A bit of advice

A bit of advice for those who care, it has been proven and documented that life is a disease of the soul that ends ultimately in death, its the only time that a cure can be had, the only sure way to recover, just as the body gets cancer so the soul gets born, the purest of divine consciousness becomes entombed in a meat machine that is self repairing and replicating, like a virus its contagious, and the souls that get too close to those infected becomes themselves the new hosts for the contagion, somewhere a gleeful god is laughing and howling with the situations he invents for the sufferers, the interactions with the billions of other victims trapped almost unconsciously in these meat wrappers. as the victim becomes subject to the restraints of time and space, their consciousness retreats further and further from the realms of the infinite and unending perfection of the eternal state of being, soon as a defense mechanism the soul identifies with the physical restrictions and loses itself within their sense experiences. everything becomes a masterful parody of the divine existence and unknowingly the victims strive to somehow recreate their universal distant memories into their shallow human lives, its a long slow painful process that is filled with the knowing something is not right, that somehow all this is wrong but theres no way to change it, the individual is separated from everyone else, the self seems inadequate or over sensitive, overreacting to every unbearable intrusion or suspected judgment, soon the mind of the human takes over and begins making constant self projecting demanding and painful decisions and taking actions against others for itself. the mind becomes the new virtual soul and in its virtual make believe version of the world everything revolves around it. and to make matters worse, there a billions of these minds all constantly pushing and pulling everything and anything to get what it wants, the damage is massive and everyone suffers from it even if they only spend all their time trying to avoid or repair the damage. only when the body dies does the soul finally have a chance to end this travesty, to free itself of this incurable virus, but if it hasn't properly prepared itself, it dies identifying with what the mind says is real, and quickly returns to the infected area and suffers relapse after relapse. the only known cure to avoid constant reinfection is to attempt to kill the mind, and its ego construct before the body dies, then when the body does die the mind set is not driven by the human desires and attachments and the other symptoms of the disease . the soul free of the infesting mental master, remembers to head away from the dark wards where the gnashing of teeth and screaming of the tortured no longer sound like the voices of old friends. remember to head into the emptiness away from the virus infected areas of the lower astral plain.

in the few seconds

in the few seconds of shattering consciousness, each heart is lit in turn and drifts to the masters feet, neither seeking truth or idolizing love, napsack full of a change of heart, an end of the western people and alone, unstopped by any physical change, polish and smooth, colored surrounded by all the divine beings so in love with the never ending love affair and sweet seduction of mind and vital nature alike. like a youth walking alone away from the familiar, not because of some sense of attraction, but because of the endless motion from the crib, to the stroller, to the knees, to the feet and slippers and then forever living vicariously through the soles of the shoes, layered upon layered idolatry of the self, sending the staff of one for ointment gauze and unfortunately all the accouterments, after 3 long  days recovery is from the heart, wrapped in the bacon vegan equivalence, walking slowly after 16 hours on the safety of the indian express train, then stranded four hours while the conductor gives the driver a few sage pointers on how to avoid the spic and spanned brown layer of fine dust everywhere since the project was begun. i am yellow and red and orange, hair straggly, an affectionate constant drifting on the hooded fishers skiff, pooling the rippling sparkling pinkness of the reflection, sky as deep as its own waters below. and in the midst of this earth-sky-love, i feel the warmth breathing me,, releasing the used up oxygen delivery system miles long inside the meatless hunger. children bright as the dawn and more charming than breezes in the afternoon, so long as you remain in the shade the coolness of the nearby beaches permeates the French quarters and then gives way to giant coconut trees, but the process of peeling even the outside rind is kind of an art involving billions of strokes until its time to say done and come back before the next new baby is born.

