Category Archives: Uncategorized

Post 3

Table of Contents

  Definition Freedom
  The Average Person
    An essay
  The Pupil and His Divine,
  A Harmony in Five Measures
   A poem

Photo by Dhina

Definition Freedom
The Average Person
 (Reminded Human Beings Aren’t Socially Protected,
Littul Kittons Now Man’s Consciousness,

We’re Not Here For the Pack)

Video view editing and confirming is a firewall.
[vision of this as a message on the computer screen taking up the entire screen]
The film documentary of Graduated Sense.
Lemmie tell you something about my life:
I forgive yah not being able to talk.
Some mature policy
I salt at the bottom of the ocean,
The highest man down.
That’s a circle reference,
Guerrilla summery.
“What’s the ID number?”
I was going to be a mountain cause of things,
An Apache arrow shaft.

 [today’s muse]

     The divine right of kings I challenge – how we grasped the idea freedom and what stood in its way when we began looking upon our scene in relation to our little liberty in it, unable yet to grasp the root of the tyranny, get it by the horns.  It’s not just a tyranny of rulers but of the average person, conformity to the group. You see, I’m in that most basic of conflicts, the individual at odds with their society, a person given a perpetual irrevocable outcast status, since by definition I’m not allowed in polite company.  Although the sentence has not been handed down in my particular case, not at least yet, society states in its contemporary mores that a minor attracted person cannot be unsupervised around anyone under 18, alone out of the question entirely, not in every society on the globe, but the push is to make it so, and when that’s applied in human terms you can only be around people under restricted conditions, no children present, or, if they are, everyone is watching you, and so you are for the most part and in most people’s eyes, an untouchable.

     You are that not only because of the restrictions but also because you’re hated by everyone that knows you are a minor attracted person (who are not likewise hated), save for a handful of people. (I’ve discovered there actually are a few people that do have goodwill, for everybody, as occasionally I run across such a person, not usually the official part of any page; their kind consideration is left in a comment like someone leaves a rose.)  Hatred’s a thing of degrees, not most times the red hot variety, and most often hatred is expressed by the method of making a ghost out of someone who’s done something wrong, not speaking to them, pretending not to see them when looking directly at them, a method developed by cavemen to deal with their outcasts, pointing out the primitiveness of such social behavior. A minor attracted person has a unique position in society: you’re the single kind of person it’s socially acceptable to hate, not to have to give the time of day or even any consideration at all, not to have to view as a fellow human being with basic rights.

     That hatred, combined with the restrictions placed on you, means you’re not even really allowed in humanity, or, if you are, it’s either by being incarcerated or incognito.  It comes down to I have no right to even be.  The conflict I have as an individual with my society is that most basic right, to exist, and other than the citizen society kills as a retribution for a crime committed, my conflict is about as enigmatic and problematic as it gets, understanding (a capacity few possess in regards to minor attracted people) that you don’t chose to be attracted to minors like you don’t choose to have autism (drawing an analogy and not making a connection between the disorders), and like autism, to learn to live with that attraction and be a fit and functioning member of society, society has to make it a point to let you in, and like the integrated autistic individual, the minor attracted person can make their disorder an order society can use, not a burden become but a blessing.

       I’m trying to take this video into movie making itself, speaking figuratively of not only this present writing, but also of my life story, by it show what’s going on here, not only with me and my conflict, but get a glimpse maybe of the meaning of life itself, pasting it on the post of this outcast and all its gab and garb, in the body of the email, and my story would hit on so many social and errant notes it would tend to push open closed doors.  I’m trying to explain what it is I’m filming (figuring) – a fall, a redemption, a demonstration of process, that of the soul when it is physician –, the camera I’m using my PC, creating by it poems, essays, short stories, songs, videos, letters, journals, comments, a play, and a memoir yet in progress, all of which are attempts to both make some sense out of life and record and explain the movie My Life and its guest starring in yours, the sparks that have flown off of our rubbing together, a friction often painful for the both of us, but it’s my hope that those sparks will start a fire that burns up our strife and mistrust.

     A creative leap this, the form the form of the heroic, as opposed to the cowardly, where, mad at you, I either by gun, bomb, knife, or whatever weapon I can get my hands on, try to kill as many of the representatives of you as I can, or I just stand up where you caught me at it or where I think you won’t catch me and tell you in language ugly I’m going to be the unrepentant me regardless of how that hurts you, and to hell with you all.  But I’m not bowing down to your vilification of me either, your condemnation, as, though I am wringing my hands before you, this is no grovel, since I’m standing up to you and your irrational hatred of me, standing up too to Law, convicting it of being made more for the brute than for man.  I’m facing you with more than just my humanity; I’m facing you with my soul, showing it.  In doing this I take my example from you, society, from that brightest, best, and beautiful in you we call art and literature, here from epic poetry, and I’m mirroring the heroine Savitri of the poem of that name, who alone, by the light of her very own soul, squares off with Death and stands up to the universe, throws herself in the way of its driving wheels, and in so doing exceeds herself and changes forever the Eternal Laws.  I’m not going postal I’m going Savitri, savvy?

     That they are human laws I’m trying to change and neither divine nor eternal, it would seem my task the easier one, but I’m not a nectar cup of perfection as she, more the opposite actually, and I assure you when you throw in not only other people’s stubbornness to change but also your own, in human law you have an ignorance and arrogance that can maintain its own errant course it seems even in the face of divine will otherwise.  It might’ve made Savitri look back over her shoulder and lose the man, trying to change human law and not the eternal ones she changes, but I’d have to make a distinction here between that epic poem by Sri Aurobindo itself changing those laws and it being a blueprint for change, a textbook I’m using to ‘go Savitri’ right here with you.

     Yes try this one at home folks.  You wait until comes tomorrow, and suddenly there will be a way to stand up and say your side of the story like no one has ever told their story and maybe get a hearing with the world more on your terms than its, or at least on a more equal power-footing, since there’s nothing stopping it from sacking your home and stomping your life and liberty to death, nothing save, confronted with how the soul heals, a story that would make it stop, look, and listen, or, if it does surrender to its armed impulse born from its blind reaction to just stomp you in the ground, after the dust settles, and the light of reason shines in on the scene, the world would see its mistake, that part of it that does see reason.  That’s the gamble, and you won’t know if your story has that weight until you take it, but if you do it by the light of your soul you’re doing you own original work, a gamble unique to you that, win or lose, you’ve done what you’re supposed to do.

     What would you say to someone that wanted you dead? Say it wasn’t someone but your society itself, and you got the why and wherefore of somebody going Savitri in everybody’s face that looks in their direction, sort of like putting a rose there unexpectedly, if you like beauty.  This pretty’s homespun, got pretty by utility at home, changing ugliness into its higher counterpart beauty.  In this storytelling you got mixed in how to change being told, how to do it, or let it do you I should say, since this is a process of soul and therefore higher purpose, higher than human hands.  The story’s trying to stay as close to truth as possible, an impossibility actually, not that there isn’t an objective sequence of events – there is –, but that there isn’t an objective observer telling the story (and we’ve have to add: re-telling, the version that got heard), something not possible among us at the present time nor at any in the past, and for the future, let’s hope one day it will be, else we don’t graduate from this public-private school of little selves too self-centered to see the whole, if you have gotten that clear and certain sense in life that graduation is possible, what we’re moving to even if the sense is absent.  In this preschool  of souls I’m kind of ringing my hands and standing before you with this present writing and all I’ve created and will create trying to show you enough evidence of that soul and its conscious intervention in its person’s life, it and its divine, that most minds, save that of the mule-headed and fanatic, would hold that at least possible, if not even probable, something no one has done to any degree of satisfaction, and doing that never-been-done-before in a true story about the healing of a pedophile, this present writing his manifesto, the story standing behind informing it like my name stands for me and all I’ve done; likewise in the story behind this stands visible the bad in need of change, and there’s no other way it can stand if it’s to be changed – visible, what you have to make it, and dammit you’d have to.

     It’s precisely that we censor in whatever medium, the bad, the ugly, whether or not it actually happened in real life, the censorship based on revulsion and not on the rational observation of human living so to resolve it, and so based it usually tends to have the opposite effect in a society: it compounds the problem a hundredfold.  We censor it because we do not allow for error in society, and I’m speaking of the underlying attitude we hold towards it and most often address it in someone else, not the way we say we do.  The attitude is most visible in law and the way we apply it to human life, law being the institution of the management of error in a social context.  When the error is breaking a law, any law, and you get caught by the enforcers of it, you basically get the book thrown at you, prosecuted to the up-most extent of the law, not in every case, but in most, and the report that’s given to the public of your offense is usually a rebuke in the strongest possible terms politically correct for the clime and time, and we have another institution called the Press that does that public ‘stoning’ of the wrongdoer, that public humiliation, a means obviously society has developed to keep others from doing that, not one based on a rational reporting of the truth, that being what actually took place, outside and inside, but something told from a perspective based on that revulsion (count how many times the word shocking and other emotionally charged words get used).  Depending on the degree of your error, the public, or society as a whole, judges you, for a moment or a lifetime, unfit, a judgment usually based more on the revulsion than you being unfit or not.

     Yes I have been unfit, have done a lot of wrong, and I started out with the same trust society places in any individual until they break that trust, but I did not become fit, end my wrongdoing, could not, by society’s laws, by what it allows an individual in order to become trustworthy, its sole formula of crime and punishment based as it is not on healing, of the situation, the wrongdoer, or even the wronged, by the soul or otherwise, but on intolerance of error and of the wrongdoer, a basis which comes from the most fundamental error of both reasoning and vision upon which we operate as a society: human unity is not a clear and present fact of our social and individual existence but something we have to make up, a belief we have to adopt.  Even without a spiritual vision it’s an evident truth that we are a whole body, and when anything befalls a one of us, the lot of us must deal with the consequences on some level.  In other words, I am me but also at the same time at a distance you, and to be able to see that unity it’s just like if I have sex with a child, and they’re consenting and into it, and despite the propaganda otherwise some kids are more complicated and actually really do like it, I need to be able to see past the present moment, the pleasure, see past the pleasure too if any physical pain is mixed into it, and in adult-child sex some often is, and see how that kid will feel about the sex in the future as an adult, how that sex stunted their growth towards what it is an individual is here to do in life, which is to exceed themselves, their pleasures, their pain.

     Just like me having to see past appearances to see the harm I give to a child by giving a kid pleasure, see deeper than view, so too you have to look deeply to see the underlying unity not only between human beings, but of all the earth and sky and everything therein, a unity that becomes more and more self-evident the more conscious you become of your whole self, including your inner life, sleep and dream, which is where I discovered the harm I cause a child, saw it as plain as the nose on my face, though like the elephant in the room it took awhile to see – stubborn blindness another one of those fundamental errors among us.  In short, I saw sex with a child as the unflushed toilet it is.  That is to say it’s ugly, foul, out of order, a cause of moral degradation, not however the irreparable unpardonable evil it’s made it out to be today.  Since, on the inside I saw the unity, of it all, the child as me, the ugliness grossly neglected beauty, bringing into view here the 2nd most fundamental error in human society: being largely unconscious of a 3rd or 4th of what we experience in a day.  It is in the deepest keep of that experience I found my soul, discovered too, in sleep and dream, an intelligence so unboundedly creative and wise it’s what we mean to describe when we use words such as God or divine.  Opening my eyes on the inside opened them to what I’d been looking at on the outside and not seeing: oneness, God, everywhere the basis of reality, so much so this bitter-sweet experience called life, even when it’s a holocaust of the human spirit, is only skin deep, cannot dismember the unity, cannot slay the soul.

     A person wronged, be they a child or an adult, cannot heal by society harming in their name the one who harmed them, however much satisfaction it may give them to get revenge, and even a more restorative justice can’t if it forces a sacrifice upon the wrongdoer they are unwilling to make, harm an inherent part of the use of force, cannot because we are a whole and not isolated individuals as we appear on the surface, and the harm given to the wrongdoer is in essence the harm the wronged received, striping everything from harm save harm itself, and compounds the harm received, the very opposite of healing it, an impact that can be seen more readily on the inside than on the outside.  That is where the wronged would need to look so to heal and as well the wrongdoer needs to look so to gain the will to make it right, taking responsibility in light of the whole a self-sacrifice and not a submission to punishment, the difference being what you see me doing here, standing up with my PC a creative writer on the net at about the most intolerant moment one such a I could do that, I’d bet.

     Neither does society heal the situation, that one or all of that kind, by castigating or making an outcast of the wrongdoer, the one who caused harm, punishment a means useful for training animals and small children who have not yet developed the capacity to reason, when it is correction and not retribution, when it’s not a ‘reaction’ intent to hurt, vent, useful too, to a limited extent, in other situations not possible to generalize, understanding the dividing line between punishment as correction and as retribution is difficult to discern, but it is, I’d argue, what humanity used on its members in the dim days before reason became the leader of the life of the race, and to force that process forward perhaps, people by people, hence it’s regressive, born of the brute we were and not from what we mean to describe when we use the term man (what, I’d also argue, we have yet to fully become and can’t become by force of punishment).  Such harmful situations still plague us today despite the harshest punishments handed down, down through time.  Punishment certainly doesn’t heal the wrongdoer, something nowadays not even on the table so intolerant we’ve become of human discrepancy, it becoming so visible as it’s becoming by the light of the computer and the smartphone, since society doesn’t punish someone to help them, however much it says it does, but to make them, by force of public humiliation, torture, imprisonment, or whatever means, regret hurting society.

     Yes it’s true an individual won’t without society’s insistence stop hurting people, since it’s precisely the whole that needs to tell them to stop, the truth of things, the only thing that we’ll listen to if we’ll listen to anything when our nature is bent and we are hell bent on indulging it, but what form that insistence takes would have to be based on the unity and not on the erroneous view that the violator is an isolated individual that suffers alone being punished and/or made an outcast, would have to be based on healing, else we all suffer and will continue to suffer the harm of that and similar situations until we insist on healing, understanding, though, that you don’t take the attitude of Gandhi when he urged Great Britain to stop resisting the Nazis and let them occupy its beautiful buildings, since it wouldn’t have been just buildings they occupied, but they’d have tried to occupy the heart and mind of England itself, twisting it towards the evil the Nazi ideal tried to bend an occupied nation, towards totalitarianism, towards genocide.

     Obviously, in such a relative sticky world as we walk upon, wearing flesh so easily torn, carrying bones so easily broken, having so many of us walking around tearing flesh and breaking bones, causing every kind of harm under the sun, you’d have to use force to get someone to stop harming others if they refuse to stop, but in using force you wouldn’t trust the hands of hatred to do the work of correction – the spirit of that force would have to be healing for it to be the kind of force the situation calls for applied in the appropriate measure.  The spirit of self-defense alone would not be up to that task having as it does its eyes on protecting the injured party and not also on protecting the whole, protecting also as part of that whole the offending party as much as the situation will allow, and in the stickiness of such situations sometimes it won’t allow much if any at all, but a unified will has to be there to try, else too much force gets used and the wrong kind, what usually happens in these situations.  Of course not merely reacting is difficult to achieve, but what is it exactly that separates human society from other social animal species if not that we act by the light of reason and they by instinct and impulsive reaction?

