On the Razor's Edge, Koomer's Ridge - Thoughtful

With my ear vulnerable, sound is read in a kind of somnambulism at least through a spell of attention of squashed waking-state essence. The promising ways of language plain to brick their proscriptions, say, rather formalized to complete its feeling, are probably in its shadows of inmost appearance not always so easily averred as sounding-like-me - wordy rhythms may only seem capsulate and absorbed yet under the dependent distraction from the day's vagaries. Half-thoughts are dear to me and we're all half of something. Awash amid a toxic elegance toward degrees of an applied imagination or in strides of ratiocination, I'm more likely to sense a compassionate acceptance to things of constant sorrow always remembering what makes me enjoin the impermanent record to that of a loved one: ...but I've known you for such a long time now.**********Mom on and on, makes her world recent and thus stupendous in sanctioning over my moment to moment ironies. In front of her computer in our living room, then as thereness confides, yields in our becoming as memory reflects with music splendoring and on my mind while Winston Rodney toasts in "Jah no dead" my knowledge does increase, but I divine his sense utility to something alluring as his patois records. I examined in Jewish Thought come mystical definitions on the ABCs, the meaning of an organism permutated of symbols to the Hebrew Alef-bet, adjuring Wholeness: language. Which is "shalom" declaimable in its closest feeling, that of liminal Prosperity and through language alliterating verily in sum pathlessness her complement to this anywhen value of a world-to-come feels like release under that conceptual umbrella, parturient in weather 'yon in peak observation, this here theoretical and studied bucolic fated precinct animated to reanimation where only peace is spoken. Heaven, hardwon or as convenient as an ambient couch of consciousness plollocks dimpled by our leisure, loitering in light and sound, feeling and distance, content rich due to an exceptional meal perhaps, a life in this certain becoming, a philosophy of the senses even distilled toward a contemplative refuge, is an immanent prayer, an inmost meditation on water, honey, wine and milk. Today.***********Reaching for light, shouldn't the forest wanderer take the tree's habit as our renewed covention? I read about trees, stand among them touching the earth, just standing under nature's gospel encounter and grapnel custodian, I would embrace this world in that kind of expectation, potency, like these half-thoughts as Mom's paper bouquet once appreciated in the smiling ancestral character in its low-burning, cool-lights of our living room. The Players admits to soughing tastes in puddles and loam, he or she comes to peak experience, the millionth in a million days through whose amnioses they sleep as dreamers. Sitting at attention upon Corbin limestone, a rock of Koomer's ridge in forest anonymity, thick carpeting leaves and organic detritus furl and keep this observer in sojourns to its human-empty haunts. I read a few pages, sweating on them, inventing myself through poeses meant in diffusion toward the bliss of insects buzzing raucously in fractal woody environs, try seeing it behind my eyes...probably do. On the way up I had inched through one leg of the trail with an eye like elephant trunk dragging on any exception the tapestry ground might appropriate, wanting the same hypnoses, that of leaves and inanimate chicken-feet pine impressions, rocks furrowing, the occasional ant colony machinations, anything and everything having made the pressed earth rather like a canvas lent to my senses, my leisure at its command to any article of thought and providential of mineral to my blood is found in the looking glass of clay. Touching the earth is my definition of freedom.*************My favorite holiday. I've had years of lesser celebration and that impressed upon me missing my Mom more than ever. 2010 was the last Thanksgiving I would celebrate with her - we had come to Florida and spent a few days with her sister, my lovely Aunt Janice, ate a Greek Thanksgiving with my cousin Kelley and her fantastic in-laws and it was perfect. I watched a James Bond movie as the day ambulated into a rosy colored anywhen, The World is not Enough, and felt as traditionally conceived as all the days of my growing up. This year Susie and I are preparing most of the main courses to join her parents and some of her family, hoping for peace and unshrouding our view of an American history. May the Great Spirit descend to all our tables.