Transformed like Gray Pages Looking less Dun & more Yellow still in my Eyes, like Light.

Expressions ennoble however present the sense of our recent handful of days as they appreciate, but I can't help only observing weary feet 'pon the ground of experience to that of so many in their migrations or long-distance gatherings of resource. Humankind has wandered these proud lands for a 100,000 years in continuity as these beings changing so insignificantly, one can imagine several people around them as coming to urban reality as imminently as their grandparents near in dispensation's cusp with the industrial age transitioning into our technocracy even more artfully in its fettering machines. Beautiful animal's feet, say, ready as the conveyor ranks their usual footfall to any extremis of it, looking laudable and wizened like tree rings as if increasing the acuity in our attachment to earth. I walk like I'm throwing stony enervations into my palms that my feet coordinate and flex like hands grappling for free space. I loved encountering my Zadie, shaking his glad hands, tracing my conscience in good order which consoles like his usual walk in his ambition to be healthy, that he had mapped his Lexington travelogue to bus-stops and all the distance strung toward the day's conscious satellites where I too invent myself under this self-same life's entreating Sun.************* We only ever need to risk yoking our lamentable selves. Answer sometime later the sense of change (the more of you warning of maven observation)--the thing about it--one leads into the present demanding that the reins of experience be unrigged from an otherwise subtle grasp on this world of any color you like. I saw my eyes in hers. I'm as tired as dark fire she detects in the back of my blue slumber, reflecting homunculi thoughts' mortar full up with inquiries from without, at arm's length a present world, there but underneath, though my eyes cling loosely, can't actually approach. I think Big Os, but mostly the gray of a presciently dull-colored air from nearby Circle 4 exhaust, somehow illustrated and replacing whirling traffic audition with the haze of a deprecare world. I can still breathe I hope to reimagine.^^^^^^^^^^^^^In just a handful of years, man I can tell you I am glad to have escaped waiting for the answer, in existential query, who am I here sitting in langor, no love but the abbreviated sense of watching lives get past me? And now delightfully caught-up with my sweet Susie, I see giant leaps through the change I so badly needed since she's come in my life with her love and healing. Sad and damning what I had accumulated in the poignancy of physical presence, no longer nobly enslaved by gross regimens as if to stay conscious of me this self-same feeling-guy as always, I smoked too much tobacco and lamented unreachably to you all and me. Burned by the incredulity my Mom would be effaced before I could reflect more presently with her leaves what I tinder in her fire, me pervading these skies hazed with the smoke of self-mythologizing and never full up, her heat exceeds the starry pleroma and I had to go and meet it. Glad of the ground beneath my feet now; praise this living earth and the love she taught me to go on and love with.*************In the window thrown open on a sense of whole worlds' passing, I'm a daydreamer hushed, though coming to my slight reality, answer of sorrow in its dialect with reason, the principle of life. "Music a godly thing," Bob Marley's toasts, entreats the marionette-willed Player and the strings carrying him or her out of their deep-aside, the listener's Hope. From myth invisive players, the playlist evolves in a sonic theater, this car, in this bright light, through Autumn's reach in polyphonic puddles reflecting musical content as rain's cosmic landing.*************What is this fidelity to the surface where I had seen a man raking autumn leaves prone to the scurrying day's commuters? More On than any interiorizing check to his Tuning Out, he looked invented by the report on the pavement from trafficking souls. He was inanely present, almost mired though his pedestrian banner put him in the climate of hurrying powers. But not protuberant like a car competing for assent onto a lane, he had the greeting of tacit earth. I drive by thinking had I been as vulnerable to an idea-force making wind, sun, leaves and space the calculus of this disparate encounter, that my small world looking just as monist in contemplation pushes me from the shore of experience into the stream's glurring middle.***************We're halfway down the mountain, again shrouded by the reachable past of netherly covers. A shadowy veil all unwrapped once upon a time now complements the rest of our way home. Serpentine within, I'm the whip pulled from the master's hand of a world's purveyor. My thousand lives, counting the millionth in a million colors mused in thoughtfields from this one cool chair replaces my more of nature's egalitarian rug. This meditation out of a new yet old study had higher education been my bag is somehow going to be comprehensive, I promise myself. Mother Russia--so good to me (if Cultural)--is still part of the subtle bond in the project between the Eagle and the Bear, gives new meaning to the little red ribbon handed to a Central Asian toddler that he or she may know the definition of Beauty, interesting in its Russian antecedent, the wine-dark luster of Red.