there's no here now

cant sleep forever, or dream the other side is this side, the dream within a dream within a dream life. there's no here now, no elevation but your hair on the top of the head, no movement but the feet in motion, this universe unwinds, each Newtonian aspect acting one upon the other, generating ceaseless patterns that can be divined from observation. so too is the inner world dominated by habitual patterns of thought belief and desire. so this too can be observed and relegated to the truth of its own resistance and pain/pleasure seeking, the nexus of the soul is not within the body, the body is only a channeling field reacting faster than you can think/sync blink. by the time you realize what is happening. its already done and there's a new sheriff in town drawing the same peacemaker and aiming it directly in the stomach. one false move and you're done for, roadkill and recipes, to know the self inside out is the only true knowledge and all the truth is at the center, not hanging around the fringes trying to look smart. I realized today that my health is not a factor, and the constant bell ringing is in my head not outside, and everything I experience is replaceable with any others experience. life is the movie you're creating, everyone you meet are the crew, some actors some rehearsal coaches some taking pictures on and off the record. the real eye opener is when the can opener comes out and the lid removed, and inside does not look like the pretty picture on the can. that's when follow your heart gets real. what is actually the truth in this huge mess, where is the long road off a short pier now that there's no driver or compass, no wheel to turn or world to live in. the magic fades like the sunset and the night sky reveals the truth of the human condition, billions of points of light arranged in endless patterns and short sighted explanations that reveal only the depth of the teacher and the endless connections to ignorance and projection from where all we can possibly know is just the 7 yr olds epiphany and the natural knowing that needs no explanation.  so now decades later, what is still holding the wall, surrounding the fortress, establishing boundaries, this moment cant exist unless you believe it does, this place of refuge, an open battlefield of time hugging the trenches and waiting for the dawn. there is the heartbeat, and you can feel it, you create it and each one pulses pulling in pushing out, and the lungs breathe the same, the alarm clock is going off, but the sound is only in the dream and  hitting the button only wakens the dreaming self in the dream of self, creating the self world over and over again. the real alarm is going off inside that mess you call yourself, buried beneath the reactions and lies, pretty pictures and terrified truths. what is coming can only be coming once the space is clean the self absent, the truth, self evident no longer, does nothing and finishes everything. space has no perspective, only endless time shrinking everything to a single point inside of you.

there is only life

there is only life and the living beings each an expression of the universe seeking its own expression and its own experience of that expression. we both are the work of art and the appreciator of the art. why else are we so swept away by beauty, symmetry, melodious sounds, graceful motion, simplicity and harmony. all is the appreciator, and the creator. what does man do that is unique? we create for our own enjoyment and for the enjoyment of others. when I was a musician in bands back in the 70's I was more in love with playing, creating music, than listening to someone else. I found not making music to be dull, without resonance in my life. for others listening is the greatest enjoyment. like each flower is the expression of the plant the bush the tree so too is every soul the flower of the earth, sky, sea, sun, space. each unique yet each a logical progression of the form. the intricate detail the many layered mentalities, the inner space and consciousness that evolves the flow of the matter around it, to create the form and its creations. ultimately we are defined by what we create, what we add to the world the universe as a unique expression of the world around us and the pathways the universe created so we could come into existence, there is nothing we are not, everything was added to the nurturing of our body, psyche, and soul from the moment of inception to the day we die, you are what you eat, drink, touch, smell, hear, intuit, express. there is no end to the influences that have gone into what and who you are, but what that all becomes is a new being a new expression a new appreciation of what has already been and what will be. there is just this strange torus of time and space that allows this momentary creative explosion of the living soul to be to create to love to enjoy in a way never before realized or brought to fruition to manifest a unique point that is the result of millions of intersecting lines of past and future possibilities and realities, for every thought every imagined idea every dream is also part of this undeniable creative flowering that is life and living and dying, for the death of the old and the completed and the finished is just as important as the new canvas and the untouched stone, the white paper blank and empty, the burning of the books and the paintings of the past somehow the universe is stirring the pot, bubbling up ancient themes and new twists and constant exposure to the creative possibilities in life in work in relationships in every expression of something totally new to keep the universe forever recreating itself, so it doesn't become a stagnant pond, a dried up river bed a salted earth and inland sea. I feel the tides of becoming even as I age out grow a bit staid and reticent with advancing years. but always inside I feel the old becoming young and the self forever searching for that new path, that unexperienced experience that cannot be denied, and when that comes the world seems younger even as I get older.