********Then the G*d of our Nation had us think of a future sealed, all is alright. And when the Nation failed, grabbing hands grab as they can the power yet believed to be a god's meddle. There is truth to reconcile, and yet when will our human indulged idea-forces append such a day? No atheists in foxholes? In our wars, so to find meaning is all the value of something Certain in the next dodge to a suspiciously green earth's ending contest. Though you must love war as a means to rather effectively enjoin a god's corral of Belief, acting 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 in judgment. And aren't we againbitten so vulnerable to that eschaton, Moloks or meteorite heaving jinns in imaginations as the liminal passions to bound believers in rather sickening conventions?*********G*d exists thru rapt indictment, put on trial by stolen away religious Jews in Auschwitz, "guilty" had been the charge, the Creator is shown in cold and historical ambivalence. One may reckon "everything" implicit - a reason for everything - 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 and solipsist human social escape: an answer assumed before one could be sure what creative agency is true or crystalized to which he or she is reduced in Belief. Things spoken to in The Alphabet versus the Goddess would show biases in our symbolic social making. Forward all irony to those who it is that have controlled our symbolic give and play and thus shaped myth with mean physical results. Why is it ennobling to accept a sensible universe on somehow a rally of nothing provable?

*********Neti, neti, neti ...it is not. And just so you know I came to this sense of things, take it from thought's undesigned, leaping and sleeping, but consuming me merely from the experience I took in hopefully ceremonially, that I'm not so summarily dispatched from wont as having become a change too great than to adapt. No such thing as a confident and reverent memory, this duality of falling star silence and a purple sky lighted long enough to spoil the faithful in arrears of anything portent. Jupiter's Jah; Jinns thrusting martian meteorites = G*d is a Star. Just ask the Babylonians who gave us eden and our parturience through civilization, some kind of langue evolved abra cadabra of redounding knowledge, perhaps a demiurge as well. Maybe just reverently enduring, still jumping through models of the same ever inundating points of imagination and release varying of observation. But bend myth around living and dreaming, a living dream, get thee out of the valley of indecision, stay hungry for the grail with the truck of reason. Reason survives amid the simpler shit-gimme fealties of merely having One's Own Standards is what I am complaining as duplicity here, just not thinking things through, that compassion is loosened from its metonymic with mercy lest judgment continues to stain the table of parsimony which informs the Transformative with the advantage of occluding texts chosen from the body politic, namely assumptions on biblacy or just struck by the doctrinaire.*********It is an easy move on part of plural society rationalizing folks to expect diversity achieved among Drumpf's advisory positions, appointments and confidants. I declaim Kushner as the neat example of an auxillary police imagining what seethes more usually now in this world (bubbling-up) as a Ghetto. Think past the traditional plastique of our institutions and what the lack of iconoclasm does to shape a more scheming class divided society. His elite ethos can't reflect the consensus of Jews I grew up absorbing through the lens of my Mother's inspired world-view and American orientation. She and her two sisters are first generation born American citizens. My Grandparents embarked from Russia coming to the US as little babies with their parents who were escaping pogroms and discrimination right around the year 1900. Trusting my Jews to tell me, We're different and then aren't we all. Learning to impugn less socially realistic conservative trends (Arendt over Ayn Rand and erstwhile fundamentalism), while developing something tacit by eluding simple banner attitudes about other cultures - bad talk was not allowed in our house - the other in his and her fine caricature seem hardly different as feeling the compliment of one's small world as one that is sought after, hoping for that.************

Had a standard dachshund back right before the turn of the century. In the span of time having Reubel, his companionship matriculated even in dreams. I had named him, thinking of the name Reuben as one of Jacob's sons mispelled in my Grandfather's 19th century addition to Antiquities of the Jews, so Reubel, a dog of fading letters, study and a feeling to deny his impossibly culpable and palimpsest humanity, now a dog's eponymy. I dreamt that I was sitting on our roof's peak on a gasoline Esso can while the dog paraded in circular leaps over my lap, onto the roof and back again. The dream was precise in its realism strangely phenomenal to me since recently then inmost imagery had been well mimetic of foggy notions, just