     It is here we live or die, in that very question of just what is the difference between human beings and other animal species that occupy this overcrowded planet, since, if we act like animals, we’ll end up making this globe uninhabitable not only for ourselves, but also for many if not most other animal species such is the power we as animals have to reproduce, exploit the environment, and conduct war.  We have reason, and with that more is possible for us in terms of evolution, but we can employ our reason as animals would, for the greatening of their own band, or whatever grouping used to confront the world, which, with this current resurgence of nationalism and ethnocentrism, particularly in regards to religion and politics, we’re using it, or we can use it to exceed the animal that we are and become what reason can make us.

     It is with reason that the search for the soul can begin, and once it’s found, reason, with the light of the soul shining on it, guiding it, governing it, a light of compassion and understanding, understands that each and every one of us are as important as the other, the adult as important as the child, the latter in need of protection, though not from the need to make mistakes, but from the stubbornness to never correct them, and protection not so much from danger, but being a fool in the face of it, the bad citizen as important as the good one, the former in need of corrective-healing, though not being made to deny their nature, but allowed to get it in harmony with Nature so it no longer causes harm, the good of it kept and the bad discarded, which not in every case would it be a correction society orchestrates, since, if the soul is found, and allowed to lead (the two movements for such a stubborn me were separate in time), all the individual needs is the flexibility to allow it, on the part of all, the space and the support to heal, and the suspension of disbelief so to do so (a de facto arrangement in my case, since I was thrown to the wolves, but they didn’t eat me, just gnawed on me a bit then cast me aside where I could do nothing save give my soul its head so to survive), the evidence of that process, what removes the doubt over whether it is indeed a process of soul and not your ugliness having its day being a creativity coming out of that a beauty that can change even ugliness pretty (if you’re not too stubborn to see it), the good brought out of it as it’s being, what has been coming out of mine these many years in Auroville’s exile, a slowly rising crescendo rising in import, from “what is this?” to “take a look at this,” the final cut you’re getting now, I as important as you, though we’d both need to see that for it to become the law of the land, for us all to become man.

     I don’t think we really have the picture of how primitive we yet are, the human race itself in its totality, despite the humanitarian disaster we’re making of our world in our face daily, discussed ad infinitum.  It is the quintessential elephant in the room.  In part due to our intelligence reason has enhanced, making an ever advancing technology possible, in part also to our self-centeredness as a species, which makes us feel as if we are not a part of Nature but something ‘man-made’ that lives and moves upon it, either destroying or conserving it, we cannot seem to see even in our science we are indeed a social animal species not different in kind from other social animal species.  The difference is found in degree, the degree we can consciously evolve to become with our very hands what (when we espouse our higher ideals) we think we are.

     We ourselves are the problem, humanity as a whole, each and every one of us to a greater or lesser degree depending on factors we are largely ignorant of in the making of a person’s nature – how much is Nature, how much nurture, to what extent can an individual override either ? –, a measure we mistake for righteousness when it appears lesser, and it becomes self-righteousness, a cause of as much evil down through the ages as evil itself if the truth be told.  In terms of evolution we are yet brutes with our eyes almost exclusively engaging the outer scene, our feeding range, largely unaware of our inner life, save for our bound rounds of thought, eyes on our neighbor’s sin and not on where we rub the world wrong, since if lesser, lesser is so hard to see looking at only the outer scene (your dreams will show you the you you’re not too keen to see, the one as bad in spirit as the worst of us), eyes almost completely blind to the soul within, save as a belief of what survives death to either be punished in a hell or rewarded in a heaven, not as something that can be found in the midst of life, inside and over us, something conscious, whole, what informs us with what we feel best in us even if we haven’t found our soul, what mates our hands with our higher ideals when we do, it leading, the evolutionary leap that will make us man, further steps thereafter if your vision isn’t limited by horizons.

     It’s in our very vision the problem of us lies, the cancer eating at the heart of society: eyes that conceive ‘the other’ not as part of one another.  Look at any one of us when hit in the quick of our stomach on things: reactionary, herd sour, and prejudiced against ‘the other’, social animals still in need of scapegoats to fortify the pack, give it venting avenues, a social need we also don’t fully see as a need in each one of us, and if you don’t believe me just look around and you’ll find your needed whipping boy, whoever it is that makes you mad the easiest, makes you react, and in your immediate environment it could be as beatable as the family dog, the point being it’s who you vent on, and in the pedophile, after searching down through history in race and religion and whatnot, society has found the foolproof universal scapegoat.

     While it’s a natural part of being a functioning member of a social animal species, that we define ourselves by our society, or what’s really the case, that we allow it to define us, tell us who and what we are and what the world and life are and what we’re to do in them, it’s more animal than man in that we have reason, which makes it possible for us to study and know not only our outer scene, our territory, but also our inner scene, turn our eyes 180° from our survival and investigate and explore our self and in so doing find our own personal inner truth, either confirm or deny what society has told us we are and are to do.  We are so wrapped up in the ready-made world we’re born into, so engrossed in our social selves, we hardly realize it’s not a world or self we’ve personally defined but have been taught and required to learn.  To question the foundations of society is to invite ridicule, and in some societies, most notably theocracies and communist states, persecution and imprisonment, but even in the democracies, if you publicly question the social paradigm, you come under surveillance and possible harassment so pervasive and intrusive is the ‘conforming eye’ becoming with the advance of our technology.  So captured we are by the social construct we not only blindly define ourselves by it but also are almost totally ignorant of the possibility of basing our life upon our inner truth or even that we have such a basis for truth, an inner as opposed to an outer authority.

The inner life of man deeper than thought and subconscious dream, a place few look or even know exists, is the next frontier, the new world to discover.  How many of us, in what we call the ‘developed’ societies, when faced with a decision, look also to our inner life to make it, see what our dreams and visions show, or, if we are developed people, meaning in this sense self-developed, what a truly developed society would be, not technologically based but self-developmentally founded, aware of our inmost self as we are our outermost, hear or see the direction of our soul? Because in the shallows of the inner life there’s so much drift and bale, darkness even, what’s given rise time and time again to someone going crazy, or going off and killing everybody in the range of their weapon, or mesmerizing whole societies and turning them to organized madness, we fear the inside of us and do not encourage people to look in there, listen to those voices, believe in those visions, much less make the inner the guiding light of their life.  But read my muse, listen to my music, and see the light shinning inside of us, a harmonizing light that doesn’t have you abrogate the social construct but help make you shine within it, show what more is possible for individuals and societies to be (if you’ve reached that formless ground of the human soul, the wholly other, what we call spirit because it is so other, gone all the way through dream, the entire symbolizing storytelling of the creative reflex, and not just stopped at some good story, but even a good story has the power to change the world).  It does that harmonizing because it’s the light of the whole, wholeness individually centered, grounded on oneness.  Faced with such a disorder in the very heart of my social life, an attraction to minors I did not create nor want, and with such hatred and misunderstanding from all quarters, you left me with no choice but to delve inside and dive deeply, discover the deepest reach in us.  I found my soul.  I’ve left record.  Is it madness I’m showing you, or is it light?  If there is indeed light shinning deep inside of us, our very ground, conscious even, world-aware and of more than worlds aware, bright enough to move and guide us to be more and better than we are, then we need not fear the darkness.

     Just where it’d be on the scale of fundamental errors would be hard to pinpoint, since it’s as much of an obstacle to our growth as a race as not recognizing our unity, goes hand in hand with that fundamental ignorance as it does with that of our experience during sleep, of the possibility of finding our inner truth, but we seem to feel that any disturbance to the peace, comfort, and security of ‘our house’, our personal homes and the house of humanity itself, is an aberration to Nature, what should never happen, and we are so mortified and offended when it does, but, this is our house, this upheaval, this insecurity, this danger that continually besets it (at this half-animal stage of us at least).  The other animals, who don’t have one foot stepping into what’s beyond the animal, that embodied evolved ideal we feel when we feel our humanity, do not know they are evolving, are ignorant they’re here for more than mere survival and enjoyment, but even those of us who do not believe in evolution know that we are here to do more than simply live and have a good time.  That we have something to do here is in our very bones, atheists’ bones and theists’ alike, a purpose to do something, a drive to exceed our limitations, a need to overcome our obstacles.

     I’m not saying we should invite calamity and misfortune into our homes, or that we shouldn’t protect our homes from that, but I am saying that it’s inherent in our house, part of its edifice, a corner stone, what it is about life that challenges us to grow larger than we are, and when we deal with it as an animal would, react out of terror, hatred, outrage, the host of reactions coming out of our stomach, that lower reach of the animal in us, we don’t grow larger but smaller, and although we may, or may not, put a cap on the crisis, it has not been resolved and will come again either to our house in another form in the future or to the house next to us in kind.

     It’s our challenge to learn to deal with calamity calmly with our humanity, not react in terror or outrage all up in arms.  In doing what we must do to face it, rectify it, we have to learn to feel with our humanity the humanity of everyone involved, even that in the ones causing harm and chaos, do that calmly, self-gathered, else we act like animals, and else we don’t do what we’re here to do, both individually and as a whole – be human beings, not beasts.  Gaining our composure and feeling our humanity in such situations is precisely the thing we want the people violating that to do and feel, what will make them stop harming, what will make them feel sorry, sorrow, and if we aren’t composed feeling ours when dealing with them, which means feeling theirs regardless of how they’ve acted like beasts, then how can we expect them to get their act together and feel theirs?  It might feel good to punish them, cheer their suffering, but you’re an animal feeling that, delighting in their pain, and not man.  A sorrow that leaves room for hope, what the soul feels when faced with the sight of suffering, for those hurt as well as those who caused it, taking whatever action we must take in insisting the hurting stop, which is an insistence on healing, of all those involved, would be feeling our humanity in such situations, understanding that when such situations call for a swift and violent response, even taking life (in a posture of self-defense, not one of executing the aggressor), it would be our very humanity that takes such action, not terror or hatred.  It’s no miracle showing love and respect to your children; it’s one to give consideration to the person who violates them such is the over and beyond challenge we face, the top of the world mountain we climb.  I assure you, it’s no less easy for the person who desires to violate them to gain their composure, overcome their desire, their animal nature, and not do so.  You can’t ask them to climb their mountain unless you climb yours; society do you hear me?

     A judgmental, self-righteous, and indignant attitude based not on the truth of things, or even on their change, but upon the very things we as a society are trying to keep from happening, harm to the harmonic, since it’s a guttural reaction intent to harm, in the form of punishment, not born of reason but, like the wrongdoer’s wrong, born from the brute from which we are trying to arise, the one that wants retribution, to extract it’s due, the animal, is what I’m standing here and facing, what I will to change.  What makes my stand a Savitri and not a shooting or a bombing, or anything other than the utter truth of my soul, is that in myself I’m facing that tiger and willing it to change, sort of like the movie about the boy in the boat with the tiger Richard Parker, the act of the change, cutting in the quick of that connection between my society and I as it does, a change of both of us, since I cannot separate myself from you and what force of either love or hate you send my way.  You’d just have to ask yourself, if faced with my story and either or, would you want punishment given or change processed?  How stubborn are you, more so than I?

It’s not with the reason we cross crime,
In my book –
In my dreams.
You soul out an emergency.
Say that at home.
You see the single father favored utility bills,
Stuck it out in terms to oneness.

What did I dream?
Let’s say I didn’t.
I wouldn’t know them:
Cesspool TV,
The day I sunk so low.
I don’t have an excuse possibility of wildlife management.
Know little pity.
You know you’re mad?

White clock anytime.
I take my earring
And apologize.
I guarantee,
I’m lookin’ at you.
You’re talking about trustin’,
All the way across the country.
In India I’m here.

Take that
Light bulb.
Everybody in compliments.
Someone’s drowning.
The kid was drowning.

A lot of people are
Not going to forgive.
Here put me in shoes:
Let me talk to you alone
My dream heart.

Gwen stop,
Gwen stop,
Gwen for goodness’ sakes,
You don’t know when to stop.
[This I said in a dream-vision to my older sister who was in my living room forcefully tickling me under my arms, play-bullying me like older siblings do, and I was in that tickle-pain and helpless to stop her.]
“How did you go?”
I got on for 50 years,
10 years
In Auroville’s exile.
Can you say goodwill?
They don’t have a spirit there forgiveness.

“What are we working here?
What is the country’s?”
Here’s the bike,
(In parenthesis Donny Duke):
You’ve got to change.
There was such a wrong in your eyes.
Fault I’m tryin’ to tell yah.
I’m in a movie.
I’m the villain?

How is the shadow?
That’s the 1st time you’ve got just a little look at it.
Do you think my person is work?
This is whole army.
I’m what you mean to say when you say community.
I move other people.
I belong.

You have a scenario,
The love of God.
What do you have?
That’s my will.
“Should we whip ‘im?”
That won’t change it.
Eye witness
At exactly
The sacrifice.

If you’re going to join me,
I’ll be at the entrance to Auroville.
God is all deep in all.
It’s that that I really wanted to talk to you about.
[A vision accompanying the line of clicking a stylish retractable pen a couple of times and clicking it closed.]

A soul a secretion of the manufacture brain?
There’s more to Miami than meets the eye.
It refer to the deployment bag.
Some mess are totally without meaning.
Kind of a traumatic
Come out to the other eye in orbit.
In the eye in the storm
That’s your died.
There’s a referee in here.
Altogether soul
Behind the heart.
Overall soul
Write it down
To mate.
That would do the trick
(Huge effort):
See past horizons.

Movement for man’s humanity to man,
A theoretical Tel Aviv tell collage.
In life paradise they aspire to go the generous way they want.
You don’t want it thrown out till the next will.
I’ve said it all,
Making the pass,
A papple pass,
And into infinity.

[today’s muse]

Tight Walking Tornadoes To World Cycle 5
                              Lightning in my brain thunders in my heart as I watch and
                                   walk a cyclone through slips of my soul. Weirdly
                                       creeps it out like darkness from a hole.
                                            So I wholly surrender to my soul unmorbidly
                                    unattached to my life and only dissatisfied
                              with my present self
                                 looking square in the eye the lies
                                       of my shalowsElf.
                                               I’m mounted on the storm
                                                     feeding wind with ears
                                                             of corn. From the top of
                                                               my head the lightning
                                                       strikes the sky, from the
                                                    bottom of my
                                                  heart thunder hurls
                                                       my cry:
                                                          “My heart

[non-muse and slightly modified from its original shape (the cyclone was only the 1st verse), written during a poetic explosion upon leaving the University of Houston in 1992, pre-poetry shapes I took to Spyrock mountain, read on KMUD public radio station, and posted on bulletin boards and buildings around Garberville, California]

The Pupil and His Divine,
A Harmony in Five Measures

 [The poem’s in the form of a dialogue with multiple speakers (all my muse poetry is) – in this poem: the poet, his divine, various people in the audience, a general or hypothetical child, a general or hypothetical parent, the poet’s children, even a hostile being. Only the audience speaking is put in quotation marks. Paying attention to punctuation and listening to the poem read, the voices dramatized, play key roles in understanding who’s speaking and in interpreting it.]

The Listening Post

You can see whatever you want.
I’m eraser not found you come in here.
We’re a friendly service.
Pull on it make sure it’s there.
It revolutionizes
Your whole universe.
Wisdom is as free as doorways,
Long direction movement

Wrapped around your skin.