some wonders happen

rare misty morning here in March, a welcome change from the usual dry, yellow sun baking from early morning until late afternoon. in my own mind too the light is diffuse now, not focused, random emotions and thoughts seem to wander through me, I the giant multi roomed mausoleum thoughts the dispassionate visitors admiring the ancient tile and marble, emotions the loved ones of the long departed still ruminating in the ancient sepulcher, damning chance and time for its progress and decay. for certain, this is not the endless truth and these are not the hallways of the forgotten masters, but rather just the celebration of the cycle of life and death, the irreplaceable motion of existence to be born and then pass on almost within the same breath, though we may take a million puffs on the hookah each tiny cloud is part of the same dream, the experience of life, whether high or low or asleep or awake, we exist fully and then plunge again into the river of forgetfulness and ride the silent skiff to the other side where the ancient ones do sit and greet each traveler with the refrain, be not fearful for matter has not conquered the soul, the end is not near nor is time passing. I reflect more in my sixties on my relationship with death, surely it has some effect on everything I do, I don't make decisions based on having an inexhaustible amount of life remaining, but I also take my waning energy into account. the changes from this world to the next from one continent to the other, even from one tectonic plate to another takes a toll on the system, I was born and raised near the intersection of two plates, the north American and the pacific, in a foggy and rainy windy bay and felt the constant shifting and changing beneath my feet. nothing seemed safe or eternal, there was a definite indetermination to our lives, both fire and earthquake seemed inevitable and even the holy church and the latin liturgy were mere colored potions and powders thrown into the wind for all the good they did. I would wake a child of the earliest hours long before the coming sunrise and long after the moonset and sit chilled in front of the banging and clunking gas wall heater and stare out the giant picture windows at the end of the kitchen into the deep brilliant night sky fully alive with stars and wavering winds and movement, that even these celestial being would dip and tumble with the motions of a breeze invisible and cold. I could feel my skin as the darkness and my bones as the constellations collected at random and made to look like a human figure by chance. here my eyes and my mind left me and the psychic would wander alone and unafraid in the warmth of my body pressed against the heater and I would feel the awfulness and the truth of unbelievable possibility this entire universe was, every bit of myself shivering on the front and hot across my back pressed tightly to the grill of the bursting heater. moments of such perfect unison, haunt me and close upon my heart like tiny childrens hands clutching my finger with such perfect strength. to be alive without concern for the meaning but experiencing everything as the pinnacle of truth and unknowable fantasy as one, there lies the ancient remedy this world has stolen again and again from the dolls heads and glassy eyed mannequins everywhere. I preach my peculiar sense of fiction and possible truth as both the way and the escape but both lie afield and far from where the matters of man have taken him. I build fairy tale cities on grass green meadows and the silver eyed dreamers inhabit the lakes surrounding the castles, here the unicorns grow and the flying horses shrink to a handful to be placed with the green army men near the toys left from previous constructions. the sand shifts the dirt piles and smooths and a world turns inside wider than the skies. I hold no known truths but the indefinable luxury of letting go my foolish pride and wearing some childs garment I play make believe and wander through untold lands of my own liking and never worry about tonight. 

2nd day dysentery

2nd day dysentery, ever since the well ran dry, the last foul pumping seems to have set off the intestinal bugs. yesterday they brought in a tanker with 12,000 ltrs but it takes 24 hours to settle the dirt it stirred up.  besides the tank is already contaminated. I need to flush whats in there out. I haven't been up the mountain for 3 days and I couldn't walk the girivelam under last nights full moon, very orange, very Shiva. woke at 4am got dressed ready to go to the mountain, but cramps and crowds filling the streets walking finally turned me back, I feel a bit old now weak. tomorrow i'm supposed to be on a train to south point, Kanyakumari, to see the Baba, Ayya, but the way i'm feeling I hope I can make it. theres not much spiritual in my life anymore, its time for chanting and meditation. but this is like eating and sleeping, breathing the dusty air that feels like its been baked in the bricks, everywhere is love and blessings, this is just the earth singing, not the spirit, the truth is the earth is more spiritual than any guru or master. this is the life, being spiritual is a whole other realm, beyond this world. the life we imagine is just a projection, and through the process we create what we experience. my body rebels or maybe just gives up and I have no real strength to go beyond that, some paltry suffering and im finished. theres not much in me that can survive this, another 5 weeks in india and im already crying for relief. theres nothing here that I cant somehow imagine is just my own mind playing make believe. the next place I go will be even more imaginary. all the world is a part of the hallucination and no one is real.

