as one's wake of intention upon me has less to do with me, more in concourse reach observing unknown ply of "other," and you know social living is the best. The lepid on her flower satellite dislodges a window on plain nature, ground of being, has a footprint of space like this swathe of illusion on its anonymity.***************************Sorting out some idea, an Arab dude's notion, does najem, star, mean al shams, the sun, just plainly that, star indicates sun. I'm sitting on a sidewalk, Southland park area (waiting for my niece), near a field feeling the burning hot sunbeams, humidity magnifying. Thermals in myriad stases almost compete visually with usual temporal senses. In a small feeling of kinda body-consciousness, thoughts like Buddha is cold when cold, hot as yielding in heat is irony pulling me along into solar gratuity, a cool breeze.***********************Is open crowd in its capitulation that I belong--these thoughts, the promise self-same shoes never knew the first footfall of this long distance journey. The path meeting one's step--its reception--whatever the meaning in its destiny, could be concretized at the gates of the forest. Unrequieted fascinan's wanderlust before trees become conscious satellites is written in soot, propolis & sap, & in her eyes upon the contract with good. Mind in its moon etched nod confides seasons of change, a bee catcher in the climate of greater will. Yasss word's out on the street, phantom-me is walking the plank of humanity, I'm jumping into the fire reflecting in a golden eye, ...that the defeatist is actually enduring rarified confidence.**********************