** **...thinks to avere thinking** **

Man, to speak softly like experimental psychologist of note. Gandhi is pitar-daemon, matar-wit. Formulae talons tear dream's passive current through aerobatic mime. Babel's dovecot messenger in her avian circumambience left to unwritten dawns are skittering pebbles for wont of travelogue. News and digital sky star-paper, intimations of culture, justifying one's journey by decisor advantage of its suspension. The cult of self-reliance, on found rules, thinks to avere thinking.************* A shadow is apposite an empty cupboard. An empty shadow leans out of the star torn sky. Shade is no more night than moon as the bride of Winter's leafless boughs. Chthonic roads of antiquity are footfall's diluvian experience, way over, veiled in velocity. Someday forever if you are on the ground, you know you have legs.************* The front cover of The Gates of Hercules referring to the straits of Gibraltar, has enough of rocky climes pictured that have otherwise insinuated an ocean-front into at least one dream 'til now. In this way but different than a storm off the coast of the Gulf, early one Spring: the blue of the sky vault is supine, the other shore is present, but beneath the unknowing tableaux. As Tao as lightning a Form to that of plain energies organic & primary. A conversation with pitch mind and clarifying having made room for chronometry muse (timely), just beyond, is only a guess I have mind enough in slaking thirst for the trouble of new information. Into the sea, plashing the surface, down, down, for the good of suspiring lungs, I become empty of day-light. Sleep is a garment to deny the exoteric response, just where I lie. And I sleep plenty, then write about it to determine the corral of circadian rhythms as some ferrel inner-sanctum, leaving waking state to the leisure of this certain freedom. I imagine coral shifting, lumbering relatively as if from one pivot, tireless noise & creak of heavy twisting cardboard. I feel corrugated, and once I held a wooden match above my forehead moving it laterally back and forth, broke from its pendular hypnosis, did it again. Tho' before nodding off. 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 lapses, house settles like an unresponsive nerve-cntr is at my back--a different tea warms the sleeping vessel.************** A conversation w/a student I want to be: What is avodah? As part of a book mentioned in Amos Oz's Love & Darkness memoir--it suggests a means to worship. Yesod VeShoresh HaAvodah is The Foundation & Root of Worship. But work is the definition of avodah that I knew--my brother confirms. The Jewish Caravan, Mom's tome easily corrals my brother & I into phantasmal first concepts of Jewishness I feel, the weight of marketing eternal study like the student's search rather nigh & not around the corner. There is denoting license, hence the irrelevant solitarian ascendent, but toward a more lucid trance egoity, more rarefied, which explicates the concept of worship, and what I'm imagining as one in prayer/meditation, mekavvanim. Kavvanah is what Yemeni are known to practice. Means "focus." But, as to get the transience or elastic idea of meditation, so many ways in kabbalah, gives examples like The Work of Aharon, I think I've seen--just name your prophet or any of the universals, any number of fruits (toward fruits of wisdom, one could imagine). A work as upon the solicitous subject or goal in worship. The Work. Like devotion--this is the instrumental word I deduce. True to yass of self-realization effort, music is the Good.***************** The front cover of The Gates of Hercules referring to the straits of Gibraltar, has enough of rocky climes pictured that have otherwise insinuated an ocean-front into at least one dream 'til now. In this way but different than a storm off the coast of the Gulf, early one Spring: the blue of the sky vault is supine, the other shore is present, but beneath the unknowing tableaux. As Tao as lightning a Form to that of plain energies organic & primary. A conversation with pitch mind and clarifying having made room for chronometry muse (timely), just beyond, is only a guess I have mind enough in slaking thirst for the trouble of new information. Into the sea, plashing the surface, down, down, for the good of suspiring lungs, I become empty of day-light constancy. Sleep is a garment to deny the exoteric response, just where I lie. And I sleep plenty, then write about it to determine the corral of circadian rhythms as some ferrel inner-sanctum, leaving waking state to the leisure of this certain freedom.************* Thoughts lurch like a caprid's head to the deep-aside where my feet precipitously try to find same exclusive point of revered high-ground, I climb into my mind.************** If the looking glass didn't lie, I'd see a Chukchi native mask animating musterion expression. His hair plaits in splayed leaves, wooden slitted ocular ports, but transmogrifying as likely into man machine, metal design stars, protuberant head limb as sensorial apparatus. In reproducing self-image, this persona of American Native is either alien so responsive to my licit techne, or familiar since he belongs more fundamentally in time and place.