“What the hell is going on?”
That facility to hear playback,
All the universes spinning and you got a sound.
We pop in your head.
It arranges things,
Continually adds to your bank account.
Completely unborn children
Spend all their time
(Alright then I got plenty of time)
Warming up to this sound.
It’s their pleasure arrangement.
Like packed honeycombs they are born.
I’m sorry you’re not very easy to control.
The baby knows a greater TV.

It’s his home channel.

We see our voices,
Images in the air on the notebook of sight
The inner eye sees.
They’re often read.
Language can’t describe their variety
Unless you had infinity’s notebook.
You can open up this vision,
This paper weight of silence
In the magnet of your thinking

That reaches beyond itself.

Large voices will attract,
Entertain your ear.
There is no limit to its development.
You can construe it,
Order it around,
When you want it to say something.
There’s mixture there,
An unaffordable see:

It costs dearly vision.

This eye of sight
Can see the world in view
And work about to change it
Starting with you.
It habits this land,
Makes it build bridges
To further understanding.

Low and behold a new bridge is built.

We widen our view.
It goes without thinking.
We are in the cockpit of a larger plane
I’m going to fly around.
We silence our music,
Give it greater strings to play.
Then it listens further

Than the frontiers of time.

I see the images:
A waterfall of words that pressurize silence;
Large freedom hills
Naked as the Sun;
A camera that reads music.

Those’ll get yah warm.

A greater life is calling.
We seem to think we’re fine.
“I’ll destroy your music
If I can’t stomach your thought,”
So the Pied Piper says.
“Wouldn’t want to hear about it first.
We’re not living.
We’re dead ants.
We suffer our measure
And drink it as wine.
Come to think of it

We’re fine.”

Can we escape?
We have this infinity’s ear
That helmets in the sight
To what larger there may be.

I’m giving you airplane.

I mean what stopped it?
It’s not broken.
We can try to remember it
Some close to a dream.
It slips in like a spiritual thought
And says something new.
The listening is active but your father can’t come in.
Thought will override the program.
You must keep it on its knees.
We wait our season.
Right in the place where people are talking
You give it an in-look.
That means you wait for something to happen

In the beginnings of sleep.

His day would go quickly he was trying to clean up.
Not a hat could be found.
He reached into his vision.
Just take that other one.
Just take His one.
I’m not going to talk to you about it
Off guard.
A teacher does my thinking in moments of silence.
He is my vision’s partner.
We dock a few lines.
Ever hear of the master worker.
I’m the arrangement.

He’s actually there.

One hundred:
I can hear a reflex pointing our research first.
It aggrandizes the dime.
This snake has many things
At its garbage disposal.
“Open your eyes and smile.
Village your truth.”
Do you hear mouth here?
I hope you’re able to separate your hairs,
I mean lines.
A rough text point,

This signals your thinking.

We infinity our truth.
These are infinity’s guidelines.
I hold them out straight.
“Infinity would never believe it.”
You’re supposed to catch on.
I’ve rounded your thinking
With the history of milk.
You must be a pauper to drink it.
It orders only silence.

You listen in need.

We pull the kid out.
I’m about your thought,
Your merry-go-round.
I follow the leader
Of what you drink.
There caution sorrow,
Disappointment’s ring

If you go off on some tangent.

Listen to spiritual practice.
You’d need to listen wide.
A dream fashions from this same fount,
And you can take us anywhere.
I come from a higher place than that.
I come from infinity’s window.
I’ve ordered your thinking
Along these lines:
There is a listening post,

Your higher heart.

Good word.
Sit in there,
Come clean,
I can get richer,
But I’ve spent all my dime.
Listen again.
To be read over,

Listening silence.

Sleeping Arrangements

A wrong movement,
A wrong listening song.
“Is that where they’re at?”
They’ve increased the volume.
It’s a field of pleasure.
They hold together.
We rub against them
Our notebook.
The pages go to sleep


Mark said it.
Journalistic medicine,
It amplifies my wrong
To put a cover on it.
Cocoons it to its good.
We both bleed down here.
They’re going to bring it up.
Eat after.
“He’s blind.”
Not a thing of the past
Makes man’s ideas out more and more.
They’re going to bring it up.
To shove it out.

It’s a shoving process today.

We have a reason.
Wrong could come break the relationship.
Finish thought,
You need control.
Wrong’s measuring basket:
To drink or drink more?
It’s a field show.
It’s a lessons study.
No ‘what daddy’

My son’s been imaged right.

Your measuring stick,
Your wrong.
Do the exercises,
As long as you take the right one
Above the window.
Good history.
Did you see this?

That’s your heart song.

“What happened?”
Said to me.
I don’t want him going in there.
I act, we put there.
This is the first page:
Yes you can sleep in your daddy’s room.
Sometimes we fail to see a better arrangement.
Sometimes we fail to see the solution at all.
Can get serious,

Family court.

May we have your attention?
Please hold onto the exits.
A blue door,
A thousand rupees,
That’s a spiritual way out.
Daddy I want to kiss you.
He’s green labeled that.
“Whatta we do?”
A different time,
A different thing.
Important that you don’t involve matter.
No swimming on the ground.
All need will read

God’s book.

What we’ve got here is a behavioral animal.
It has sharp teeth.
Stay in front.
If he pulls his gun out,
Leave it blank.
I’m sorry I’m dividing.
We’ve got to arrange things
So that the muscle
Get anybody complicated,

Change house.

This is clear music.
You’ll sleep together in peace.
Watch those corner edges.
They rub a body mean.
I’m a happy song
You sing to your children
When she’s not in the house,

A line Molly.

“Why did Molly come?”
I’ve seen only skin much, Okay?
Place the truth in your hands.
“You know it won’t control them.”
And it’s just like it was now,
Trying to figure what was going on.
I’m just telling you something before you react:
I’m bringing you change.

That’s the technique.

The rude imperious surge,
That didn’t get you.
Do you want promise?
The Dallas runway.
You see some good
In this arrangement.
Don’t blow me away.
Keep the tickling hand free of charge
And the alphabet.

Study it please.

Doing things together
Don’t let paper weigh you down.
What you want is a free, easy, spontaneous
Gift hand.
You take this
You show it to them.
“Must be nice to not have any fetters.”
Just remember why you’re here.
It’s not to aggrandize the show.
A growth going on,
And the body carries its charge.
Sleeping arrangements made easy,

I go to sleep.

What Tamil movie?
We image sleep,
Make it our breakfast song.
It’s the dream image that we care for.
That is molding the show.
You don’t know how sensitive the hand is
In the area of dream.
It is like another house,
Another house owner.
It can fasten itself
To the waking movement,
And wrong behavior,
Convinced of itself,
Plays the hand.
But not when it comes

That’s the prime time TV.

Your hand has license there.
It meets them in dream.
They seem arranged for the movement,
Probably asleep.
You have to go to clean.
You can’t.
A deaf movement.
“Which one is that?”
The life hand
Has no will in it
To move.
Your head
And all its arrangement

Is sleeping in the bed.

“What you do?”
There’s a program to put on.
It’s called make the body safe.
Call on divinity to help you,
Some divine name.
Open to them,
And close the hand.
Hercules had no stronger task.
You see,
We can mess up;
We can come abuse

So early.

There is a physical culture.
The body has its own field.
Your body
Wrapped around another body
Ignites imagery in sleep.
I dreamed that I was in here by him,
Next to him in bed.
Doubled doors are open.
Hot red hold me wrong.
Hot red you see,

Hot red.

Hidden desire
Can play.
These are occurrences in sleep
That hold us down in life.
They can arrange things,
Pass this on to another child.
The waking world is full of such traps.
And we don’t even remember our dream,
Even though our lightened load
Is acting its ground.
This is a double pleasure.
Our child wakes up from his sleep
And waits for a buddy to fulfill it.
“Physical culture I’m mad at you.”
Though you are mad at me,
You like it
In the dream.

It’s a body arrangement.

What will put peace here is your spiritual test.
Who do you sleep with at night?
Your own dream?
Who it is you are open to
Will single out your sleep,
Open in the sense

That’s where you move.

You see my connection.
It’s a high note.
A practice song this is.
A night is drama to cross.
Put a pillow under it.
Only names
Are personal enough
To put it together.

The name should rhyme with God.

There was something else.
The child in bed with you
Isn’t even there.
They represent God’s feelings,
An image in the night
Made in both areas:
I have walk in
And close the door.
We move to God’s nature

The sleeping child.

“Have you fastened everything?”
I can arrange it some.
You didn’t contact me,
A pulled image,
Give me a dime to see.
We keep our images and our heads together
Or they lose reality.
Bases cover this program,
The high note

We put our money on.

Yeah you hear:
Hold your child a little.
Keeps safe with him.
“We do not encourage sleeping with children.”
It’s just not a big deal.
You wouldn’t be able to

Hand out body bags.

You’re not gonna get clearer than that for fifteen minutes,
The poetry of another song
Even closer.
I sound your sleep.
Hear a whistle?
You’re an area dude.

You carry your first one folks.

Please dog go.
I gave you one rupee.
He’ll have a warm spot in his freezer.
He’ll want to put something there.
It feels warm to him,
And that’s all that’s interesting.
It’s nine or something no?
I don’t want your answer.
Tell me.
He can’t ride you like that
If you’re going to heal his movie.
He has grass ready.
You just need to cut on it.
We feel good.

That’s the problem.

His sleep knows this distance.
He’s practicing in dream.
You have to arrange it to watch his tower.
You hold the boy with your sleeping arm.
This is a measure of sleep.
No leave the stuff there.
All that we need is what you’re bringing to school on Monday,


Hey Donny,
His sleep you can’t ride,
But I can.
Go on, get some paperwork.
If you can just move for a minute,
That penis clouded,
You hit the note
That images safety.
You felt a strong glow,
The divine
Had muscle.
He’s favored in sleep.
The urge is there,
But nobody eats.
You’re walking him out of this program:
Exclamation point

In his area down there.

Though I’m sure it won’t be understood,
He gets dressed everyday.
You must learn to read the music,
Siren songs,
Then move accordingly.
This is your fifth gear.
Man, speed up.
Do you know what ten miles serve?
Hey man I pass everything.
I’ll see you later.
Life being predictable,

Same cost.

“What is this?”
The harmony of attention.
If I were you
I’d probably prefer to be
Part of the program:
Let me love you what I do,
But let’s get this story straight.

Touch those together.

Bathroom Control

We look out bathroom street
A window to go higher.
I promise daddy I’m hungry.
Well eat the other one.
You must clean your plate.
Bathrooms error the truth.
They guide us to the wrong door.

We can’t help but play there.

Can I give you a bath this towel said.
You might want room.
I pressure you with cleanliness.
If I unfasten your belt,
Will I unfasten mine?
You’re in freedom’s uniform.
I look towards the bottom window
Choosing to ignore freedom.
We put a special emphases there,
The point will get across:
I love your toilet
Washing daddy said.

It wasn’t clean.

I image your hand.
It only wants exposure.
We open your sanctuary.
You feel a slight tease.
It’s a slow hand,
Rubbing ground.
I’m afraid you’re finished.
The thought can be carried back

For future reference.

“Can we get out here?”
It’s a necessity arrangement.
Clean a child must be.
Rude we do not wash him.
Your pants you remove.
I’d pull down your life.
I’m all soap and lather.
You’re not into this are you?

You just wait up with a smile.

I showered my hand.
Give me that washcloth.
We go over your genitals.
They’re into themselves.
I just image poetry.

I may wash them I said.

Here’s the hard part:
Just his genitals and you.
An image will show here
If you’re not on line –
The red hand buttering wood.
It’s old,
And you don’t think about it no more,

The emotions get away with it.

How I balance your ship:
I sink it in the neighborhood.
Can you say aggrandize it?
You can count your dream.
Army staples award.
We soldier here
The concept of war.

I habitat your thinking.

You want a real significance there,
The one that shoulders attention
On individuality.
“I know what you’re saying:
Give this guy his flag,
He’ll be his own nation.”

There’s a private lesson there.

I’m waiting for your attention to change ground.
We hold onto his plate,
He won’t aim his life.
I’ll go to execute Galgatha.
I’ll go to my house.
I will pay payments you understand,
The leftovers.
Daddy sleep with me

Right here.

Least I know I can talk to you.
That one’s the arrangement.
Alright you did it,
Your friend the apple pie.
Daddy white collar

I expected among.

I only told him,
You hear deaf music.
It’s not about this time.
It’s about castle keep,
A personal defend line.
We are his defenders
Of that little ship.
We keep the world from on it.

He can’t do that yet.

I am throwing the dust toy
A hidden view.
Now get drink you gotta eat.
The other bike is not working.
“Wha what?  Where?”
I don’t want.
Now come here.
I’m serious now.
You don’t even wash them unless you got to.
That type of behavior
Robs your castle.
I made a mistake.
Robs his also.
He needs to learn

To do it himself.

A host of programs.
“I want to go to school.”
Teach them with your free hand,
No hidden icons in its toolbar.
I’ll be back
If you’ve touched them that way.

We have a cross in the I.

You draw the lights,
Plan on there being
A stairwell.
My school I take it.
You teach me good,
Okay you teach me
Like this:
No hidden

I’m disappear.

He’s just a show up before, come on.
One of the very inquiries,
We dried it for itself,
Dried it off,
A mountain view,
A safe program.
Hold your poets in there.
He’s a dynamically used vehicle

If you read him right.

“Where is mother in the bathroom?”
I believe ape ate the answer.
Dad Okay you get in here.
Come to microphone.
Hey we’ve got to go
As long as it must.
In that grow folder
Another year of right,


Our area is clean.
We’ve looked beyond program,
What we’ve put down.
The body’s a bulletin board.
We pin touches on it.
She’s not a delivery system.
No you can’t.
You wouldn’t be able to.
They’ll be there.
I told you.
It just served its purpose,

Their room.

“Did you read the ten dollars?”
Like everything else,
He’s on our list too loud.
We examine him.
You do not mind like this
To make the adjustment.
You see,
I’m sleeping beside my daughter.
“We’ll cut your allowance.”
I’ll give anyway.
In fact, I really hoped
To release this window by giving its dead.
A girl, minimize this window.
Stab here,

And it shakes the entire race.

In fact,
I did it for me
They have in clean.
She’ll demand the moon.
If I don’t give it to her
She’ll pitch a fit,

A daily TV.

A line of bad company that you’ve Illinoised,
That you’ve allowed,
Will escape
And talk to people.
Who knows,
Maybe it’s

Gonna put you outta your house.

I’m sitting in the front.
That’s where they’ve got their attention,
The front of the movie.
They don’t reason out
What’s behind them.
Frame up here
On a mountain
And feel good.
This is the price of the program:
No behavior

That robs pleasure.

This is a mountain view.
I give you inside wrong
Half an hour,
There’s the shower.
My birthday is coming daddy.
The top
I’ll pick up again.
“What will we be reading?”

Holistic medicine.

You might wanna take that peace.
I put him on the bus.
I play him

I get moved.

The Top of the Head Show

You come.
We chakra this drink.
Can you believe I touched that?
That subtle body field,
Where you put your hand,
Can go inside.
Right this way.
The tooth fairy,
She do it,
Touch zero

In my chakra need.

