Radios bleed in tunes only Ethiopian antennae pick up from an indefinite chorus.

"Why not tell me that now?" comes an acquisitive mind. Pretending sorrow feeds--tasting her political marrow. I think Patti Smith shoulda walked in after a first listening to Radio Ethiopia, then I'm feeling all cut up from Kabbalah reading at 14-15 yrs old, which was straight NY junk in vascular histories, our family's cenacle habituation in Kingston, but part of real plateaux after the certainties of resource and continuity Jewish migrations give my Mom's side something of an American dream. The dream is Orientalist and having done a little of the studies, our West grasping imperialist map took on North Africa in that light, Napoleon's ledger expressing the direction where lies the exotic... Under my red roundglass lamp with its convex viny designs, "ask the angels..." is lyrically proscribed. Yeah, asking, isn't this auditve shore really the dream in a room into whose reality informs me like I appeal to a hermeneutic naming of this great in-truth amorphous ekstasis in spirit? Plato's Forms: our experience of the Good is part of a better, broader, more elaborate Good. He suggests that there may always be a Form whose innovation is superlative as of things like Beauty, Beauty of only the incremental or all the slightly deliberate embossing of salience pointing-to-the-sublime making one Beauty the One withwhom all reserve is given,...maybe per the Creative Universe, the perfect Order, a surface. And that of emergence.*****************The numinous is only unique in a triumph de langue, that wit and undone discovery, maybe an electrical interiorization of words to the evermore paradise, still as a scrutinized approach. Only so much while feeling "a fullness in sufficiency" (Nachmanides, 13th century). The world likened as source plodding source to materials' claimant, temporal tune in tune with nature's self, light of the room shedding over an expanse that I can taste of bartering breaths with the next bigger tabernacle of sentient greed. I clamor upon the shelves strung across the spell decisive library of Babel. No wizened thoughtclouds--hope down from up above--need awe of its impermanence any more inspiring.*****************I wouldn't want to gainsay that I prevail in scrutiny, even mock certain Religious concerns, that I believe I pass-go an accounting through the project in self-worth. Believing anything makes nothing implicit in however measuredly that one could feel in reality elaborating over merit, swooping one up because ritual says "discover the world in you, meant for you, unto this or that fate." Gandhi meanwhile defines "religion" as self-actualization effort, so calling the kettle black is seeing your "I'm spiritual, but have nothing for religion," is about the most usual thing said in the most usual seeker. Be spiritual, by all means, a rational spirit because you damn well assessed thoughts, feelings and actions only moments before your reifying release notional over within or without a thus-gone existential garment. Knowing is merely numinous, enumeration, seeing oneself as patternic sprites or borrowers' calculus as beyond mundaneity. Spirituality is metricate, the plank we feel on our way back to beginnings, objective reality toward the bliss of diminution as answerable, invisive, you in amongst as small a crowd as just you. Aloft into spiritual perspective, I knew then G*d is meat and potatoes' sincerity, while folks were operating with distinction that the world is Other, tremendous, vying through musterion. I only thought the higher I climb the more likely I would come down land on my own two feet, knowing something of self-being through velocity. It would be a coup to the integrity redefining novel rigor in long distances elegantly strung of clarion survival confidences.*******************I like to devise conceptual grammar that has condominium with viable spirits whose defenselessness is under threat of anything outside an intelligible universe, thereso merely everything though we're beneath the subtle touch of a saint's diamond hand retrieving pronouncements of release from the well of our intensions. "Go down, Moses; Go down, Martin Luther King..." Lee "Scratch" Perry sounds out verse in eponymy: those whose message renovates One Drop consciousness, their message isn't striven on a razor's edge reception, rather those truth tellers elaborate pure consolation, our assent.****************Sometimes the UPS driver showed up while Hebrew school was going on, the class just before ours, and we'd be out in the foyer or more usually I'd be shadowy, waiting and enlisting yonder wall where I could lean, filtrating spiritual contentment in thinking-spaces where I'm suppose to be thinking heavily. At the top of the red-ashen carpeted steps into the Sanctuary I sit and tease gematrias, mathematize what it is the fuse of floor blemishes and designs to reify the niggun (tune) I hear from these cheder, bible students while seeing it in my will to visualize. Little bloops of pearlescent circles take-over at the fray of my eyesight lining-out over the tiles. Astroids-like if I could date it, electronic I mean, a quietude of pleasure if approaching an uncoined arcade game with its moment to moment pretend face of little iconic sprites. Once having alighted to downtown wanderings, living on Third Street, oriented toward campus and traipsing into the crossroads of the synagogue, I plant myself on the outside threshold to a never opened door to the prayer room (sanctuary / now the Maxwell Street facing corner of Joe B's building), look at the weather yielding painted bricks, and peer over the shoulder in this reader's visualization to that of a Russian-Jewish homunculi.