plainly felt like my dream stuff, then changed. This graphical difference making up my thought-field is because of the Navane meds I was on then, which soon made their use negligible. In a slightly more usual winter than what we're becoming used to this time of year we had had an apropos snow, so adventuring out in it, he could be my spirited reconnaisance playing in the half-acre back yard. I plopped him down into about a three/four foot drift. And here is when I gathered the news ole boy wouldn't be around in the near world-to-come. Sweet Reubel, my good friend just looks-on with wane attention to wriggle free. He seemed to say, It feels bleak--and I gotta stay, Man. Sad, sad--he was complicit with the contagion veil of earth's comely covering--he erred to project he had not much proud land to suss anymore. I hugged him up. Not very long after when the weather cleared he quit walking, making me promise his little dusty soul my explanate category of mind ...he would live-on somewhere, somewhere, always the neonic water-lapping creature sensate as a brujo barely emerging from the shadows. His kidneys got weird, and that was it.*************In sensate presence knowin' that I've prayed for this momentum in certain hard-won confidences alighting back to the surface even into a world more expansive than never actually promising its winsome analogue are: -I taught myself to speak moreso the second time. Imagine. -What people call self-consciousness I see as a feat to my objectivity eight miles high. In kabbalah some visualization I like to apprehend if I were to look beneath the meritable way as dreams dance through conscious maps, I'd look at these pieces determining my physical success of extenuating limbs, my body's lengthening to digits grapnel but linear in reprise, as source and toward their origins findable as the intermediate stuff of inner-tableaux. Again and again space conceived usually in aerobatism is sometimes the pedagogy of self in splay paths, a shiur komah (distance strung), literally Measure of the Higher Body, merging along the bonds of something corralling me into creative reality. My brother asked me, Why "moreso?" Kind of asking ...giving me latitude to interpret, Awash from anything to say, what happens down by those still waters? Well, it would be me more the proverbial daimon to my expression when only the peaks and valleys to whatever easy-speak or technique in conversational qualias becoming this content of a realist is hopefully what I've become, a listener inspite of believer to an absurd rambling rent vainly and impenetrable, hardly eased into any functional mimesis, has me respond perhaps just as magically to that kind feeling I wonder about with Bob Marley's phrasing, "Music a godly thing," that one's whole day deserves its canticle.*************With everything at the door of our acquisitive education it is easy to consider of what one is made by the mind's sensational ease of swampy complexion, that one is more sensibly defined in a crowd of selves, amalgamated caricature of survivors of sometimes hardly anything asked of us, the worth of whiling away. These happenstance reproductions of environment plied by our interests may arise while one imagines how distinguished an attempt from rooms or hallways, out-of-doors assent to commotion, the big and small of our habituations and any of our distractions if we are to spread probably critical intensions into the actionable world we call identity. There seems to be a lot to you and I. But isn't there our getting past any protuberance of cause and the empowerment to our dally and wont stricturing us, if any little trouble had been merely a bump in the road ...that amid an enduring human sentience which relies on most of our responsum contesting what-is through all that is absorbed by the animate fact of our subconscious realm, one would serve an intermodality in self-awareness adjuring the consummate Bump in the Road at any convene, any portrayable impulse and just as evocative only its wist, to consider the bridge into presence from any point, approaching from either side, sometimes at one of its arches, surviving the moment as prone observers, thereso as the eagle flies.************