there is a world of belief

there is a world of belief and unquestioned denial that has become very popular, that if someone has written something and they are a recognized authority it is the new dogma. but what about the internal truth, the trust in ones own heart. when the words follow your heart appear, I see a lot of struggle for someone to be absolutely truthful to themselves, no matter the consequences, but a lot of "sages", "gurus", and the like interpret this to mean follow my teachings no matter what your heart may feel. it is in the following of your own heart, not the impulse or the infatuation that comes with early awakening, but rather the truth in each person that they feel something they are taught or told to do or is required is not in their own heart but instead they are being indoctrinated to believe it in order to be acceptable to the group, the teacher, the dogma, but in their own heart they feel something else, a different calling. its not that as soon as someone feels a reaction they should follow that impulse, but as one matures there is a definite path that is their own and one thing about the journey, there is only the one making the journey, its a solitary passage. from the time I was 7 years old, I have felt a deep connection to a universe that is essentially created for the purpose of awakening the spirit within to its full potential. there is no end to the miracles and forces at play to ensure the success of this work. in India the idea of tolerance is a living truth as Christian hindu moslem and a million deities and guru's co exist. everything is allowed as long as there is sincerity of the heart. some practice self denial, others complete self absorption. somewhere in between is where most are. surrender, devotion love are the staples of the heart, not of any one group or teachings. for some a living master is needed, for others a spiritual guide and others the unmanifest force alone is required. and sometimes the heart makes no sense but must not be denied, for it is the intuition that guide correctly, not the mind or the vital emotion. let that which is your internal compass set you on the correct path for you. the most difficult part of the journey is realizing that there is no authority here, no hewn from stone commandments or modern pages printed in pixels floating on some bed of electrons, all is the illusion, all is turning you to trust the one within. sometimes its just a mess to leave and start over, but how else can the first step be taken, for to be in lock step with everyone else means you're probably going to stay there unless you take some action. there is much good in groups,  friendship and sharing common goals and support, its the most popular form of religion and self improvement, to bond with a group ethic and worship some goal greater than yourself, learning humility and gratitude. but as time goes on you notice, there is no movement, only the same faces the same issues the creation of more stringent requirements, the election or appointment of the most zealous to lead in the stead of the divine, the teachings become required and everyone is judged based on their adherence to the requirements, and soon the work becomes indebtedness and imposition rather than from the heart as the spirit expands beyond the structure. then is the time when the end is come and the heart demands the truth be told. don't fear, for what is born is stronger and more alive more aligned with the spirit, not empty words and fear based decisions. to truly walk alone is to be undeniably true and what is gained is not love but truth, and as you align yourself with truth, then all that is will align with you. for it is in the realization of the self that all the illusion falls away and the truth shall set all men free of the bondage of their beliefs. trust the soul within, even when it is the most difficult and it will lead you to what is needed to take you further down your path. for me it is the most difficult for what is love and life but the blood of the heart, and how can one be alive without blood, but it is done and life goes on, as does the truth of my sadhana, for in life you can only find what you are looking for, at some point you stop looking and just be and then the heart can be heard.

it takes a lot of extra

it takes a lot of extra steps, to reach the finish of it all, but to stay in the middle, theres nothing you have to do. escape like falling off the floor requires some traction to begin, then falls off rapidly, turning the corner releases the momentum stored in the potential center, spinning with the gimbal frequency staying even with the possible pitfalls and slideways flinging. all movement flows from the center to the middle, while all collapsing converts living matter into its own anti biogene frosting the clouds in melted ozonium, leaving holes for the weary to slip through. this story has no beginning and choice cannot dictate its purposed possibility, the end of it all has nothing to thank for its uncluttered release. this moon eats the night pudding in the drum under the eaves, children like a million years past play roll the bicycle tire, in perfect chasing then fall then return begins anew in reloaded readiness, the night contracts to a single sound, underneath the trees, bubbling on the sweep of barren tide-revealed beach, the jasmine moon floats pristine in its grave-ity orbit, holding on for a life too dear to remember why, the borealis whispers and disappears above all thought, all birth, all nighttime, all what sleep requires i have not and cannot  leave another here to take on charging without fear into that good night of plain and simple truth, what is remains no matter what faith hope or desire doing,  are all unreliable and demanding. but truth just wakes the emptiness to its unforseeing and unmemorable self and nothing else, no heart no soul no home, then look once more across the ashen wilderness beating everyone senseless and waiting to be devoured. maybe now is an uncovered mattress singing lullabies sweet refrain, life is just too fleeting to fly away nor is understanding anything but pictures of the map uploaded to the mind, and thy dwelleth not upon the Hebrew Arunachala, or within the spinning frenzies both inside and down and untended for thy love has placed this burning, weeks yet, in time before tomorrow, never ceases, never comes. the theme music ends before the pictures flutter to an  unrelenting halt and only the whitest light remains and refrains in the holy ragas of the measuring dawn. be  truthful loving gentle and pave the past with the flat rocks of the stygian sea,

only a few

only a few can wear the enlightened cloth, not the world or its inhabitants, only one can be made from the one that came before, all else fits in a thimble and wraps around the bobbin and a fresh cloth made of thread from the used fabric that remains. your life, the family tree and tapestry, the ancestral costumes, handed down generation after generation, each new cloth made from the remains of the dearest departed. those that pass leave their possessions to surround and imprison. their money to fight for and their dna that cannot be refused, only kept to hand down, from me to you, in this way the dead never die, existing always in the generation not yet born, but soon enough to die. all is written long before the curtain rises, before learning controls, before laws impose, before love abandons and truth reflects what cannot be seen. we are not the audience but neither are we even actors, yet the stage and the lighting sit as placid as the sleeping dreamer dreams. this life act one, scene 4,999,990. the weariness is creeping day by day, night after sleepless night, riven to the window as death reads the script he too must follow, teeth bared and scythe swinging, each stroke the pure simplicity, the sundering of all that was and ever wont be. the seeing on all sides removes the spontaneity of reaction, removes judgment, removes pride, this life is like all others except the one sees all and all the rest cannot see themselves.