************** I fell asleep after work the other day, seemimgly having skipped an entire evening, that as in hindsight, looked to be part of dream-time, living in images of mindless love over the dream of an X-girlfriend, really a lovely person. When I woke from our rendez-vous, innocently enough, fully through emotional continuity, my mood is rather she had the irony of anonymity and still sweet intimacy my atrophied heart can't solicit otherwise. I am weirdly actually thankful to repose with her in the field of possibilities dreamscape allows, and quite sure I can distinguish the narrow corridors of my own perspective, w/o presuming immediate sociation. If supreme identity eludes in terms of existential source, while my own becoming barely credible through any ecstatic relic, certainly this thought-agency is only a blue shadow & halloo of night theoria, nothing else. What is this life become? Answer: Organs of consciousness as one & against itself with a trace of will to drown in the river that swallows the dream. ***************To present intellectual-mover, some one figure identified as academian met, teachers assuming his & her arising personae, in The Closing of the Western Mind, Socrates stains centering Shiva character (appreciating my own sense) as in a mandala placating maze spanning an otherwise empty curtain-pulled mind cloud. Words mile innocently & cheap, normative as a present moment, seem alive in interlocution currency and worked out now tho' they are encantations of predeceased spirits. Imagine 399 bce, Socrates is killed over what one now can casually know. I see the news/antagonism about the gods in limby fenced-off minds, enlisted like choice daemons in human development. Some flimmer witness to plain language and I'm awed in the leisure histories' well-being can answer back.**************** Ozkent, my maine coon, paws me as characterized as Dad's cough in a grocery aisle when your wondering which way he's gotten oriented. As signature as a candle lit petraglyph, but of thought migrations instead of antiquity's hidden ambulate. (He just now chased his tail.) I have this recurring dream, affective from Sunday's perfect window subtle ply in distance strung, her splendor of nowhere to be, while he's wandering a temple of night pilgrimage geolect, precient barefeet press the moon glower further into A Passage to India. I'm welcomed in at least sensorial micro-managed way, my entrepot is stillness & reflection, but Ozzie looks back all too knowingly just as Chagall's cats masquerade in self-being. Alien but almost homuculus-wise, presence multiplies and I see its temporal broken bridge, its losing grasp, satori space after median's inner-scrutiny, then the observer & an uncomplicated foreground makes a sojourn close, feels like a coollish book turned pillow, night-lamp adducing mind appearance.************** Bottle it in emptiness like time libations, along the german prisoners' built wall, cone-top beers, water tower surface, bleached wind-cultivated grass, corn-stalk leaves cut my small fingers biking across into furrows, our names graffittied under the bridge where I prised wild white carrots, ate them raw--knew what it looked like.************* At the outer extension of Alexandria Dr before it is completed, open to Harrodsburg Rd, I squeeze through prone barriers listening to the radio in the wee hrs, Michael Jackson is singing Rock with You. I feel I'm looking at his Fu Manchu face in my marionette thought nomenclature. The rd would be convenient because I'd come through there regularly soon enough, my paper-route divined in my Ford truck F-150 on a rather inept group of customers way over, far over the mornings' sunrise. "In 1492 Colombus sails the ocean blue" peals in street-light contours from a silent bell in my brain. My cousin flies to mind, I see his dog Homer in colorless stare sense the LSD theater, Andy asleep, his blue alpha-numeric clock dollops stupendous & unreferenced time. I imagine my head held high scanning darkly shadowed night coves, thousands in ocular walnut boughs, Lexington dreams but I am in the wake of night. Groping the news on the radio or flung papers lend unbinding interests--discussed in daliance media, a certain book sits to accord mundi-vox on my shelf. I park actually next to the first place I kissed a girl, say provocatively-- folding papers next to the apt apartment laundro-mat, why that wilderness? Blustery out and raining, while I pitch papers into the truck bed, perched in my front seat, an ancient ocean begins to conceal me. I think, I'm going below, hopefully beyond ground zero, because in those blind-morning moments I am frightened into emptiness. World-view out of mouths rapt with change convey very little other than an angel's solitarian knot from her indefinite chorus drawling my limbo purple contagion.*************** G-d exists thru rapt indictment. One may reckon "everything" implicit only because expression lends capsulate absurdity. Faith is an admittedly vain word game, with special concern as over an especially exclusive player. It is an ass-backwards & solipsist human social escape: an answer assumed before one could be sure what creative agency is true or crystalized to which he's reduced. Things spoken to in The Alphabet versus the Goddess would show biases in our symbolic social making. Why is it ennobling to accept a sensible universe on somehow a rally of nothing provable?*************