Water speaks like the haunting relationship to dust. Look at everybody, they're riddled in liquid stars as ribs and bones destined for the one thing promising this hallelujah void in our sky scaffolding and outline of some celestial self-image, that we're sustained as much as its blue higher ocean in continua. I have a picture with my gesturing in gait inclination at my shadow. My brother captures the scene where we had been hiking out behind a shopping center in Newbury, Ca., (up the road from Ventura) which had a Rift Valley rawness to this interiorized heaved landscape. I felt awe in cosmogonic proud land. I grew lucky for the immanence of a clement day with my sure-footed wandering (by my fancy) that something in mind anticipates reflection rather than absence. My shadow arcs in front of me and as I remember other moments during that summer month, a rejoinder vibe through my senses pick up on the grassy vistas of Beaumont Park, only near my house. I live in my eyes--they suss while inventing this observer--looking for advantage in light's obfuscated subject, I reach a bit more than those gray-shaded grasses. In no more than a glance in hypostasis I find my body strewn in a composite of star tincture, just phenomenal, glossy refraction, a sense of within in a project of what is without.*************Japanese Thought works here though I'm fully unfamiliar other than watching likely documentaries over very much of their world. One book I read, The Gates of November, Chaim Potok's history making sense of the Russian-Jewish "Slepak" family, whose father early in the 20th century had been part of a gulag mutiny on a partly Japanese, partly Russian island, develops what is merely temporal so intoned by minds at work in less than aesthetic concerns albeit their earth we inherit reminds us it is a world barely disrobed of tenderness an arm's reach back of revolutions and the industrial revolutionizing which trials everyone in its haggard velocity. Opening to that which is apposite assuming more than men with their antagonisms, amid their migrations and political moves, some Japanese may conceive of ways that show and prove what is rather Beat, beautiful altogether but sublime like spirit and skillful thought. Compared to the State Absolutism once called Socialist Realism, limits and expectations for art and writing, how the Soviets stifled creativity, Drumpf so thoroughly disquietened on how the First Amendment is expressed ought to be as wary of his new deference for the public's Right to speak out. Japanese shibui means what laterally the Spanish elevate in analogue to the restless one, soul if anything, a "cool" specter, saying duende. And kabbalists could have legs here with the concept of mevin (maven). The One who Understands in whose acuity of mystic apposition come about through the yoking of preponderant models of peace, learning from self-inquiry and experiments in consciousness, comparative holinesses augur his and her more usually indefinite temporal reality.**********I love being able to arrive at a view to older persons in lure of all the intensions one may imagine studied, elevated and losing to an impervious consent to their beginnings. Wonder in their expressions and translatable masks that anoint immanent yearning seem so rightful with expectations of once stronger attention, intensity of flow made possible in more complexions to an internal gauge. In askesis I would have looked to those individuals every moment more real with an inventive spirit and their reasons still burning as long-distant runners in conference to inmost shores like a river of life bisecting all the earth but never a wish to become the drowned of the full-up ocean.***************

Kellyanne Conway proves in one fell swoop the racist politics in ascendency with Drumpf's campaign and pending initiatives. "Do you think you guys could have just had a decent message for the white working-class voters?" She said to Hillary's Director of Communications Jennifer Palmieri. Look hard at this language. Here she promotes class division and starting with race thinking those communities would've in her campaign's view made associations with Right, economic and cultural, because they are a class of White People. Textbook racism. Do entire communities of black and white people deserve attention from legislators etc? Without question. But not because appearances dictate. Don't forget Judge Curiel in Indiana was outed by Drumpf in purely racist terms. An imminent change redounds - oh how enticing - this political beast is underway and the dog whistling is already begun, now with rallies and postures to insinuate moods of incitement against minority values, when do our peers understand this very conscientiousness that instinctively warns us, why is inner-scrutiny feared?