i live in the light of a day not born

i live in the light of a day not born, not coming, not ending.
what lives has always been, unmovable and its light is heated and furious
some ancient world remains like pillars rising from the rocks of billions of years standing yet before that, before everything there is the unbreakable truth
transformation flows like the air breathing world plunges through emptiness
return is the only difference, the return alone and alone
one instant of change destroys all, given birth, lives and dies
the cycle of the engine, greased with blood and burning flesh for fuel
i lift the sharpened rake and plunge deep into the cordwood pile
seeking tempered remains, dragging the highest before me like groceries on the shelf
expiration null and void after the unwrapped surprise, now just a disposal issue
bio fuel comes in many forms, each an Einstein of relativity, the human body the baseline
one Einstein stretching beyond possibilities of survival, ten times a hundred a thousand and more, the giant wheels pressed to the heavy rails yet still the snow refuses to melt
what lives long or little, that bring with them nothing or silver spoon protruding
life excuses no one and leaves no prisoners to the reckless abandonment sought,
all eyes feel the seeker of souls, glaring in dreams and rented rooms, hallways littered with trash.
no one speaks for the time for talk is past, only the languishing with flickering life over but yet unlived, begun only to spend its tiny wages on the salvation from which no survivors return
good graces given and taken and spent in the haste of thinking
tumbling husks wind fallen from the eternal tree the true source of existence
whose fruit you and i cannot bear, but those with bloodied hand and eye alike
perish even as the just rewards of honest labor keeps slaves of all mens children
divinely silenced and sung to with bone harp and gutted buckets flung out for more.
this infinitesimal fractioned thought arises not from where the eternal guides but from the lowest chakras fear and desire,
as ever after replays each note, the broken vessel seeks only more breaking and change is always permanent and final.
one life per body, one mother from all mothers weeping uncertain, left lonely to reach this madness through one encounter to the end of the beating heart, task now the very thought that has cast this clumsy thinking, a fresh idea pulled from the vine and upon the altar sung to and worshipped. even now the darkness holds no mystery, the sounds unconsciously rejected and in a tiny workshop the smithy holds each thought to its brilliant forge and flattens it, spreading it wide but too thin to support its own weight, mounted on the fleshy rack of the muscles and bones, where billions have been hung before.

feeling time

feeling time, today my home, such wonderful friends come. we sit atop the veranda wall upstairs and feel the strong breeze rippling our cloths, all are looking to Arunachala, all are devotees of Ayya, master of the unknowable truth. we talk of the upcoming journey to Nepal and walking through deep snow -40 degree Celsius, without shoes or jacket. Carte tells me of his dream where dogs attack me and he fights them off and then the elephant comes and places his trunk upon my head and there is such love and joy simple and pure in his face, our friend Miru from Poland is also here and in Carte's dream for Ayya is the dog and the elephant, doing and flowing through this unchained moment. Miru is  helping his young german protégé phillip find a small indian house to buy near the foot of Arunachala, then he hopes to sell his farm in Poland and live here ex-pat and in this centuries-old ancient mystic heaven. the wind blown gentleness of the night brings layers and layers of riffled clouds dancing, gleaming inside the bald moon with long billowy whiskers alights,  deepening twilight overhead, the first planet venus drags the half faced orbiteer with an invisible rope across the cloud woven heavens. I feel the filling warmth of the supreme light within and my eyes shutter and swallow the energies serenely encompassing all that are gathered here in His divine fellowship and love. the talk ranges in three languages but there is no mistaking the bond throughout our hearts, and this is the world I live in now both sweet and joyful, sweeping ascension and oneness from the shared presence of the master.. there is only the radiance within that cannot be seen but only felt, this warm night, so unbreakably fragile and softly strong, enclosing these smiling hearts and eyes with one vision, one soul, one life. unbearable truth, we share without knowing or thinking, speaking only  the unspoken,  filling every sound. a flight of white egrets slowly gracefully passes through the twilit sky, and all are pulled in their wake, sublime release and divine motion fills my heart with  one love one family one guru, limitless and present, the invisible night expanding through our gathering, my heart the family of all hearts, open to all  and connecting all with the slightest touch. the beyond beckons, silent and filled with love.