That little flower
Below the navel
Got burned
By pleasure.
It’s spinning faster now.
There’s a whack in the system,
All out of line.
Watch out,
Behavioral problems,
Emotional issues,
Communication difficulty,

And it continues.

At the base of the spine,
At the tip of the tail,
A stir is underway.
It’s a partial kundilini arousal
Of the sleeping kind.
The touch wanted it.
Eventually frustrated.
I want two hundred rupees
Life-force size.
You ever wonder why delight?
Will go in directions
All this energy.

Puts the finger on it.

They would like their children…
They’ve already arranged things the way they like them you see.
The children are a boiled mess.
Even a Hatha yogi
– Hello –
Can’t swim these waters
Without preparing years.
A child has its chakras out,

Something we don’t know.

Seven dollars
Divided by a rule
Giving her a favor,
A full payment plan
I’m pretty sure
That agriculture is used.
The lesson plan:
Get your

Wrong TV tuned.

You’re a loud movie
Little boy.
Turn down the volume
I don’t know,
Except that kind of love
Increases it so.
Alternative medicine:
They have a top of the head.
Let’s reverse this flow,

Channel that energy.

You can see
All the things they want to do.
It doesn’t make sense.
He has the capabilities
Of being a proper powerful.
The top of the head focus
Will open their inner vision.
All the behavior

Has clouded it considerably.

First comes the cleaning
Your room,
Pick up after themselves,
Take out the garbage,
Sweep the floor.
Here you know what we found?
A divinity of cleanliness
Gathering the ground
On that level.
Finish off this subject.
No one
Likes their picture taken

Go, go, go.

Second program:
Open the top of the head
And keep it open.
This is an area of the house
You can’t touch.
Focus them there.
This is why it takes so long:
Well I can’t take it,

Quiet now.

Calm down.
Pinpoint your awareness there
With me.
They mange a little bit.
The candle flame
As the sun goes down,
They can feel that
In their crown.
Do this exercise.

It’s a daily practice.

I’m going to the top of my head.
Who wants to join me?
(Lesson out perfume.)
My child where is your awareness?
What about a mountain top?
The television can wait.
Are you alive?
You’re so different.
Anything comes
To mess the routine,

Be flexible.

The top of the head,
Let me tell you some.
That’s where we cross over
At the death of the body.
The ignorant world,
That was the filling

Of knowledge and the divinity.

She goes to school
To learn her way.
I’m not through on my way to the pool.
She holds back.
She’s tired.
Assimilation a lot of read until
The way they are
Underwrites divinity.
They’ve got a few minutes

Mind you.

I’ve given you something to chew on,
A riddle put in question
And solved.
We base our experience
At the beginning of evolution.
If you read that
You would open the top of the head and keep it open.

It’s a conscious movie.

Can I ask myself,
Where is it found?
Why they look
There on the ground?
Asking a Hatha yoga this.
I use mercy to find out.
“Meets the standard.”
“A division of excellence.”
“You want the best program.”
“You can’t buy a better arrangement.”

“I don’t want anything better than that.”

Try to use the grocery store.
There’s a, index.
“Oh that’s so beautiful
We support our groups.
I’m an issue at the top of the head,
Spirit informing matter.
Where are you led?
I don’t think it’s to please behavioral problems.

We focus on matter matter’s our object.

It’s a beautiful arrangement
The world that we see,
But matter’s a picture show,
And we are spirits in it.
Who woke from the dream?
Is matter their gospel?
“I bet a kundilini gave paper on this.”
She’s around.

“Can I borrow a drink?”

Kundilini’s ill informed.
There’s a field there,
Unshaped energy.
She’s not Spirit’s standing ground.
I’m gonna go in just a minute.
If we start at the base of the spine
To get a spiritual grip,
Everything’s under conspiracy;

We have no leadership in the head.

Why did I start this mountain?
Our children’s future has a journey now.
Matter on top,
Spirit arranged last,
Their journey will be very predictable:
Ordinary life.

“Yes I agree.”

My hat size
Has a question for infinity:
Matter a rigid movement,
How do we spiritualize it?
Just down here
There’s something going on.
I’m a top down answer.
Oh my folks?
Two disciples of yoga,

The Mother and Sri Aurobindo.

Names aren’t important.
“How would you know?”
It’s like a bite,
All the matter
Of a person.
My intention
Is to get this airplane off the ground.
Any serious pilot knows
That his instruments
Are not where he is going.
They guide him there.
This poem
Gives a very practical lesson in ground guidance.
I’m not getting a maintenance program.
I’m getting evolved.

I’d say that’s substantial.

We come to the close of our book.
Any questions?
“Why it came.”
We brought
This little boy
Out of dog’s house,
Put him in front of everybody
So that matter
Can be woken up
From the crown down.

He’s a light on this subject.

Flexibility’s Good Practice

I see my result in the image of tomorrow,
Sacrifices for these guys,
Sacrifices for children made.
I see a little ahead of us now.
Oh my God,
An image I see,
The sound and the fury of a group called
A rigid belief system.
They deny my answer.

It gains ground instead.

Be useful with my hair.
That’s why I got an office.
Most of the new modem here is for this:
Yoga transitions wrong.
It doesn’t recognize itself when the change occurs.
Yoga’s a half light,
An image to see.
It’s necessary.
Yoga at least fields the answer.

Union becomes possible.

A new light on yoga,
A new inspiration on yoga:
“Can you come back in about fifteen minutes?”
They ask my choice.
“Your native place, your country?”
American dream.
“I hope for your sake as well
It lasts the dream.”
Now, the politics has religion.
Doves, a page for arms spending.
It’s a powerful dove now.
I hold you open to everyone.
You don’t know the religion of the Spirit

Mr. Fundamentalist.

American box office,
You’ll allow it
A ten minute jury.
It’s open.
You want a letter hold it down.
Art has business
In imaging ideas.
A new idea

Is what we’re looking for.

We’ve got an opening in pictures.
I superstorm that’s fine.
While we’re ahead,
Let’s crack divinity’s TV.
It is an image in a notebook
That you write while you’re asleep.

It has what you need.

I’m awareness of God.
You can’t buy that in a bookstore,
Nor paint it on a friend.
It’s a personal journey.
I’ll be going down
To the bare minimum.
From there I hope to image this story.

Get up now.

Wait till you finish eating.
Put your finger on us.
Ah ha, that touched my hand.
We’re neighbors you see.
Thought will

Go public.

“If I understand your meaning right
Poetry thinker,
We are a collective body.”
That’s our building process
We can image out thought a new reality.
We could do that

Instead of who we hate.

Coconut in my big ouch here,
The rumors of war hate fashioned.
“We create its dream,
These are primitive seekers,
But we must understand them.
They need to know they’re safe.
Their belief system is their protection

Against immensity.

We hear them regard:
“We guard our forefather’s knowledge.
We hope to gain by its creed what our forefathers lost,
The right way to live.
We are a ship at anchor in an empty port.
We image reality
By what we see.
There has no greater value
A living scene.
It is solid fact not symbol wrought.

And God in his heaven sits the same.”

We image a pupil
Who doesn’t listen.
“I kinda knew that in the morning.
I stopped vision.
It was drowned by the world.”
Hey man what happened?
If you don’t finish it tomorrow…
“I put a poem where God lived in me.”
The solid confines of matter’s image
Can so easily

Hide the Unseen from view.

“Is there a land bridge here?”
I’m happy to see one,
It’s my son,
My little girl.
If I could put their ship in the water on just the right course,
They’ll put together this image
And pilgrim our voyage.
It’s a hope for tomorrow for a future today.
These are my children.
I give them right of way.
I don’t think we’re lost here,
Just a little aground.
I’m Okay.
Don’t worry about me.
Just do your homework:

Know what to believe.

“I’m not surprised.”
Here was fine.
We leave our souls numbered on.
This was a glad space in a bright heart,
Charity’s donation.
Down there,

Infinity held sway.

He organized his room.
“What we put?
What we do?”
He made soldiers on stacks of bibles
And passed them out to the world.
He cleaned the inside of things,
Rejecting old business.
He heard his Stranger call
And wrote it down.
He aloned to himself,
Coming into contact with his own world.
His speech betrayed not the things he saw.
He flashed a light of kindness in his arm’s reach.

It was a banquet now.

“What did you catch one of those twenty-four hour things?”
This was no question posed by the night.
You gathered a liver to your hero.
If it lasts,
It survives.
Your guarantee for the future.
I’m on a UK maneuver.

There most book.

His private door gave lesson.
This was no ordinary show.
Seventh Avenue,
They looked in on him:
You’re an overmental movement
You understand.
Take it easy,
Supermind’s there
Standing ground.
Higher than the moon

Who put their soul?

He hoped in dream’s pocket.
It was a large measure.
His house they used him
And looked not within.
This was his point of friction with the world.
Constant assault the children were.
He had anger
That he could not hide.
We draw him before

That station-house settled.

Good work,
You have to play on it.
We opposite a six.
“Is that good measure?”
It’s the right issue today.
What I was tested’s the fact
(Come daddy)
I can be a father,
Whether or not it works.
What’s yoga?
You have to believe it works.
I’ve said your damn lesson.
Now image reality,
A top of the head see.
Do you get my copycat?


I’m not sitting next to wrong.
I’m sitting next to you.
“Can we habitat this truth?”
Man, this is our dwelling place.
It has to do with a song.
It only hits you,
You open your eyes.
The Spirit is alive in matter,
And the Spirit stays.

Matter is his habitat but not his standing ground.

Daddy, can I have a digital watch
That tells the time
Here we pause for a word from our sponsor:
The world removes sickness
Your body
Will be an eternal image;

Homeopathic made cure.

A substantiality review,
Measure that in heart beats.

May you grow bigger than yourself.

So many passengers,
They don’t want a heart strong.
It will have to be something that we do together.
Individuals prepare the field.
You’ll have a rough time sitting there
Absorbed in your television set
Three dimensional.
The hat’s
Just a protection
From getting lost in the movie.
Crown chakra,
You gotta wear it.

Do I make myself clear or not?

Can I sleep in your bed tonight?
Now do you believe me?
I will challenge you in the deepest part of your laugh.
Hello my associate
You don’t usually say.
Head bothering you?
I have said a window
Opportunity set up.
You’re staring at the wall.
You’d have to see beyond it

To understand what I said.

It would mean
An integral yoga.
“Even the masters
Couldn’t gather these clothes.”
They just never put ‘em on.
You’ll have to step out even,
Emptiness said.
Catch my airplane winnebago?
The Spirit is free
In all this


“I had trouble with that one.”
Fix your feet high.
That’s an asana everybody has trouble with.
Keep practicing.

Yoga will work.

Throw a leg over this movie:
Moksha reborn
Here in the world.
You’d have to catch the plane,
Give it your understanding.
The body is carved by it in silence,
To be totally honest I walked to it
One slip at a time.
It was the heart that provided the key.
Once it knew
It was on its way,

The change arrived.

“Donny I,
Listen to you.
So you don’t have to worry.”
That was decent.
That was not about arguing.
It showed me something.
The mind, the heart, the body all integrated,

People solved.

Definitely another subject
(I don’t think so)
The soul is their point of order.
Fits right here.
We begin with an understanding
Opening the top of the head
Or the heart window
Imaging soul.
They will solve each other

If we bring them together right.

I’d like to show you something.
We play music
One measure at a time.
This airs out the difficulty
Integration brings.
I’m, I’m good,
Hear this music?
Boy hears it now.
The public awhile.
Execute this thing.
That’ll take it

Off the ground.

We open our opera,
A whole like twenty-eight pages.
One crying.
What’s a matter sweetheart?
Daddy I don’t want to leave you.
We’ll have to have faith
The Mother said.
She’s the one holding it together,

Our family arrangement.

I have these children.
Remove the cover.
What do you see?
“You’re their daddy.”
Touched it,
The front of it.
That really appealed to me.”
I lesson in longevity.
“Where do you put your scorecard?”
There’s really a house.
I want to print it out:
My children
Are lessons in love.
You don’t want to mess with them.
I give you

Clean house.

A story’s been told
Infinity sings.
We nowhere near mirror
The calm flexibility that
We in our divinity will show –
As we stand transformed,

Not just stuck on the rafters.

“Where will this evolve?”
It’s in our daily room,
Where we spend our lives holding cares.
Is my rifle here?
“What dense energy is that?”
It’s what shoots answers,
Will not let us see the way out.
Go ask people,
And they figure it out:
“If we do get up there,
Anything, anything at all,
I have to do it,
I’ve got to get my courage out.

I’m about the idea change.”

A body without a beard,
Without one iota of fashion together wrong,
If I’m rewriting I’m writing to version fad.
We are so swayed by our opinions.
Well man,
Your opinion,
No matter how sharpened,

Might be more narrow than life.

Can you average that?
Bout time you come in.
It’s actually better
To let the truth unfold
Instead of proclaiming it.
We evolve here.
You have my answer.
Now that’s actually what it is,
Truth evolving.

You’re welcome.

I’m available
Across the railroad tracks.
It’s where you see disease.
I’m not that far.
Look how close I am to you,
In your intimacy kitchen,
Your bathing and sleeping with
Your own concerns.
“Where is the line crossed?”
Stew there.

Now call for intimacy with me.

What makes you so mad?
I would ask for an associate’s degree.
How many times does justice hate?
Would it be that that hate’s carried over from someplace else,
A little road in you?
“It’s not there whispers hate.”
We’re not talking
Out in the open –

You have ways to avoid that stuff.

What drew these lines?
Hear so many cross.
It’s not a perfect world for me anymore.
Doesn’t have to go.
Trying to tell a river.
We’d open
Our eyes and see it.
“Then what’s the story?”
We can be clean.
“I don’t think so.
It’s not that easy.”
Oh come on,
Top notch of this group,
Who knows it?
“But tell me,
Did you name to the air conditioner five minutes,

Just one time?”

You make me worry.
Let’s guilt them and them.
Wow, you have society’s hold up here.
Cultural morality
Do any justice?
By hidden cost:

We are not permitted to evolve.

“Where does the dust settle?
I’m fighting your window,
And it doesn’t open.
Okay, this and with hate.
Very shot behind.”
House with
I had to get my stuff out of the way
So you got yours.
 “Hey man this thing’s got director over me.”
Could be a wonderful person.
You can change.
I’m tryin’ to get you off the ground.
It’s not better
If said person doesn’t come to see you again.
That touch blisters along.
Can help
Like who would’ve thought it.
Come on, heart walk strong.

On your way too.

All from eyes
They’ll have knowledge back.
Give them muscle on clean,
What I give clean.
“Lemmie get this straight:
Wounding sword heals?”

Over the end that’s burned.

Good morning,
In our little house
Thoughtful matter.
Count how many times the Word gets used.
The average person is comin’ round.
That’s a New York
Giving a better New York.

That’s your higher count.

I’ve given you right music,
The corrected story.
It leads up to American
(Oh I got here),
The American dream.
Find that equipped
Once we get electricity.
We’d save the energy
Where our body’s the worst fade:

Each other.