***********************To the extent in which I've become accustomed to thinking my own thoughts, the disunity as pleasureable as only being open to them arising, I move toward work goals, once over a lot of years with my brother's and family business, now as only making a road into non-pecuniary, more temporal goals. "Feed your structure," Lee "Scratch" Perry reminds me, "sit-up and meditate," Gregory Isaacs cants. Stand in my confessed nerve kitchen, appraise necessary commitments in verily transitory metrics which are the ones met--there isn't anything but the repair of what all belches one into the present. Then through glossy-eyes in the blur of mantrams, I feel sure it was more important than I first thought... I had really looked forward to it all the while, paths' alumn--no path. Now there is more done even of integers' shadow, negativity has no places, nature is striven, but makes no agonism to the 3/4ths buried reality, hot icebergs speak and I feel. Salman Rushdie phrases it so nicely: "hot icebergs."*********************Elucidate the Forms, like Beauty of only the incremental or all the slightly deliberate embossing of salience pointing-to-the-sublime making one Beauty the One withwhom all reserve is given, maybe, till I feel time is what we need with expectation, potency, some half-thoughts as Mom's paper bouquet appreciates in the smiling ancestral character in its low-burning, cool-lights of our living room. G-d Bless that sadness. Love her heart of business beats, body's comportment across a blooming spirit's plank into telos. Seems to rouse a sense of vast patterns that one propitiates over her katheno-dreamland, journeys, by her hand and plan, by her lights, mama angels all emanate her love to concess its variable and become its crusader. Walls lure to dissolve and Ma computes Solitaire into a stow of memories, evenso got away with it now... imagining, smoking her True Blues, gnashing the night hours in eternal reasons to breathe and live up, Noatic dove of surviving lands, smoochy-whisperer in tunes of wholeness. Apropos her sensorial history, Mom said to me probably once, "Always turn a light on in the room you enter."****************What if incarnations were of ethos, not who we are, but what this life is become? That I could succour a future in as much as the actionable state to identity is easily discardable and our graceful reactions, we "do," moving into experience, toward a place of consciousness, moving into relationship. The Player admits to the soughing earthen tastes in puddles after the rain and breathes the weather's clarified air like he is the millionth in a million days through whose amnioses he sleeps as a dreamer.*******************Faith geometrifying (the Observer ) is the luck of tacking onto reality because your senses were as survival burgeoning as the subtleties in being reduced to truth. Our experiments in truth might be while crossing over to our one-world with the exacting journey as a bridge wakening far over, way over unto our presence, rhythm bubble bouncing moment to moment assent to the other as inevident from reason in continua as a mind potently immured into the veda inwit of midnights.*****************The enormity to our planet's repleting garments, rivers whose other side are so far widening it is unseen bleed while asking the angels why, with more thrush and plashes answering. Earthen wines transverse over the dermis of our wish to control the reins of transportation and transformation by enlisting its condominium of myriad beings through color seeking minds of transitory eyesight, the Ganges flows in holy swathes, surfeiting with plumes of humanity's temporal or spiritual exercise.****************We were in Tel Aviv getting visas to prevail inevitably under invisive Sinaitic suns, Middle-eastern toward African regions expressing the desert, then glare into dun earth shatterings that any one look can be captivated after splendid razor's edge star-shine. Finally there up against rock, pure dust and subterranean vaults my brother and wise sourcerer in all things beat Robbie Loco

& I had mounted and slogged into the Giza plateau. Thus gone and operating in redolent blankness through antiquations underneath one of the three pyramids just past the Sphinx, close in the realm of Metatrone (the "angel upon the throne") or as in one musterion's case, god of writing, Thoth in Egyptian complement writes down this dreamscape--and then I'm the only purveyor to these ole brown shoes, writing the break I get from reality--where heavens of heiroglyphs are superable in stone around us somewhere but not immediately, their raven-like ab'ra k'dabra ancient liturgies still register in a feeling nigh in troglodytic sub-dune chambers. I give away my last circa '86 Kentucky-bank clickety click pen to some school children on our way back to Cairo, near the pyramids but here we're aboard Adel's taxi... and have come now to a vanquished tributary to the slightly further away continuity of the White Nile alighting to an ancient stone bridge, that and an ultimately rarefied and beaten few dwellings, shacks and pure silence in the color of given-up, devoutly plain reaching infinities. "The castle of my eternity" in pharaonic Egyptian, all mantram beautified, is "en het enyeh.***************"Dare a guy in the Japan eye" (or in Rasta syntax an ad infinitum "I"), toasts Lee "Scratch" Perry, is what I think I'm hearing in a line out of his album Message from Yard. But as it may be the case it helps imagining our human origin's habituation sometimes living in caves which are good for visualization where Paul Theroux describes the Yungang Caves in China. In their Buddhist metricate already having erased beneath the generations using them in their varied project doing it by digging past further into the mountains have plenitudes of surfaces of a people's history sundered by the warrant of destruction by the Chinese Red Guard... the malefaction would have been Bamian in scope all told. The amorphous release any spirituality might allow for must have seemed to be particularly upsetting as some "thing" to the mission minded who inevitably bury its otherwise inspiring ethos. Into all our soul eyes, the windows of our deep-aside, there's a ground zero to the florid incarnations in whom one feels one is meant to be. Don't you know the crowd in your awareness is where you lie prone, as if into a magestic tree's ground layering grasp you are facing certain limits, open to them and facing down into their tall grasses? You touch the earth, alight in momentary touch-downs, but perhaps our existential affecting weight is to presume what it is to seize the throne of our fascinans, its media, you, the reflecting tableaux.