the thing you cant remember

the thing you cant remember, the thing you cant forget, the life you had, the unwrenching pull of consciousness and its movement to untouched awareness, both are the moment, one is lost, one is never lost. the sun moves into shadow and the clouds billow with the afternoon breeze. both are the sense of my inner life and the unwitting nature of the mind. what was me is the hologram, the projection onto the mirror, but now I see through the glass darkly and await the light to be released. the simple truth, am I real, is never simple or true, I am not I am but am not before the am, before the i or is it I? i cant imagine what i am. or if i am just a dream of I and will awaken not free at all but in another world of i-ness and isms. the life is over and the life is begun without living the dream or the make believe. one second there is a mountain, the next there is no one to experience that. is that meaning the mountain is not or i am not. one must give before the other can continue. or maybe both exist only in the moment of experience and then disappear with the falling of the curtain of oblivion. the absolute is beyond mountains and clouds and planets and stars, these are the mirrors of the senses, not the pure silvered awareness spread molecule thin across the glass of perception. i see only what i am because that is all that i can perceive in my mirror, what the forms really are is beyond my ability to conceive. light, dark, heat, cold, the transit of time and location, these are my paints, my colors. the world and all its glory, my brushstrokes, layered upon layers of layers, reflecting in my mirror of mind. i dance alone and experience the thrill of a partner, step in step in step with my every thought and feeling, and i am suddenly thinking is this me or them, i or thee, for i cannot tell where one ends and the next begins and even myself seems separate as the perception of i and I expands and the gulf between widens and the gap becomes the ocean and then the whole night sky and beyond. what is. is not what is perceived or experienced by any sense of self, that is the dance of illusion. seduction of maya and the million veils of the senses. beyond the sense is the soul without the self, the atman whole while the self separates and fragments and disperses like a gas that dissipates and is gone. light but not from any source, shining unspoiled by perception, radiating emptiness not reflection.

there is some backward truth

there is some backward truth to just living without regard for any philosophy or dogma, just believe what feels right, what gets you through the night and trust that whats supposed to happen happens without too much upheaval or pain. life as the smallest of the litter or maybe somewhere in the middle, just enjoying whats coming and protecting what you can from the constant taxes and fines of outrageous government. certainly, a good diet and exercise, loving your family and all the friends and work mates you spend your life with is all that one can hope for. to be a good person in this time of the dominance of the material existence is a kind of sainthood of the kaliyuga, for the true spirituality is hidden deep and loving masters and enlightened saints are not in every neighborhood, spreading beatific love and transmitting pure light at all the local hangouts. but friendship and trust, truth of thought speech and action, holding a light to the encroachment of dark forces in whatever form they take, all are the work of the divine in the world. helping with your time and energy the poor and disadvantaged, the physically and mentally challenged, volunteering and being kind, allowing others to have what you can give and what you can create to enable those that are unable to create for themselves. this life is a gift and by giving back we are all healed and blessed in every moment and love like a fire lights each candle and lamp in turn until the whole world is shining in the endless night of space. 

I hold the sepulchral chalice

I hold the sepulchral chalice of christ's blood to my lips and drink with a gusto for the empty bottoming of the red wine upon my soul, there is no end to the quenching of thirst or the need to continue. what has become is unbecoming and the last supper was last night and every night before. each swore an oath and pledged undying certainty that none would leave before the dawn, yet even before first light the night enveloped the last figure outstretched and uncertain that this untruth could be endured. for what is the life of the eternal soul but the sacrifice for the sin of creation, all forgiven their unknowable source and none less innocent than the one that remains. to take without gratitude and to return nothing for the kindness but more cruelty, to judge without feeling and suppress all hope with self satisfaction and twisted desire. there is no one left but the savior of himself in everyone, the final judge and heart created of undying compassion. none are different from the one and none are less than any other. in the christ night the sense of abandonment is followed by despair and surrender, the body perishes at the hands of the cruel and unjust and finally sweet death carries the soul free from all sin and karma to its final truth as the endless father and son and holy ghost of the divinity made man, the sins of all men are forgiven in the sacrifice of the one that knows the truth and suffers regardless. unconditional love and truth are one and the same for neither allows any falsity to exist. that all is one and one is all are both expressions of a dualistic sense that cannot be for neither create or destroy but only suffer from the delusion of existence conscious of its own imperishable truth and the suffering that forever continues in the unconscious forms. for none know their father or mother and take each for lover and enemy brother and friend master or slave in every life. this last testament is the final chapter of the climb and the fall the escape and the capture, the recognizing and the forgetting , the doing and undoing of all things and all rights and wrongs that cannot be taken back or put away but only be forgiven forever and ever amen.