*********To the degree that we witness the Conservative reign on plying laws and attitude amid a sense of their vogue populism social division will append. Class Division currency in their ranks add a definition of Power to an already voluble social contract by implying only the strongest will survive, and by the way, one should see them as that ascendent to authority and vitality. It makes me wonder at the non-sense of that certain attribute of insularity throughout traditional communities. Culture sorts out expression and its limit and monies swear by it but look at the lack of culture and lack of openness! in conspicuous consumerism et al. Look at Drumpf going after individuals and not taking on the reach of an institution which would renew our sensitivities to those definitions of Power which F*&king protect the individual. And I'm not here to regret Core-culture - it is here and highly valued - meanwhile individual response to the whole of it is denounceable in Drumpf's view with a capitulating toxicity with whom the logic of the First Amendment is played. Yet his apparent racism redounding so to compel every sensible person becomes declaimable as a kind of feast I heard described in what exuded of an obvious logic from the other room as the News was in this morning's thoroughgoing. The newsman being interviewed, sorry I can't name him, says, The First Amendment is conveyed to us with a long banquet table of ideas. And while the commerce of identity is a kind of intrigue, as you get to the far end of the table, there may be some unsavory dishes not so complimentary of appetite: burning the flag, for instance. It doesn't happen much and thusly Americans may need only to reckon ...we have an erstwhile social realization at stake and most of it alights the dynamic in florid conviction everywhere else Americana is dreamed.**********Man, it's your world-view, an inquiry on our ratiocinating four corners meanly fecund with mostly people who happen to be just like you and me. A lotta masculine privilege is reified in games or antagonisms of security, boundaries and trust thereso an anschluss intension of usual travelogues and conscious maps become a burgeoning complexion of fealties - but isn't it more about the goddess than the alphabet, more the merciful harvest than the imperially appended resource? Water, water everywhere, and much denied to drink, and what of our skies and air? That warrior ethos would have everyone concede somehow. Just ask yourself how tall you stand just to deliver the symbols one thinks roundly in stoic proportions? Authoritarian mimeses that develop their analogue presume something perhaps anything less socially in that pedigree of controlling symbols to unity and faith for instance as postures defying the margins of that conservative worry amounting to an inflation of culture portrayed so conveniently as under threat and conspiratorized as soon to be called something that it is not!***************Mom intimated to me several times that I had always been my own worst critic. So here's part of an attitude that I can imagine she might have pointed to if being behind my eyes was as easy an exercise as having been framed in daliance moves and the expediter through chores of second nature objects. -- I think, there's no other way I can meditate on the acuity withwhich I imagine nature verily yoked. But nigh in comfortable transperancy objective reality occupies my light seeking senses, eyes to lamp, skin to stars, only to wander evidently released from its duppy forces whose argument of murmurrating fractures in the looking glass become deluged as somehow a functional observer dundering my senses.*********

***********Be that dead author, that biblacy's dreamt ascendent. Look at the penumbral crease of graying pages, blow away the elliptic shard of paper that ganked off your note utilized once as bookmark, its cool wish of renewed fealty in self-thinking those lateral handful of years back an idealist falling away through one season splintering by definition into fecund future shock as mirror on a thoroughgoing Observer (daimon) operating there and her distance strung, only brighter with superable change-umbrellas than the weather "everyone" imagined preparing for, invigilate with new language from thems-that-brung-us who will translate histories and the inelegant socially warped cycling as to how memory is pernicious or exceptional by veritable reason, with reason.*************I remember frontin' with egressed new intimacies 'these hands could be registered as lethal weapons' is Eastern typified, some martial ethic many an American young person tried to realize conscious of maybe imperial lurings (...culpable with maps) and through cultural improvisations. And so all merely upon my provincial sayso, I felt hurt even to think turning against anybody in this common urbanity and some respite has portents I imagined agonizing to the people I know ...would love. Signs, but this is no eschaton in conclusion. They dance less in concert or homogeny than the blues methinks better evolves in rivulet willowy melting air on a strung lonesome highway. That's Americana, a beat travelogue, disciplines of wanderlust, ole brown could have any of our proud land. I walk in dreams on emanately answerable footfall. Breathing in and out I feel bound to colorless grasp and space, then released where I live to meet point B, the place of some encounter, and everyone else evermore is ambivalently metricating toward the horizon's two threads.