We evolve.
Not in here
Some rafter said.
Before we close the door
To bodily existence
We would have made divine matter’s robe.
We would be together by the way.
Think about it.
Evolution, remember?
Decide to get to home plate –
To move and get the temple.
“Why are you there?”
It can be held again –
It can be found.
I found my soul.
Boys safe –
I feel sorrow.
Get your wrong TV tuned folks –
Get God on your plate.
I’m tryin’ to slide you an angle on the classical guitar,
Once it got posted,
The body’s freedom.
I’m measuring an ambush this morning –
I’m listening.You can’t do it marshal,
Shoot me in front of God and everybody.
(Make sure Nancy’s resistance is in the place that she wants –
She may resist letting go.)
Related visions,
I keep reading the title of our narrative.
But Bob misses,
Play hide and seek.
That’s a camera
Charged with think tank.
Eat eggs,
Follow the list of the dawn.
Now that you’ve come up with,
You’re the unbelievable:
Against evolution.
Albert Einstein the very next day is pointed out as saying,
“A special case with special officers,
They couldn’t track it down,
A locked up.”
I rank in it
Well self-giving lists.
The world is watching.
A pedophile
Makes its sense.

Post 2


composite by me, rose by Stan Shebs / Wikimedia Commons

My Student Letter

The creative course of essay.
I understand
How it bothers you
The Creative Writing Department.
Deep fountain,
How many papers,
How many?
Say them and see


     It hardly seems worth it and at the same time the point of all this really, all this teeming world, to go on about anything in particular what with all this everything we’re continually in the face of, but it may be that someone, somewhere, sometime would find this helpful, and if there is really any reason to write at all, it is for that my heart says write, however much my head says what’s the point.  The two often see things differently, but my heart, stuck down there somewhere beating about in the point blank of whatever it is my head can’t seem to get it hands on, is the better pilot, so I let it lead here and listen to it telling me to write, by all means write, whether or not there will ever be anyone who reads this.

    We are faced today in the beginning of the twenty-first century with so much information that knowledge, essential vision of the why and how of things, has ceased to be that and has become nothing more than scrapes of information equal in value to any other bit there is so much of it at our fingertips, and wisdom, the crown and cap of knowledge, what knowledge becomes when it transcends itself and is the simple bright knowing of the best way we can use knowledge, best not only for us personally but for all parties, has almost left the field entirely due to it now being considered more a belief than a knowing.  In this uncertain field I sit and write, and believe it or not I might have some useful information for you, and before you click on to something more instant, read on, as you could find that to be the case.

Following me,
But that will no longer be necessary.
Land space time,
Its tale expeditionary users
Swing over here,
Swing over there.
Stop right there.

Pick us some new Blackberries.

The film,
Shown to meet the camera
To the point
I’m shown to me
With you filming this.
You know that
Camera hound.

Now who said that?

     I’d like to introduce you to the muse, in this case of poetry, which, in its larger context, is part of the inner vision facility, or internal guidance system, or simply the creative reflex as I tend to look at it, since, like dream, which is also part of that matrix, it’s much more creative and spontaneously generating than it is reliably true, maddeningly so.  It’s the particular in all this everything I’m writing about, and this is as much a warning as it is an enthusiastic introduction.  I have a large volume of such poetry, or two or three smaller ones, depending on the degree to which you divide things, and unfortunately the poetry does not seem to fit either the contemporary literary or spiritual mindset (the religious mind is just too set), even though (more probably because) the poems are all about the very stuff of both as they express themselves today.  It’s the particular slant of the muse to be literary spiritual, an oxymoron by today’s standards, and neither milieu has much tolerance for an iconoclast (what a muse poet is you don’t water it down with the good ole boy of the mind).  Some, like Emily Dickinson, beat around the bush about the undiscovered continent with the grace of a hummingbird; others, such as William Blake, strip from us our innocence and do that by marrying heaven with hell, and still others, like Rumi, almost come right out and show us this sun in the voice of its handmaid and scribe.

     Take the example above of my muse.  The poetry, laden with metaphor, word play, ambiguity or resonance, euphony, and the like, as is characteristic of the muse of poetry, naturally since that’s the fountainhead of poetry and its technique, characteristically evolving poetry further in the verse of whatever poet actually literally listens to it (which often times also means the present poetry world of the day won’t listen to those poets), takes over from my prose in which I was saying I might have something useful for you.  To understand what the muse is saying, or my creative reflex, to remind you you’re not hearing any ultimate truth but something of truth that has been filtered down through all that is me, certainly not the biggest truth of existence, let me explain that for the longest time on what is known as the spiritual path, to give a name to something that really doesn’t exist in the sense that, that’s what life is pure and simple, the whole point has seemed to be to become somebody spiritually great, some splendid name, that others follow.  Just get a little spiritual knowledge, open the hidden wellsprings of the Spirit in yourself just a little bit, and see where you tend to go with it if you don’t believe me.  (I’ve had the fortune to have a very ugly disability, and that has kept me from being anything other than a poet, a claim not without its own pretensions, as well has made me dig ever deeper into the why and how of the whole thing, and I mean by that both life and the muse.)  On the other end, see what you do if you encounter someone and are pretty sure they’ve gotten something of that knowledge, opened even a trickle of those wellsprings (unless of course they’re offensively ugly).  We are apt to venerate them.  The verse seems to be saying something new is afoot, something more solution oriented than simply pointing out the hidden spiritual ego in our aim, more evolutionary, as I’m writing not so much to a general audience or even a literary one but more to people on the spiritual path, and what that new something is I hope will become more visible as I write.

     Before I go on let me, for the purposes of this writing, differentiate between the terms religion and spirituality, which are often used interchangeably.  Now, I’m no one to define anything as great as what these things mean, so let me also add that much greater people than I have made the same distinction.  Of course it should also be noted that there aren’t cut and dried borders between things in the inner world as our mind likes to divide things in the outer, and so any definition is apt to be a least a little arbitrary at best. Spirituality refers to the direct, personal, inner experience of what’s higher, as opposed to horizontal experiences such as E.S.P., lucid dreaming and dream travel, voices and visions (the creative reflex), out of body and near death experiences (unless of course in any of these you have a spiritual experience, which I define below), and experiences of the lower, which would include anything of the former if the experience has taken you down into the lower worlds or given you contact with them.  Such horizontal and lower experiences are often confused with spiritual experiences, since they are inner experience, but in a spiritual experience you’ve had a direct contact with what is higher than the world of the human ego, not, and here’s the tricky part, just seen it or heard it as something outside of you in your inner world, but, for however long the experience lasts, you’ve risen up there with the very stuff of your identity, and you are not exactly the same person when you return because, whether you want to be or not, you’ve become a spiritual aspirant, and you move your whole life in the direction of getting back up there.

     On the other hand, religion refers to the beliefs, cult, and ritual practices concerning or directed towards the higher and is more often than not a result of a seer’s (someone who sees the unseen) or a group of seers’ spiritual experiences along a certain distinguishable line of the higher, a seer or group usually but not always long departed.  In this sense, spirituality gives birth to religion but not usually the other way around, unless there are people (seers) in a religion having direct, personal, inner contact with that line of the higher in the same concrete way its founders had, and the religion is ever changing and adapting to the new revelation and not calling it heresy as is usually the case.  Wide-open investigative spirituality not at least partially under the roof of some religion or spiritual system is a rare bird, not so much because we as humans are by our nature herd sour (we are), but more because if you are having or have had direct, personal, inner experience of the higher you need a reference point and guidance; otherwise you’re for all intents and purposes dead meat, since the difficulties on the way at its razor path pitches far exceed mere human capacities.

     I have a teacher (departed and dual, a man and a woman, since when I encounter one there the other is also) and operate within the confines of a particular school of the science of Indian yoga, a spiritual system and not a religion per se, but it does have its beliefs, cult, and ritual practices that certainly make it resemble one, only, the whole point of yoga, if it’s not merely the exercise variety, is to have direct experience of the higher to the point you realize some status of that, become yoked to it as in union, but I’m putting the cart before the horse, where I’m going with this writing before I write the effort to get there, a common mistake on the spiritual path in general.

I have need of you.
The City of the Black Lake,
I want to accomplish something further.

Will you tell me what the red solution to the world is?

Yeah go get shoes.
We know what it’s going to look like:
I want her to grow up.
That’s said to her.

Think of this as our people.

Got a washing.
The whole country?
You see,
March universe.

All medium rare.

Gravity blasters,
Space break,
Go back in the box.
And what do we have?

Welded elastic.

     From a certain perspective, and many put forth this perspective nowadays, there is no search necessary since we are all (underneath it all) enlightened, realized, divine, or whatever you care to call it.  There’s a catch though: it’s not manifested is it?  If you can admit that to yourself (if you can’t click on to something more instant) then you have to point your pilgrim feet in some direction or another to get that to manifest.  But what direction, i.e. what must I do and not do?  Is there anyone that can teach me?  There’s a popular saying on the path that I don’t think most realize is a profound truth: when the student is ready the teacher will come, or, if I may amplify it and bring out some of its hidden meaning: when you have searched the high and low of yourself and have come to that wild place where your trials and errors are making a disturbing racket on the inner planes and are threatening to add only more confusion to the outer world than there already is, some teacher will have compassion on you and come and help, and (adding an add on) with an everything falls into heart-felt place shock you realize they’d been there secretly all along, and that’s how you know they’re your teacher.  If they don’t have the capacity to come to you both from your inner world and outer life, then they aren’t a teacher in the true meaning of that word.  If you haven’t opened your inner consciousness to the point you can hear and see them on the inside when they do come, then you simply aren’t ready yet.  And if, when they do come and you hear their arrival in the beats of your heart and see it in the stars in the sky, they want you to exalt their name and spread it to the ends of the earth, then tell them to get lost.  A true teacher will help you connect to your own inner teacher, get you more and more to stand on your own two feet, rather than want you to carry them around all the time.  Most people today, and many of their teachers, would not fit into the inner criteria and might even be hard pressed to know what exactly I’m talking about.

Out in the audience people were cleaning their pipes with gall bladders,
But still,
You’ve got to learn somewhere.
What that movie name?

Relative reflexes.

     Mainstream contemporary Western spirituality, it in itself apart from religious spirituality and its esoteric traditions, would I imagine hold as a sublime truth the Buddhist teaching story of a monk meditating and excitedly telling his master a golden Buddha is appearing before him.  “Ignore it, and it’ll go away,” the master replies, and in that reply shows you how to turn off, how everybody turns off, the inner teacher’s PA system, i.e. the muse, by not giving it any attention.  I doubt there’s a person on the planet that has not heard at least once the inner voice or, apart from the total immersion of a dream, seen a vision as they wake up or go to sleep.  Like the master in the story, modern society on the whole puts no value on such things and so ignores them.  Fortunately that inner guide has other means at its disposal we are apt to pay more attention to because they’re harder to ignore: lucid dreams or any dream that just wops you over the head, synchronicities of your inner world with your outer life, out of body and near death experiences, and other manifestations of the inner consciousness that have such an impact on your outer life you begin to suspect from that inner the outer arises and not the other way around as we are all led to believe by the rather dominating position the outer world has on our attention.

     Returning to the story, which most probably is not a true story but was made up to make a point, and consequently the golden Buddha wouldn’t be an inner symbol in the truth sense of one, allow me to interpret it as if it were a vision a meditating monk had, since even in fiction the maker of all stories has a hand, and some symbol of something true can be seen, as in that story of stories, the outer world, if you can follow me here.  Say that monk had finally gotten to that place of quiet in his mind where he was no longer following his thoughts, and they were beginning to subside like a retreating sea, though they still lolled in muffled trains on the tracks of his mind but without any engineer to give them a destiny, a place from where he could see far off in the distance of mind-space the shivering entrance to the tunnel of Silence, a place in years and years of meditation he’d never gotten to before, and since there he was finally behind his thinking mind the inner guide could give him some encouragement in the form of the appearance of a Buddha of gold, as if to say, “That’s right.  Keep going.  You’re on the right track.”  But he was a rather dull monk and had no mind for symbolism or any knowledge whatsoever of either the inner teacher or the representative way it teaches with a master equally dull and ignorant, and so the meaning of the golden Buddha was lost, and it only served to be the distraction both made it.  I’m speaking from experience here, since I do every so often reach that clear space on the spiritual path where what I’m walking towards becomes more real to me than the road and all this world I’m walking on, and I’ll have a vision of the sun bursting through the clouds or a mountain looming up out of mist and know, for the moment at least, all is well with my soul.

      Seen from afar, an occasional uttering of words that, however ridiculous it sounds, seems to mean something or another, and a rare sight of scenes moving or still that, however strange they appear, show something or another, or the two combined, often oddly, coming from the inner consciousness not from a dream, just look to be like dream does some bizarre firing off of your mind bound to occur as you unconsciously chew on the world and all the sights and sounds that have flooded your senses recently.  When you see it up close, however, you stagger backwards in disbelief, as what you’re looking at is the universe stealing in through your back door.  It’s not such a clear picture from dream so filled dream is with personal subconscious things much of the time (or at least the part of the night many are likely to remember any from, which is just after falling asleep and right before waking), and dream is the most basic, standard, no frills attached, no effort required model of the inner vision facility or creative reflex, unless you develop dream, which is where I started, since it’s the most visible entrance into the inner consciousness, or to the universe, depending on how look at it, but when you do develop dream other portals become visible, and the creative reflex flowers proportionately.

     Now, I cannot prove to you by argument the cosmos is your backyard, but if you turn your attention and concentration one hundred and eighty degrees around from where people normally put it, which is the outer world, and spend several eye-opening years exploring your inner life, making sure you continue to give equal time to your outer life (that is very important), you and the universe are bound to collide, and you’ll come to realize that, while your front faces the world of daily affairs, your back is secretly open to infinity.  When you’re on the spiritual path that is all well and good and needful to know, but you aren’t interested in an out of body guide to the galaxy, how many space aliens can dance on the tip of your pen, or the coming earth changes from the soon to occur passing of mega-planet X, or even of finally being recognized as the messiah or at least a prophet of such grace and power that even the atheist, on hearing your words, would say in their heart there is a God (who on the path hasn’t let one of those thoughts slip in?).  It’s guidance you want pure and simple.

Set you right on lights and things.
You make your camera
What you want to move on.
I can’t read it.
Come ‘ere;
What has to leave?
Are you here for a moment,
A few hours,
Or are you buying its Tupperware?
What need to lead?
Hear roses.
Give you a lift.
Just say no


     When you stand back and look at everything, especially when you try and write about anything, pen something down as it were, particulars blur into relativity there is so much interconnectivity between particulars.  Take the creative reflex I’m trying to describe (and at the same time give you some sense of how to fashion out of it spiritual guidance). On our highest tops with it we are directing into place all the forms that rise pellmell from the sleep of our lowest bottom, the mysterious Void, in effect creating the world, so it’s not so easy to pen down.  To get some vague notion of that, think about the ever changing world of any dream.  It’s something so common I don’t think many of us appreciate the magnitude of creation a simple dream entails: a sunrise or flood for example, a city and all its business of detail, the body you have and all the other bodies you encounter, and I could go on for infinity.  Are those things made of atoms?  Anyway, that same creative reflex creating the world of dream can also be harnessed to create art, fine tuned into the muse, what inspiration is at its wellspring.  Inspiration is not a popular notion in art today, downright heresy actually, due to the sometimes heroic, sometimes cowardly struggle art has had in trying to divorce itself from religion, particularly in the West, as the very notion of inspiration suggests something higher than us inspiring us.  We would not be able to placate those aesthetic egos by saying that the something higher is none other than us beyond Space and Time inspiring the creation of all of existence.  Such would only dig the hole deeper than it already is I’m afraid, offending even most religious sensibilities.