listen to the mind

listen to the mind thinking, is that you? are you thinking? that would pre suppose that there is a you to have thoughts and to hear them, but what if there isn't? what if you aren't you at all but instead you are the emptiness that the false you exists within, the mirror of the experience not the experience itself. the you that is thinking and experiencing and talking and walking, is a creation of a universal desire to be, to exist, and like any desire its only continuance is to want more and different, so the universe expands and life proliferates, in the reflection. but who is watching the watcher, the experiencer, having these thoughts that climb back up the cerebral cortex into some undefined region of consciousness? where is this formation of inner awareness that has no face but never seems to change, that has no advice but watches hungry for the sensation of the possibility of forgetting the absolute unreality of the dreamstate of unconscious life. the dream within the dream that leapfrogs backward from the physicality to the unreality in the fraction of a second, the bodiless travel of the chain of possession that creeps to some unknown sense of self that has no relation to the life you live or the possessions or relations or ideas or ambitions but is deep under water in a pool of liquid mercury and feels nothing and explains nothing, but as you become the sensation of its lidless sight and fleshless feeling, the sandpaper sensations of the self strip away the fleshy needs and empty into the silver chrome purpled waters like a vat of sulfuric acid boils away the bones and muscle of the body. there is no you there, the home of the un-you is still and secret, silent from an eternal emptiness that has no sound, no movement, no place or time, and you, the restless wanderer, cease to be, realizing that what you are is your own undoing and what remains has no shape or smell. the idea of not being undoes the fastenings of the mind and the clockworks and springs and carefully aligned cogs tumble out of place and in a slow motion frenzy turn into dust and wind clouding the senses until the air itself stops and time ceases to tick tock in the emptiness of the infinite pool of pure reflection. you are here but don't have anyway of knowing it. the end is the end of beginnings and ends and always will be is the opposite of never was and what is isn't and has never been.

I exist by accident

I exist by accident, unplanned but the result of billion trillion unexpected results that shared my eventual DNA and symbiotic entrenching in one form after the next until a sort of critical mass was attained in the meaty brain tissue of this zygote. the consciousness has no form and is empty of its own, only being while the universe takes shape through the inclinations of the formless holder of the possibilities and probabilities that eventually compose the entrailing and entraining formations of this stalagmite and stalactite enduration of galactic events. I see a row of images reflected from two mirrors, in one is the reflection and in the other the reflection of the reflection but then the speed of light carries the million images into an unfathomable series of repetitions that though seemingly a rabbit hole that could be followed, ends up right where you are looking at the mirror. you are a mirror and before you is a mirror and everything you see is the supposed past and future but all there is, is the mirror of life, there is no sense of time or space but in the reflected images that speed into endless repetitions and that is what is called living. this is the space of your existence, from the surface of the mirror to the eye reflecting the reflection. the senses cannot distinguish even a fraction of the lights dynamic movement, but there is not an inch of truth in its travel to your brain. upside down and stripped of all its higher and lower vibrations we see only the images that remain and all are the music of the mind, sensing and selecting what it wants to experience. imagining movement and others in the molecule thickness of the surface of the mirror, reflecting the symphony of the senses created in the desire of the form. are you an accident also? is this not a strange thing to be, flesh of the form taken from the need of the mind to create a life to be lived for the moment, that seems to be forever because of the reflection of itself upon itself. I know I am a mirage and that has freed my consciousness from the vehicle of the internal observer, the fascinated formless self that embodied, looked into the mirror of the mind and created senses to experience, thoughts to remember and pictures to hold, while all is formless and empty why not? what could the harm be in a little self created entertainment center, where you can go at the mall after dinner.

truth has no evil

truth has no evil but the heart, and love is the epitome of the heartless, everyday a life affirming moment every second a blindfolded walk through the trenches of the damned and soon to be, for the virus of life is hope and the pinnacle of hope is love. I don't deny its ability to sooth and refresh the exhausted soldiers of the winless wars, but the truth is always a thousand yards ahead and directly in the line of fire, take your eyes away at the peril of not just this life but every life to be, eternity is not made of fairy dust and unicorns, nor is the connection of things and souls the final answer to the eternal loneliness, for what is form and its content or the context of the idea of flesh as the crucible of desire. what is the impatient reasoning that says now I have earned my release and love is my reward before the battle is fought and before the ship has even landed on the foreign soil of unknowable wasteland. the light shines like a steel pole and the sounds of lamentations mix with the prayers and pleas of the souls still buried, disembodied if that makes any sense for you in the body thinking this is your right and it will come again and again even as the creator waits an untold eternity for your lapses to come to their lazy completion. I remember thinking that this was my life to just BBQ and  enjoy the fruits of my earthly labors, sixty years spent in harness and what more could be expected, but that was the summer bake sale to this godless mechanized disaster of truths finalities and surprises. for who are you becomes a battle without survivors and an endless replay of the machine man programming arguing with the awakened moment of becoming nothing without hope or reason. the space and time of life is before and after the in-between and the escaping air sounds like a waterfall that calls you to jump deeper and deeper into its endless pressure until the balloon pops and that is what seems to remain, the sound, a ghost of an echo of what reverberated from the vanishing walls and cliffs and valleys underneath peaks of endless vistas of the night expanding into absolute infinity, one that has no end and is coming to end all that does. each sings the same song and lives the same life for ever.