*************At the closest intersection to my old Jr High, Beaumont, here I sense some margin suspiring spirit-child, me in my youthful tribulation, where once I wrecked on an early 70's model Schwinn 10 speed, actually laid it over. New Circle Rd thrums just a house and a yard away, but this time of day and this lush life in a world of less crowds were ameliorating in dispensation. The cuff of my pantleg had gotten entangled with the chain; I couldn't so easily turn with the pedals, probably slightly too small for the bike borrowed from the generation before me. Emergent like a jinn, this neighborhood redneck saw me stuck, threw his Martian meteorite glance my way. The self-same dude riding his banana seat bike, drinking a can of beer--with exacting confidence on his strode road--I saw the summer before, says to me then, "I drinks to enjoy." Yes, "Drinks." And toasted me as the libertine warmth is a day proscribing anywhen rolling by. Now he's circling just 20 yards after me, coming from the vacant season-heat apropos streets of Georgian Way, like a vulture of musterion talons rallying perchance he sees his disease more mused to feel his antithetical pain, ready to pick me apart. I immediately felt sundered, something I couldn't have imagined and it not be the case: people were apt to be cruel and no values game need apply ...just stabby eyes seized upon the deception a brother's eye would countenance. And sisters--I'm really glad of her more usual reprieve that all were meant atleast once to be restored from someday piteous. Luckily, I get loose and mean action is avoided.****************Peter Rowan in some inspired Bluegrass lyricks, "The heart is a muscle, it gotta love to live," so backwooded and surging in the blood to that of any reason to unite perspective and presence. We have Freedom not to deny a sensical world operating in consolations or in its swathe anonymity; one peace waits for peak observation anywhere. Some wizened daemon sauntered into the median space between Susie & I on our hotel-roomlike couch and announced, I thought translatable to me, its encounter with the both of us as one thing in its crowish vernacular... Like an enmeshed naming of the both of us relenting certain plies of self-consciousness, Categories of Mind (mine, hers, in a room, out of light, somehow a ground of being) may be unique to elapsing from certain impermanent restraints? Meaning, just beside myself, seeing our presence in a puzzle of space that has the shores of identity in way different places: I'm at least, kinda Susie, or else something even more other in sociation with the event of our anticipating a manifold patience from within each other. Makes me imagine I'm a phantom and myself, at once, appreciating Susie emergent in ways that would invent novel intensions, therenesses, of mind's survival beyond and conveniently in dreams of continuity, an embellishing mirror to append our long-lived hopes.***************In the West we have developed a social epistemology leaving us incredulous as to what these Literalist Fuckers are ill-considering from moment to moment, where we all should live, denying the iteration smelling like bullshit schemes of a World to Come. Completely insane purveyors of their rigoring Traditions talk the same game here of Fundamentalism, remonstrating like liars in the mirror of this same unappendable self-promotion.****************And then there's godtalk. No atheists in wars? In their foxholes, so to find meaning is all the value of something Certain in the next eluded suspiciously green earth's ending contest... Though you must love war as a means to rather effectively enjoin a god's fray to Belief, act on behalf of nothing peaceful almost any god would've constructed atleast behaviorally as to emulate in their lush prising magic, an appetite to respect--a fire to quell--Moloks or meteorite heaving Jinns in imaginations are pseudepigraphia bound to rather sickening conventions.****************In my four cornered scarcely dreamt upper room, my windows open up to yours and mine G*d's country, bluegrass in Nature's because-it-goes-like-that atman as vivid chloroplast tongues with their rooted down contents, minerally sourced dirt upon these cloud liminal lands. Watching it, but why can't I see? Though I am bound to a fecund surface, so what unfetters me in the glue of sight is Stoic if appreciating in the tremendum of a constant condition, treading among a slight and kindled hope that I am here and ameliorating as light's last reach underneath. Teach letting-go by illustrating for the youth that nothing's going on.****************