     So let’s just admit (shall we?) that down here in the relativity of it all, in the bowels of one of these phenomenal worlds, there are higher beings than us around to help and inspire us (call them teachers, gods and their scribe angels, or whatever you’d like  –God himself being a being a bit big for us to hear or see not dressed as one or more of his living attributes, who will always call themselves God since to the limits of our understanding they are; just be careful because you’re on holy ground around here and not on a pedestal), and not only that, their help has nothing to do with aggrandizing our ego, making it successful or anything like that, or of even giving our ego fine aesthetic taste, but has everything to do with getting us beyond all ego and become what we are in our essence, underneath it all, which, if you’re on the spiritual path, whatever you call it, you wouldn’t call it Ode to Ego Methinks I Am.

     That those divine muses do this in such a bottoms up way our own essence becomes the generating matrix for the guidance, or the creation of our art, depending upon whether or not you’ve been following all I’ve been saying and are now ready to reunite art with the search for truth, poetry with the soul (or at least let them be friends again in print, paint, film, music or whatever medium), is I think the greatest miracle of all because the guidance you end of getting in all that divine alchemy is from none other than who you are in truth, and no one knows you better and what you need than your own soul, or the suchness in yourself, if you’re uncomfortable with the notion of any reality in all this relativity, although I would strongly suggest first going all the way down (via dream or other portal) to the deepest most hidden part of yourself and personally encounter your soul before you adopt the belief that it doesn’t exist, or even before you believe surely that it does, since it in itself is liable to be quite different than your adopted belief about it, and to get that really good bottoms up guidance, bottom in the sense of the soul not the Void, it helps to have taken your bucket (your conscious) all the way down to the well of soul if you want the water drawn from there, living water fresh with this moment in your life right now.

     So, to cut to the chase: if you want to make out of your creative reflex a vehicle of guidance I’m afraid there’s no short cut.  You’ll have to have opened your inner consciousness to the point the inner voice becomes often audible, vision often visible, and the best place to begin is where most people hear and see such things: as they wake up and go to sleep.  You have to prolong those times, keeping your consciousness focused on the inside, the land below the waves the ancients called it, and not allow your thinking mind to kick in and bring you out of the water of the inner being into the state of being fully awake or allow yourself to loss consciousness and go to sleep, no small feat, since it involves keeping yourself from thinking thoughts as much as possible, a passivity of mind few can maintain for long unless they are all the way in the Silence where there is no longer an I to follow them and no effort needed to keep them at bay, a state you do sometimes approach like a high flying pilot getting a sudden view of Space.  (When and if that happens drop what you’re doing and go for the Silence, since that’s where the guidance is taking you if it’s worth its salt –even further if it’s worth gold–, not an easy target by any means no matter how close you are, how many stars you can count.)  People on the spiritual path who meditate know that the concentration required to keep yourself from following your thoughts is difficult to maintain, but as you practice it gets much easier, since you learn eventually to go inside, below the waves of the waking mind as it were, where your body feels heavy or is buzzing if you feel it at all, and your consciousness feels like it’s being pulled or held inside, a place you can learn to fall into anytime you lay back in yourself a little bit, and in the inner consciousness you can hear and see its voices and visions, something I suspect a lot more people on the path know about than talk about, use and never let on they do.

Destroy them,
Take their art and priests and destroy them.  (vision accompanying these two lines of a commander in Roman-style battle dress who has just stormed with his soldiers into a Catholic cathedral, and he’s giving that command as he’s signaling left and right.)
A forward rush.
Right on Stewart.
Is it?
What the hell are you thinking?
Give an angel shock treatment?
They give a story,
What’ll work for a minute.
Good grief,

Are you just so dumb you wear wars?

I’m on standby.
Where are you?
Whatever happens.
The gear asked me if I would be offended.
I heard that helps,
Persuades the likes of a king,
If I grok my own fault,
(We say it’s Donny)
Search with me and
Do everyday
Touch the side.
Other side too God’s children.
There’s someone at work.
I know if it’s changed:
Clenched his fist with pride and humiliation
Your Royal Highness

The ego.

Fall about Worthington.
To entertain,
I will in love with me.
Oh I remember now:
For me to go
Get these things:
Is that right?;
I knew it.
He’s studying the truths he wanted.
He’s studying the truth?
There’s no denying here’s his Hollywood:
Somebody else get the shakes
On high altitudes?
Didn’t wanna take it
Never worried about anything
In all that floor company

Responding me to Nature’s call.

Move some on the left.
I have found
We are here for a private reason
I cannot get away from me.
Just what I have to tell you:
No sailor
Below his person
Gets rid of those.
Just one author
Get you to the airport:
All of it on the stand.
I don’t know what you got,
But today,
Right here,
The good news is
Man there’s this help,
And that is a form that let’s right out on the highway.
Come up here,
Your muse.
He eats at the TV now.
I’d need to explain.
So explain.
That’s a bad idea.
Peace and quiet,
It’s difficult
Without a report today:
You must be in art.
You need this to get the bubbles out.
In that influence,

Well you got it.

     I had a dream before dawn this morning where I was in a gym/science class, a strange combination of things common to dream.   Going on a break I went off and left my electric typewriter in the classroom (in waking life I don’t use one but compose prose on a PC and poetry with a pen and flashlight).  Realizing my mistake I quickly went back to the classroom but found the typewriter missing.  I went and got my parents, screaming that someone had stolen it, and returned to the classroom with them, which had suddenly become my teacher’s office –another common feature of dream: shape shifting.  I think it was my mom who looked under the desk and found it safe in its case, and as she handed it to me she told me I shouldn’t get so upset because it hadn’t been stolen after all.  Then I looked at my teacher’s typewriter, identical to mine in every detail except it wasn’t made of plastic like mine but of metal, but I knew if I did all my homework and passed the class I’d eventually have a metal one too, and to interpret that let’s just say I realized a student is not greater than his master, not by a long shot, but if you do humble yourself and submit to being taught and at the same time go for what your master got, the whole point of having one to begin with, you’ll eventually get it if grace is present, something you draw to you more the more sincere you are.

     To interpret the dream, only generally for the sake of brevity, specifically the main storyline of my typewriter appearing to be stolen, I should tell you you’re fortunate to be reading this, or I am to continue writing it, depending on if you will ever read it and feel lucky in the least, because during the writing of the above poetry unfortunate things happened in my life, not the least of which was facing possible eviction for failure to pay rent three months running.  The goings on as a writer writes: they would prove to you beyond a shadow of a doubt there is more than a casual connection between a work of writing and the writer’s personal life.  Struggling in the midst of all that upset to get quiet, hear my muse, and have faith, not only in the higher but in myself, which at that moment was really waning, the rent got paid (by a friend that had suddenly gotten a tax windfall of the amount of my back rent), and as happens when something like that happens I took heart and carried on, and the poetry that came out of that is more down to earth and real that it would’ve been if all that daily life interference hadn’t happened.

The Tree of Knowledge and the world
Have been talkin’ to me.
There’s one way to figure it out:
Some settle hope.
What a romantic
On the North Pole.
Could you give me a reference to
You can tell if somebody is being sincere or not?
He’s different –
The world’s most powerful bittorrent application
Got a white light.
Where the earth is.
How did you like the question?
Let ‘em ride your elevator.

That do it.

     Opening the inner consciousness even specifically for guidance is a bit like going at night into some inner-city neighborhood loaded in dough with a neon sign on your back that reads kick me.  You’re being up against someone ironclad who wants you to channel their teaching for the new millennium, Look At All These Lies, to the world, or what comes to you from your inner world will be so dark and depressing you just want to kill yourself.  These are the first depths, and they snare many if not most.  The second depths, a bit more illuminated, shine the light more on you like a spotlight does than the way stadium lights show you you and the entire field, equally, and so you’re also kept in the dark about what matters most: your game, since that spotlight tends to make you appear rather big and important and doesn’t show you your shadows and shades, but in these deeps you’re very good at pointing those out in others.  In the third depths you meet the outer world again like you’ve taken a journey in a straight line out from yourself and followed the curve of Space all the way back to where you started, only now you know you are the world as is everybody and everything in it, a rather sobering humbling experience because you see you really are no different than anyone else, every bit as messed up, but you do see and feel sometimes close, sometimes far a presence in the world, call it God or the Relative Absolute, that has made the world for you anything but mundane and business as usual, and this feeling has gotten all the way down to your feet and has quickened them on the spiritual path to realize that presence as something more than fleeting.  Here in these deeper depths the guidance you get gets good, though sometimes a bit hard to take because it’s so spot on on what you need to work on (like the unflattering way your mom would tell you to go and take a bath and put on clean underwear when you just came close to her for a moment on your way to some important kid business), but you need a form for it to fit into, one that captures for you guidance in the same way the world and everything in it is a living symbol of that presence, in such a way that the very act of having to interpret the guidance teaches you to interpret that presence in all things, making you walk on your own two feet towards it because you’ve got to stand up out of your stuff, at least for a moment, and figure out what the symbols mean.  Art anyone?

     Since we are all on our heights inspiring all that is, albeit unknown to ourselves, down here in the thick of it we are all artists in the usual meaning of that term if we can find our talent and the time to develop it, something that becomes more apparent and begins to manifest the closer we get to finding our soul or our suchness, since art will always come out of that search like the world does out of that presence.  No particular art is supreme over the others, but if you’re looking for a particularly fit form to give you guidance and capture truth (truth being not as we tend to regard it today as a name to believe in or a dogma to adopt but simply what is actually going on, the why and how), the language of poetry is literally readymade for that, or it is if you’ve fashioned out of your creative reflex the muse and do not make art with the mind or even the heart but with the inner ear and eye, which show you the art of the cosmic mind and heart.  It doesn’t matter if you’re a poet or not; you’ll still hear and see poetry in your muse, the inner voice speaking as the inspiration of art, though if you don’t already have a well-developed poetical intelligence, if you haven’t learned the art of poetry both by the writing and reading of it, the verse you’ll get won’t be poetry in the sense of the word, won’t pass muster as art, however much you like it, and it’s best in the beginning and for a long time into it to put the am I a poet question aside and the submitting to Poetry Review Journal Magazine or Spirituality Online.  Would that I could take back a lot of my early muse that I prematurely put out in the public eye.  I have to warn you; the muse will write itself to people, situations, you name it, and want you with a pressing urgency to send it to them, from the onset, but you have to have the presence of mind to wait until it flowers into art, and we by our nature being so full of ourselves and self-important, all of us I’m afraid, simply cannot be objective enough to know when the bloom is finally ready, and so you’ll make a lot of mistakes with your muse, and that seems to be part of the process.  Later on another layer of muse appears, an editorial one, which seems to correspond to that slow change of seasons when your muse blossoms into art.

     The muse is quite eclectic and will show you all the forms of art however much one form is shown more than the others because it’s your focus and forte or how much you couldn’t even begin to capture in outer expression the forms it’s showing you that are not.  I’m not a painter, but I’ve seen many paintings, and I don’t really play a musical instrument only pluck on the guitar, but I hear a lot of music, some of which I do sing and play because the muse is so insistent that I develop that ability.   Once in Paris I even heard a symphony in my head complete with an entire orchestra.  It came about as a result of staying with someone that listened to Classical music all the time, because what you fill your eyes and ears with and dwell on with your mind and heart will be the subject of your muse, the substance of your art, so turn off the TV, put down the newspaper, and fill yourself with art if you want to make it, read poetry if you want to write it, and, if you aim to go into the Silence, turn everything off and put everything down whenever and just let the natural sights and sounds around you be your entertainment, a secret passage that can be thrilling for longer and longer moments when you get the hang of it –the presence you see.  I have very little interest in architecture except to stand and gape at it when it’s good, but on the Camino of Santiago seeing a lot of that art I saw in vision a cathedral whose front was a semicircle lined with intricate life-size stone statues of all the craftsmen of daily life, plumbers, electricians, nurses, road workers, and on and on.  In both the above instances all I could do was look and listen to all that feeling quite inadequate as only a poet, a one trick pony.

     It’s impossible to give you a picture of the muse in the two dimensions of writing because it’s not three dimensional as we usually encounter things but four, as it’s coming from that place where seeing is seeing multiple scenes simultaneously, divine vision, and so it comes at you busting at the seams wearing the variety of the universe, and only being able to see one scenario at a time, you can put your attention to very little of that and are able to capture or record even less.  And I should warn you not to cry over spilled milk; the one that got away will always be the best one and will always get away.  That’s a universal law I think.  The lines of poetry that come to you you have to record, and that means learning to be a frog and going back and forth in and out of the inner waters, and so you’ll lose many lines, the best ones more often than not.

     Perhaps, though, the most important piece of information about the muse is that it comes in so many pieces from so many places, not whole from one source as you might think (if that is, you are indeed in the third depths open to it all), is not something you’re just given verbatim but something you have to sort through and make out, discernment being the most important handmaid, able not only to tell the true from the false but also art from the art not, which means you end up throwing away more lines than you use, since the great bulk of what you get is grist for the mill.  The muse itself, however, will aid in the process, as there’s the presence of what I call an overeditor commenting, in verse or by visual art, a crashed airplane for example if things aren’t going well, on the writing of the poem, and believe it or not you also have at your disposal a sort of line thesaurus, and if you’re not happy with a line (or a section, verse, or even a whole poem), you can reject it and wait for another line to come of the same idea dressed in different clothes, and several more lines will come all the way to the point the antonym of the idea is being expressed.  Of course for such mastery over the muse, i.e. the presence of an overeditor and the thesaurus function, and other things too detailed to mention here, you need to be well-versed in your art, putty in the hands of your soul, and you have to be in a place of heightened clarity, not muddled by your life and the world, which for most of us is a lake house we but visit on vacations, as well as the fact the concentration required for such over the top will-directed listening is excruciating, as is just being in the muse in general it takes so much listening will, an openness and passivity in the use of will and not a pulling down as it may sound, an extremely important difference to understand, as you’re not actually waiting on a line of poetry but on the divine to give you what it wills and what you need, which isn’t always the next line of the present poem, something only the word surrender captures.  This does not mean you can’t put an intention on the muse, what you have to do to use the thesaurus in the first place, or to redo a section of verse, or to ask it to give you a poem on a certain topic, and this is not a pulling but a waiting with will on whatever the muse would like to bring you in regards to your intention, which, again, is not what you want but what you need, and so often you get something different than you intended.