all day, all done

all day, all done. the power companies rule the earth in their unenlightened greed. got water? says the billboard and spray painted below in red graffiti it says GOT AIR? what is the price of living when even the smallest need must be wrested like a burglar stealing vestments from the sacristy. each day the toll gets higher the gates wider and the minions of the damned ever increasing. wading through an eternity of slavery and dominion of not only the flesh but every souls aspiration and the final elimination of even the words used to cry for the possibility of freedom, where are the lies that before at least negated a truth that was self evident but now lies hidden even from the doubters and liars. life like death has no sting but is released from its suffering through the application of forgetfulness, of unconsciousness, relinquishing all hope and even resistance. become the nightmare and it ceases to frighten for you are the terror of your own victimhood and the fear becomes a reason to sleep and sleep becomes the waking that has no clock or measure for the light of reason and truth has long been extinguished. crawling becomes the new walking and answering the expected untruth becomes the corrected mind and the survivor of the purge of reason. fortune holds no victory or defeat for all is already lost and there is no final victory or goodness over some unstoppable evil, it is tranquility to suffer, for the sins waged upon the self are the scars of honor for the layers and layers of the untruth settling like embalming fluid and the soil wet with blood upon the casketed soul. this life is death and death the only hope for living, where is thy sting oh calamity and ruin, for are we not already lost and forgotten in this pit of our own destruction? this life is a memory and this now a forgetting of everything, what remains is the endless waiting breathing a billion breaths and having no change for the air merchants enslaving every lung to the machine.

carried to my tomb

carried to my tomb with the smell of lilacs and incense, I die sleeping each moment, knowing there is a greater life awake than any I have been allowed in this dreaming. i grasp the instants of the sunrise but cannot lengthen its stay by even a moment, and here in this equatorial manse the streaming gold of the pink sky is fleeting at best. one snap of the all seeing camera and I have outrun time but lost the fragility of memory and truth. what gladness it is to be left free of possession and want and to be wallowing in the scorching of the all day sun, waiting for the plunge of the late afternoon that quickly brings the relief of darkness and breezing evening. the adoration of the altar and the scents of liquid oils and fragrant powders, the silky smoothness of the still warm air has not yet settled into the closeness of the night when only the flickering fan relieves the heated skin. what life this nightly surrender that waits impatient for a glimmer a frosty glow a chilly reminder of home that no longer glows but is a forsaken nostalgia, once alive and now prisoners of cardboard and plastic, containers of the emptiness that remains. in each moment all time resurrects and replays its triumph over nothing and crows for its victory against itself, for what is there but the experiences that have filled this life and every other lined up like little trophies and left in boxes or burned on the stones of the shore. expect nothing and that is what remains, until the body dies, there is little else to do but constantly give and give for every heart hungers and sees in you the light of a million sunrises, each a brief glimmer of the possibilities that have not come true. what life is this in slumber waits and each a tale of untold fortunes. 

slaves to consciousness

slaves to consciousness, that which we worship is our own master and director of all our successes and failures. to be is to want to be to want to be something and how can you be something if you truly are nothing. the self is the conglomeration, the velcroing of stuff onto the supremely Teflon coated awareness, but not like you think. what is being imposed is desire, the dream of the senses, the view in the mirror, to see yourself, if only for a brief moment, then what must be created to permit even that, in your dream everything shifts into agreement and time and space converge to allow a point to view from. and there the dream-gasm flows, for what do you see in yourself, if you are the infinite awareness without form or content? what do you imagine would become that? for then form would be necessary and then light to reflect and for the light to be seen there must be a background of dark. and so all duality is created, and your existence is assured but not the dreams, not the fragments of objectified consciousness that chases the tail of its own desires and in catching it offends itself and suffers even as the twitching catapults it into another frenzy of need. who exists and where is here and when is now. a lot of questions for a dreamer to worry about when there is so much dream stuff to be had and to want more of. I feel love and want another so more is made to satisfy that, and others are not the same as one so the energy shifts and changes and the dream becomes billions of dreams in a dream and down the rabbity holes we go each chasing the other. so where are we and why? its not possible from down here to see and theres no blue or red pill to choose for both take you further down not out. from here its a house of mirrors in a world of mirrors in a galaxy of mirrors and through the microscope more mirrors reflect an infinity of possibilities that you can see but cannot touch. this is the universe, imagined endlessness and diversities that all peel from the same onion. you are the eternity of change and compulsion that wants more change and compulsion and cannot see the source of your need, but just reacts as though you win or lose each round with yourself and suffer both as though the flesh itself was not just dream flesh and the air not just the smoke of the poppies and the den of the dreamer. only when you wake does the dream disappear and before that can happen, you take another breath as though your life depended on it. alight upon the spinning pearl of being the consciousness sees a universe turning and reaches out for more.