**************I'm trying to capture this one time out in front of the house on Williamsburg Rd where I grew up when some inner-voice had come to a halt and I feel impelled from the radiating hot reach of danger as though fiery wind from a loud gun thwack shot into my brain, then the requisite moment of dis-ease and I am floating away--damned nirvanic. Sitting out in front of the house on my lawn chair by the garage, trailing away from me is a world arupa, an existentially licit garment. Guns were drawn, the iconography of the mind has its 10,000 TVs stupidly play--their antennae reflecting, alarmed. I am mercurially seeking a solid statement to presence and drink in the cool shadows of our garage at my back exudating coves and dusty piles accreting our years of stowing and provisioning, lured in peak moments that I was a part of a spiritual reckoning--I had kind of a temporal if psychic hallucination. I could hear a flangey radio; the conversation in my head threatening that the vocal fountain now scrawling across some projected field around me would soon trail off, thereso with no clue that an inner-voice is my recorded self, presence founders. Take the old man or woman on the block, how do they stand in self-thinking, how has this feeling that we all have just gotten here given them their minds over matter? Black balloons. There is something monarchical about being under that much control as culpable subject to what is yours closed behind eyelids just as the sleeping physical world saying contentedly, go ahead, lay your head, evanescent of irreality, let the world change and make its demand, she is never enough, becomes licit of truth and in a tremendous blow-out of the usual I started to believe in dreams. Impermanence may have been my due. Vast powers just as an even more extreme light behind the sun, solarity fullness is sublimated, my profile casts a shadow yet by the sun--though it has its own light as in the field of reason, sometimes I'm formidable like the only thing in the sky. Some bird is flying across these near houses recapitulating an architecture to the skyline - she's a stark reminder of my sentience bound by that slow wink of an aweful hallelujah void, terribly, intangibly that I'd evolve from it. I look up into her space like it was as tactile as belched hot icebergs, 85 % of its life submerged, but evidenciary just so - I perk up, it threatens denial. I adjust on my haunches, it bobs forward. Then as if hands moulded from my consternation I imagined grabbing some mental nomenclature, a thought body reposed upon Grandma's couch and I am there till forever is compromised in the dream, asked to go out, outside for awhile, quit lingering--is the roseate truth and my repose held high in calamitous circumstances, then I peeked into brighter light and out of my material constraints. I watched what I saw.***************You are a product of TV atmosphere, the gradins' survivor of a quietened prone standard - daring anything or anyone to distill your rhetoric, ignorant of any vomitorium escape - you should go back to you. You can't stand how becoming the conscientious subtle body that you are is never enthroned just-so to regulate biases fast enough, so it's the fault of the channel you nod over, glean as good consumers a solicitous alliterative path, a banner ethic. The politically correct myth of your filter on how hard-hitting this factory of social promotion and concerns making you want things declaimed but meanly, because Yeah, a mean world comes till it's over, has improved the vituperative circle in that technocratic barrier now looking like a rather stupid existential garment, protects you from listening, from what we all need to do by actually shading discussion before false equivalencies deny a rational plurality, and thusly stepping upon the reach of Global Science deniers is in a word fundamental if one is to imagine Nature as the weathery teacher to a primary relationship as students of life.**********I want to believe dreams are the archetype to my enduring. Whatever Rock and Roll evokes, as magisteria, it has self-realization all through it. Rebel music ad her blues evolvement gives up a model of Release and exile, escape and stillness, shores of experience where the hunter and fighter are winsome, the gatherer true to prolific wandering. The mechanics to the lights of an inner science, phantoms or peak players of conscience, players thoughtful in social realism, bringing the warriors and their angels back to a street-view of your shrouded traveler. Self-realization effort. Manufacturing motive is key to hot wiring category of mind -- as a tree dances in lightning but visible in scaffolding detail, almost geometric -- seeing music as a godly thing, Marley inspired, tremendous, Thou whose power wouldn't cold I up, devoted to cold as cold and fire as watery electric, inventors of life, creators albeit through dreamy ambitions.*************