     I need to explain, however, that the clarity and over the top concentration is only for the editing ability, since you can certainly hear your muse if you’re messed up, even dirty as hell, since you can say the main function of the muse is not necessarily to impart truth to you or the world but to get you the listener out of a jam, pull you out of the water because you’re drowning, you being generally not some good and noble person but the type of guy or gal ugly in the eyes of others but who is secretly preparing a beautiful heart-temple for God to inhabit, a secret you hardly even tell yourself, the kind of person the divine is apt to pay more attention to because no one else will, and so you’re open to God, wide open –take my story for example.  For its ability to get us out of trouble and defeat the hostile powers the muse was called in India in times passed Agni, the purifying fire, and if you’re an ugly person having just been lead around by the nose by your stuff, the lines do burn like fire as you lay there almost unwillingly listening to them trying to go into the oblivion of sleep.  The muse just won’t shut up (the temple in your heart makes sure of that), and eventually, through it all, through every single fall, it carries you safely beyond your stuff into the plentitude of the Spirit, or will if you allow it, since failure, total ruin, is always a present looming possibility.  I’m trying to tell you the muse is not exactly what you may think it is, and if you’re listening to it, that doesn’t mean you’re a great guy, but it does mean you’ve done with your concentration what few can: made of it despite yourself and your stuff an open inner ear.

     The concentration required for editing, however, returning to that thesaurus, is not something you can do when you’re muddled by your stuff, costs too much to use more than a couple of times in any given listening stretch, a laying or sitting in for only a couple of hours normally so excruciating it is.  That’s no matter because the muse can pick up right where it left off, amazingly so, and so poems can come over days or longer.  My first muse poem, A Suicide Bomber’s Broken Arrow is Broken, begun in 2001 in Brazil shortly after September 11th (however the poem is not about that particular suicide bombing), formed into a working poem in Paris, posted in this blog, was ten years in the writing, finishing it depending upon further development both as a poet and in the knowledge of life and death, since the speaker is a dead bomber speaking from the other side, literally. For the most part, though, poems really like to come over the course of a night’s sleep, not something you’re all that happy about, waking you up at all the watches of the night so to speak itself.  The overeditor is also quite expensive because hearing it means listening to different levels of muse at the same time (levels you won’t for the life of you be able to sort out other than know with your heart the overeditor is concerned with you and the poem with just itself), a feat of concentration you can’t maintain for long since it’s too close to divine multiple vision for our one thing at a time mind to be comfortable grappling with or even all that able to.

     It should be apparent by now that your ability to hear and see the muse and record it and make out of it art depends on how much mastery you have over both your craft and your consciousness, your stuff  and war with it notwithstanding, since for example if you’re not a developed poet possessed with that innate talent to make language dance with the tip of your pen you won’t get Poetry, or you’ll have to wait and let your muse flower into that, a process that can take years as you study your craft, whatever art is your particular talent to mature, and if you don’t have deep spiritual knowledge that you’ve gotten by spiritual experiences, of the Silence, of the soul, of the divine consciousness, or even wide horizontal knowledge of life and death you’ve acquired by inner or outer travel and going for the heart of Experience in your thought and feeling, which doesn’t necessarily mean you’re spiritually oriented, you’re not suddenly going to be expressing things not in your league to know, and if you do try and express them anyway, or if your creative reflex gives you that I should say, it will come across rather flat and one-sided, take the form, in language, of a strange or awkward prose and will not be possessed with the substance and subtlety of art, since it will not be imbued with the reality of having seen what your symbols mean.  Increasingly we’re being bombarded with many volumes of such half-truth expressions, channeled works that usually redefine everything but tell you nothing about how to actually change your consciousness or get out of a tight fix, half in the sense of things only heard and not actually seen, and often consequently also in the sense of their truthness, so much so the muse, the whole notion of inspiration really, is a dog in court.  But I have to say not all of these works are for the waste bucket; a few, rare ones that show the divine leading someone out of suffering, conversations or whatnot, despite their often stabbing in the dark, give us needed shallows leading into the deeper experience.  Now, it hardly bears mentioning that this ability of which I speak normally comes with a lot of spiritual development, but not with every person that has used the muse extensively to write poetry, watering it down with the mind, spitting out the spiritual bits (is that what they said? an unheard quote of Shakespeare on his muse).  Apart from some notable exceptions there’ve been many inspired poets, though,

That have gone and catch spiritual concepts like the Sufi.
I thought the party was over.
It slipped her mind.
I knew somehow.
Your own answers to your own questions.
View the stuff of your life.
I wanna go,
Gonna go somewhere.
A cause to run
And the whole wide world
Gets to hear it.
It’s busy.
Everybody stole your exercises.
Ego swarm.
Hear tonight
The more middle of washing machine data.
Do strike you
Don’t it by God?
What did you mean?
No spaceship.
Talk with me.
We have a little problem.
A message
Better get goin’.
Stay on alert.
Defensive maneuvers.
What happened?
You hit a snag
Pulls you
Away from your target.
What to look for:
That private tutor.
Or you’re ready to
Give some serious adult fist
Where you’re going.
You don’t want me to fix it for you.
Just a breeze

Blow you there.

I think we’ve done enough homework already.
I’m sorry.
Walk through camp.
There’s a reindeer
If you open your eyes.
Let’s continue north.
Tonight we have a particularly good starback
He hired from his own house.
That’s my particular.
Why does it cover everybody?
Redistributed the Press recently?
I call it seeing
Union reels.
Can you see me now?
Maybe you need a personal committed story to accept this water slip.
Four times movin’.
Face up to the point where I am,
And then there’s your movement.
Would you like to see my poetry blog?
There’s other things about poetry
Than Ode to Paper Basket.
Give this to him:

I am a treasure hunter.

There is a world of the seer consciousness.
This stays in cold ink’s fish:
Putting a bat to
The thousand and one things.
You heard it though.
This part’s money.
I bet though lord
Feel it
Throwing it away.
That’s how it works
That’s yours.
I’m gonna get in this thing.
He’s gonna
Try to find it.
Find her
Over there.
You hear that?
Listen for the Silence.
Well there’s proof.
Listen, this is a race of sieges.
Well I’ll tell yah:
The only chance you have
Over there
Live your life apart.
You’re willin’ to leave
Every single thing in the world
And you’re in it still.
No one can stop the world for you.
Not even warm
(Go and get his gun)
Sittin’ up readin’,
Sittin’ up
Listenin’ to a preacher talk to yah.
Anybody heard it,
A night watchman?

Find it.

The sun came in two directions:
The sun from there,
My eyes from there.
Who are you?
But you look at somebody in the world.
You take the table.
Another altitude
Invite you.
I know
Because I live there
Under exercise of all this.
You said you were skatin’.
I have regular employment
From a variety of sources,
And I have passing marks:
I protect in my living room.
You do?
Sure enough,
A hall pass.
I don’t believe you.
That don’t offend me.
Let me tell you
Air Force One,
I’m goin’ up to the top
Instead of up.
I’m going stabilizer.
This is a drawing.
What that for?
Someone help me.
If I can make it through the Silence,
The empty bucket,
What you land there on the ground,
Well I just go and see it,
An undiscovered continent

Secret from our days.

Real nice
Thank you.
What have you got for us
Over here?
To Superman
Over there.
You’ll have to excuse me.
Just like in the old days
People think differently.
He is a star,
All these things they believe about.
What am I doin’
Telling you to believe in somethin’?
I do not believe;
I want…
What do you want?
Remind them so much
Of that eye-witness
Seen what he saw
Because it’s real.
I want you to see this.

Post 1

source: RJ Wats


Table of Contents

Blogger’s CV



(Five instrumental political poems posted as comments around the web on sites specific to the poetry under the pen name ‘a poet in India’)

You’re Not Supposed to Exist
Oh, New Territory
Come On In
And the Storm Ceases to Exist

I sit here looking at a coming storm and am unable to find the stillness of mind in the midst of all the distant thunder that would enable me to write poetry, my primary pencil, and rather than scurry like a little rabbit to find shelter, crawl in bed and put the bed sheet over my head, I’m putting fingers to keyboard (pen to paper in the old tongue) and facing come what may in the best way I can here, by busying my mind with the writing of prose (which can sure sound like poetry if you’re listening skills aren’t all that great), and write it as if it’s not so much people I’m writing to but to that ear or eye in the storm itself that, at the very least, impersonally takes note of the little animal standing up in defiance shaking its fist at it.  An ad hominem argument the storm might reply, but I don’t think a storm listens to reason.  Sympathetic magic you might say, but unabashed passion has its way of influencing things profoundly if it has gone beyond the reactionary and is able to capture the universal, sound something of what all feel, the thought on which I leave the storm behind and turn to you, or rather, to more the temporal specifics of this CV, though in that round about way that still keeps one eye open on the eternal.  Okay, maybe both.

I often question myself not so much why I write poetry (I simply must) but why I want to show it people, why as I verse and turn a phrase somewhere near the revealing power of language, or think I have (until I read it later and hear again the thing itself has eluded me), I want to find someone, anyone, and say, “Here, read this!” (Like Shakespeare?)  Sometimes I think I’m nothing more than the little boy on a swing suddenly swinging high and wanting all to see – look, look at me! –, wanting people to pay attention to me and my little world, wanting praise and validation, but then I chance upon some poem some other poet has written, and I’m lifted out of myself and at the same time feel for a moment that I can do this, live that is and live deeply, rightly or wrongly my best, for someone out there has voiced it in some way: what it’s like being a person in oceans of people hemmed in by the sheer weight of existence on a volcanic island being hurled at breakneck speed around a burning star in the astonishing immensities of infinite Space.  Coming across something like that, seeing for a split wide open second the under the umbrella personhood of the person who versed the poem – that underlying almost always hiding shorelessness of self that has made the poet, for a line, a verse, all the world –, hence the cursing, praying, living, dying person of everybody, of even the sneaky blood sucking mosquito skillfully flying haywire to try and avoid death in my clapped hands, well, let’s just say as a poet I know I have a purpose higher than my swing.

You don’t get it do yah?
That’s him on the breakfast too.
Could be anybody,
Rich man poor man,
Even classless people.
Could even be your neighbor.

You know the deal is
We’re all together
At least a person worth,
As valuable as the universe.

I’d like to go beyond these musings –
How about hear the flaming spirit in fire?
You got a poet rise.
You got a poet calls the shots,
Make of existence some little bullshit
That means everything.

What are you looking at?
He jumped started;
He went and found it incredible.
The two arguments will take you there.

The Eye of Change

Art, and its written and oral expression literature, particularly poetry, and it’s on the behalf of that muse that I sit down and write, has been for us, and I mean us in the human sense, all of us, something more than a creation we take in merely to enjoy or pass the time, whatever we say about it, whatever it truly is.  With it we behold creation itself, some small or large measure of this manifold enigma we call life, we call the world.  In a remoteness of seeing it magnifies our own deeply personal and startling world, personal because we live a dual life of inner and outer, but it is in that inner that we live, watching the outer as though it’s some tall stranger to whom we must respond as lovingly as if it were our own very self, startling because of all the passion that brightens through us, all the feelings that seem to have their fount in the deep and dim seat of creation itself, are a party to its immense and immeasurable unfolding, of all the thoughts that soundlessly speak through the corridors of our minds so intensely jumbled with a chaos of meaning, a chaos in which we reason out the order of our life.  Art does not simply try and make sense of this; it moves our own meaning a measure beyond.  It aims not at flattering our littleness, our crude perspectives and mean ways of looking.  It heightens seeing, challenges us, provokes us, and sometimes, even laughs at us, but if it is indeed art, it does this with a finesse and timeliness that can only come from an artist confronting a mirror. It is art, not religion, not science, not philosophy, not politics with which we move the world towards its destination, the play up, and it is only when these things are embodied by art (and by that I mean they are no longer their governing selves but have become backdrops for art) that they have the power to move it because art, unlike anything else that we behold, has the strength of passage to reach that intimate place in us wherein we keep our most treasured and heartfelt notions, and once in there to give some part or parcel of them a good going over, to which we cannot help but respond, be that in outrage or in awe.  Unlike the eye of the lot of us, the collective glare, art can open on anything without the least shudder or moral spasm.  Art, you see, has the eye of God.

It’s the pride of every age to think it’s at the advancing front of history, the highest peak of art and culture any age has yet climbed, or at least at some height where it looks down upon all the glory and grandeur of past ages as just stepping stones to the mature realness of its own, the age that matters, and if it does see a beyond it sees it in terms of the humanity of the day, dressed in those selfsame clothes.  Any age on the future, with its eye on the future, cannot see a fundamental high-reaching change in the human fabric, a rise on the inner nature.  It sees the future peopled by people no different in kind from the people of its own.  It envisions changes in outer wear: technological, environmental, political, social, and cultural changes.  No wide open eye there is on an inner change in humanity.  Our day is no different in these respects from past ages; only we are caught in the throes of a revolution in communication and availability of information that makes our day a day in court.  In our courtroom humanity is the defendant, Mother Nature and human nature the prosecution, survival the judge, and the possibility of a bright inner change in humanity the public defender, one we have yet to assign to our case.  I doubt many at this magnificent moment would agree with me, but it might be that the future (one that has arrived at some sight I might say) will not look upon ours as the bright forerunner of better ages, nor even to be better than any age before us, not in human terms at least.  Technology fools us into thinking we’re advanced, but by nature we are not largely different from people of old in the ways we react to things, in the ways we live, in the things we daily do.  They will see yet another ignorant age, but one in which human destiny was deliberated, or at least the one in which we first began to look upon ourselves as a world and not only as a nation or a people, and in that seeing begin to realize we can see ourselves as that or die.  Of course it goes without saying I see that we’ll see that.

A poet lifts up his head.

But it’s not my purpose here to be political.  I want to point out something, but before I bring my point home I’d like to provide another kind of search engine for the Internet, but one not as apparent as the ones you find online.  This engine is inside you, but we’ll have to do a background search first to get it to come in view.  The world is going online, and it’s not really looking at itself doing that, not, that is, with any depth of seeing.  For all the compiling bits of information that’s trying to sum it all up, all the blogs that are trying to speak it all out, all the web pages that tell us this or that, all the everything we can put on the world wide web trying to get a word in edgewise, we seem to be missing the point.  We are doing it just like we do everything else, by simply occupying it, filling in the space.  Of course many are talking about this virtual takeover, the incivility involved in the conquest, the anger, the hatred, but I want to say something about where this is taking our creative heights, something perhaps better said in a poem but it wouldn’t get any eye, and it’s what I’m pointing out as to why.  In all this going online art is being domesticated.

There’s no sitting room.
It’s time to take it to the field.
What sterilizes this tour is called forth grade avant-garde.
And most studies of alcohol dependencies…
We did the girls molested interactive art dialogue.
Your partner is bad men.
Can we get bigger than that?

There is one thing about life, its most seemingly fundamental aspect as a matter of fact, that even art rather tends to avoid being largely concerned with symmetry and form even when it’s trying to get around those – the messiness of life.  A case can be made that it’s the province particularly of poetry to measure this, given the nature of the verbal inner eye, and just look inside your head at your thoughts as they swirl around the world to see what I mean by that, but we’d lose focus.  Life is not only messy, full of the discombobulated, the out of sequence, the impossible to tell in any story in its rampant and confused completeness; it’s also quite dirty, scattered in every corner with little icky bits that we’d rather not tell anyone about or even really look at squarely ourselves, although we do spend a great deal of our life trying to clean these up or at least sweep them under the rug, especially when the lot of us gets a look at them.  Who does not have dirty little secrets that they whispered in life’s gutter ear, its cesspool of ill deed, at some point in the journey from the cradle to the grave?  Just look on the Internet.  I don’t think we yet truly understand the implications of having a world wide web when that we posting on it is as ignorant to the depth of life as we are.  Far from being a well of living water from which we can drink of the heights of the human heart and mind, accessible heights that can even teach our lows how to climb, what if you think about we’d like the Internet to be if it’s to become something more than just an easily accessible place where we can comfortably sell our wares (what’s taking the field), it’s threatening to become more a very virile and visible collective subconscious, chock-full of all the bile and bitterness, smut and self-righteousness, of our lower instincts.

Do you hear me Houston?
We do have a problem.
I gave a poet laugh.

We turn now to the artist, who is often on the margins: the nonconformist, the unorthodox, the rebel, the dissident, the heretic, the iconoclast, and in some cases, where there are perhaps no patrons other than art and immensity and the artist has no recourse but to bare soul to both, the outcast, but I’d have to add an amendment here: this spirit of an artist is becoming no so acceptable in today’s market, although its toned down or overly exaggerated imitation seems highly prized.  Whatever it is that makes and artist an artist, I think even with reluctance most would agree that it’s something more than just some genius of craft and technique.  Something there is that makes an artist look at the world and life and look so passionately there is no choice but to develop God-given abilities so to speak this, paint it out on the canvas of some craft.  It’s either that or explode.  That something, that impetus if you will, can often be found in life’s messy room, its dirty corner.  The biographies of a good many artists bear witness to this.  Of course you can be normal and be an artist, and there are many normal artists.  This has always been demanded of an artist by society, demanded of anybody, to be normal, but it’s the particular domain of artists to examine normality, poke it, prod it, and push it around, not only in their art but in their very lives, the former being a sublime public epiphany of the latter, as much as we’ve divorced, re-married, and divorced again these two figures in our commentaries on art.  But they sit together and look into the hourglass of immortality much deeper than a critique can readily see; they’re soul mates, a union as I see it from the perspective of a poet that my soul forms, which brings in a more fundamental union into the play between one’s art and life, that between soul and nature.  The more, I have found, that I’m able to write by my soul, the more nature herself gives it its rhythm and form.  What music would sound more natural and inevitable, what song more wild and free?

Is it crafted on unusual?
I say verse technique,
There the soul lay guesthouse,
A strange caller,
A Hercules.

Being that as such, that many artists are for the most part pushing the boundaries of what is considered normal and acceptable in a society, both in their art and in their lives, they can be quite questionable people by today’s standards.  (I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but we are becoming, even in the secular, rather puritanical).  In such a moral climate a good many artists, most especially those who are not politically correct, the artists who throw three sheets to the wind and challenge the status quo and craft change, wouldn’t be worth the risk to an art or literary journal with a sound reputation to uphold.  In the decision whether or not to give a piece of art the public eye, if we were to get in somehow into the sitting room of publishers and editors, in many cases it’s not the art that’s being declined; it’s the artist.  I’m sure there has been some spirit of this around art from the very beginning: those who publish or display art rejecting that art, whatever its mastery of expression and technique, from an artist of questionable moral or mental state, fringe or outlawed political affiliation, of heretical religious ideology or lack of religion, or, as I’ve seen to be a deciding factor in declining a poem or other verbal art in today’s Western literary journals, to have any faith at all not based on doubt in relation to God.  (Although the question seems out of place anywhere we put it, I can’t help but ask it here: why have we cloistered away today’s poetry in literary magazines and reviews if poetry is what we celebrate it to be, a spoken opening of our most aesthetic verbal eye?  You’d think it would be much more popular if the lot of us is as sophisticated as we imagine ourselves to be and if what we are creating and calling poetry today is indeed that.)  Unquestionably this blacklisting of artists has always been dogging art, but in the contemporary literary scene, because of the hypersensitivity in public morality making people so angry nowadays it’s a looming threat to anyone who dares question it, one that is largely coming about from this quite sudden and very personal public eye opening upon people in their dirty messy rooms the Internet enables, allowing also anyone with Internet access to investigate anybody that has any presence on the web, and most au courant artists do, I would venture to say that this today is taking literature, particularly poetry, back to an era when a religious authority jealously guarded its publication, on the watch to exclude any poem not in keeping with its paradigm or any poet not in line with its lifestyle, but here it’s not religion doing it or the state doing it in the name of religion (or a sociopolitical ideology as has been the case more recently), at least not now in the West, but the secular literary establishment itself.

Is this simultaneous submissions?
Who would guard favor?
Can you get your poet out?

I am not here granting a poetic license for immorality, advocating its carte blanche acceptance in society, although undoubtedly that would be the main criticism of this piece by the glaring collective eye.  I’d just like to point out that it’s with us and always has been, and our most usual way of dealing with it when it’s been uncovered by the lot of us, making a finger pointing spectacle of it that we parade in print and the airways across the public imagination, doesn’t help us deal with it and discover in it what there is to bring us beyond it, why people do evil things and how to have them stop, what the bad is here to teach the good so that both can get better.  Is born the artist.  Despite the art gospel of today that seems to have particularly gotten poetry by the horns, that art is simply there, fills no purpose other than to be appreciated, although it is expected, if it is indeed art, to move us, culture us, art for the longest time has been showing us the inside of life’s dark and shuttered rooms.  You would wonder if there is some purpose behind that.  Art has this habit of putting beauty there in the way it so stylishly opens its aesthetic eye upon it, and surrounded by such beauty in the midst of what to us has always been rather ugly, we are carried a measure beyond a simply moral view of things, looking at things strictly in terms of good and evil, black and white.  We are widened, and in that wideness can now see clearer to better deal with the moral issues that confront us.  This is not to become broad-minded for the sake of being cultured, or to live up to an ideal, or simply because we should.  I’m speaking in very practical and pressing terms; if we do not become so as a species we will not survive.

I’m not going to question.
Keep your nose clean.
I’ll put on the story you always want to hear.
Does this open all of us?

In this context, art, far from being a corrupter of our morals however much immorality it shows us, quite naturally and without us even knowing it, works evil out.  And I would add here that behind the art, however remotely, is an artist doing that, in regards to evil done or evil received, the art being a creative manifestation of that process made public, but I would also add that the most powerful art along these lines, that which takes the question of evil its farthest towards answering, sometimes even answering it, would be that created by an artist who has either done grave wrong or entertained the notion far stronger than what would be considered normal (by the times anyway).  The reason such art would be more compelling would become clear in the light of the ever-present need we have for self-understanding, greater even than our need to understand the world and its impact.  Of course art shows us a good many things other than the immoral room, as wide and multifarious as that room is, as universal as it is in the human subconscious, shows us anything possible for the human imagination to conceive, but in whatever art shows us it’s doing something to our imagination, something a bit magic, something to wonder at; it’s making it bigger at the same time it’s turning it in upon itself, and in all that expanding and contracting, like in the growth of a star or the making of a universe, we grow to what more is possible; we take a shine to the undiscovered.  Art puts us there, can take us anywhere, even to the end of evil, even farther a field than God.  That is why I say whatever we magnify with art can only be a backdrop to that act of creation itself.  Something there is bigger than even God, who is the ultimate measure of immensity for many of us.  That something beyond imagination artists are trying to measure, whether they know that or not, however large or small their measure.  In a manner of speaking, it could be said that God, in the sculpting and illustrating of all these worlds and universes and what is bigger than universes and bigger still, is himself an artist capturing on film what wonder this is that he’s seen.

What exactly do you want,
Like the name of a story?
It’s Universe
In our particular heritage sweepstakes.
You have to write it
One to three,
Make host positions clear.
We get bigger universes.
We outgrow that tide.
Now where we at?
Larger than Space.

Now the question now that I’ve made my point: what is an artist’s measure?  As might be clear by my describing it as something unimaginable (although that doesn’t mean we can’t try and conceive of it, which is in effect what an artist is trying to do), it isn’t the tangled flesh of life with all its robbed passion and squelched expression, nor the now upside down now right side up world trying to find a balance in immensity, nor even the artist’s ability or inability to untangle life from itself and right the world and show us this miracle or failed attempt, although in this last we’ve given lots of glory to an artist making the attempt, made immortal as a matter of fact, and put art in its place.  So to rhythm this angled ascent right I must mention my own art and say the measure in poetry.

It wouldn’t do prose.
If you know better:
What was I gonna do?
What’s that supposed to mean?
Your energy,
It’s a base-level reaction?
Somethin’ unsaid.
You’re on home plate.
Get struck out.
Hey, you’ve lost the ball.
The doctor,
This gonna cost bunch of money.
What are you trying to do?
Just poetry.
Lift your results.
Come quick for me
I only had One.
That’s such a common UFO.
This stopped how many people?
Get your beans together
And a number of years
You’ll be the lake house
Of where understanding takes a seat
Fly fishin’.
Did I bore yah?
Now, what you needed for an airplane.
Wait daddy,
Get my socks on.
Lay down alone in yourself.
Roll back inside.
Silence utter
Causes verbal.
Live in
That’s not such a jolt.
Go watch TV.
The last word:
Bear witness.

Catch the Wind

(a poem about Jason Russell of Invisible Children on the occasion of his reactionary psychosis after his Kony 2012 video went viral)

Useless lawyer waste of people
Mrs. Spring.
And they tease you.
Can you hold your hand out
With the world wind some
With the run of your life?
You turn away.
Your poetic form is finished.
Boring daddy
Hear you play their thoughts.
Go back to work.
I give up.
So much bigger than me.
You’re supposed to send it in.
Your country a track record
Gettin’ into our country.
You can say anything.
I’m not so sure about that.
No response.
I’m serious,
I need this.
Mass movement organization,
Experienced donations so far.
Star into city.
Can somebody give me a donation?
Fresh start,
I will always almost happen.
And you fold the world.

Anonymous, mysterious
(Let me get my glasses.
That’s strange.)
We talk to you
Earth activated.
Look at your gymnastics.
Wide horses,
It is good to see yah.
That’s right on
The movie
We Have a World in View.
Pardon me,
What does it mean to yah?
All of it sink in?
Tryin’ to explain to yah
A whole wide world
As much as you can
You don’t stop and think
How many are in movements.
All of that’s threatening you.
There remains something important
Over there
Would benefit your discovery program:
Hear what we think
All the time.
Find the key inside.
Have you been in bed before?
And you’re layin’ there in their scrap,
Who’ve you’ve crossed their minds.
Their hands
Definitely on this.
I’m talkin’ about
A mural
With all these signatures.
Well I bet you
Couldn’t handle the delivery.
I hand it of you
Tasted enemy.
It’s a systems failure.
Know what I mean?

A rising forward movement
In which hundreds connected with deep were slain.
You’re going to go to school,
Examine ideas,
If you let me
Give you something to do.
Sterling Abbot
Your wife’s concentration,
Another wife
You’re gonna live
In the very bones of yourself.
This is not flesh and blood.
It’s your waistcoat
Of ruling ideas
And guarding passions.
Get out;
I don’t want to.
Ruling passions can be difficult
I understand.
Play come on.
In making a very sharp objection
Present myself.
I’m a licensed teacher.
I’ll be conceiving of no reply.
Just a truthful father shooting.
I damage your report to everybody.
I throw it off.
I’m so bombard your home.
Even flying the hammer and sickle you find me.
I’m business news.
Man I’m sitting
Where you put your feet,
What you stand on.
There you are
In our rosebushes.
What you’re looking for
Is a door:
Can we just solve here?
You pick ole Major Warrant,
The simplicity minor that was just talkin’ to yah.
Not him.
Deny it –
Somethin’ eating everybody,
Runnin’ through a whole population.
All the locals come down with it.
They got manifestors runnin’ around.
Not everybody tweaks.
You’re no good:
Show some lime in everyone.
Shut the door.
The article
Won’t come out in your paper will it?
If it don’t
Your foolish pride
In front of

I’ll explain
That American.
Did Rock Hudson throw a popular fit outside or anything else?
Oops, you got mad at me.
You’re not gonna like this.
Go get your prize:
I’m the man;
That’s me on the spotlight.
Cut that burrito,
Spanish book,
America is beautiful
The same
War bond
In your hunted fugitive.
Almost everywhere
It’s the Earth;
It’s all mankind
Got the problem.
What’s the solution?
You put out fires for sure.
The arson
Don’t make a scapegoat.
Every arson
You make propaganda
Immune from hospital.
Is that the smartest thing to do?
How do you get
The manifestor
To come to terms?
Alienate him further
(Giving that launch infamy)
Increase his fuel,
That stuff inside him bombing children.
He needs to feel
The community.
Stick around:
Man that’s a good question
The community.
Look after One
Is this opera house,
Wire at the top.
Wire specialist
I’ll give him a hug.
We’re gonna go over there.
A very big
Change in identity
So we’re there.
That’s included.
The weathering ride to help,
That’s why you went,
Just to get something
(I’ve dropped this so many times it ain’t funny):
This is not a Buddhist sutra.
We’re lookin’ beyond escape.
This is just phase one.
There’s three.
How much room on spaceships?
The Earth we stay
Planetary and all grown up
If that keeps up:
Darn it,
I should could do better can’t I?
I’ve given you your healing song.
Happy birthday.

Gut, Wave, and Nerve Review

(A poem in response to Letter-poem to Grass: If We Go, Everyone Goes by Israeli poet Itamar Yaoz-Kest.)

He witness.
How are yah?
I’m hurting,
Claiming responsibility world said.
Can’t get out.
That’s her state-run TV.
To think captain
Come back to it
In a world filled with war.
All this mischief,
All this dustbin,
All this problem,
The fault of the neighbors.
We’re gonna annihilate the world
In an open letter to Samson.
There stand atonement?
I don’t understand.
A little more flavor from you
Of brother
And school.
You didn’t
Give a crossing for him.
Is he White?
He isn’t Jewish.
(An open parallel.)
What about that up here Nancy?
A White one
Grow by the principles
Grown from the elements
A Jewish state.
Her individual dawn
If I am a common thinker.

Now what do we do with Adam?
Exterminate further?
No that dead show.
Gimmie my flashlight.
(Illuminates the room.)
I’m not comin’ back.
Oh you’re not comin’ back?
You’re defenseless
(He was a real loud photographer.
Here I might be able to help him.)
In hold humanity,
The change I’m not really supposed to tell.
Then tell.
No matter who’s walking
They’ll have a right of crossing.
Change now ahead.
Consider it done.
There’s victory in there somewhere.

What are you talking about?
On the other hand,
Why don’t you shut your mouth?
Good idea,
Now I’m uncle on the floor
In a blue outfit.
Even spiritual
You’re gonna wanna beat me up.
I’m lensing
Right here:
The parentheses around Spirit will be taken off –
Spiritual victory.
We’ll all be in a different world.
We’re all livin’ in this one.
I just wanted you to see it
Through the lens
Of poetry’s nodule.
Not secular,
No religion.
Is he dead or alive?
No, this is not heaven.

At the rift.
Picket no longer.
Are you gonna tell me about this neighborhood?
Somebody last screamed it.
I ain’t exercisin’ no new restraints.
This is the only kind one of a people,
Superman’s brother,
A tough customer,
Earth activated.
Just think,
You’re part of it
Whole thing,
A full nelson,
And we got our full moon.
A camera
Analogy with pain
Put the broad on our feet,
The teacup
While our hairs are going down.

The world is so very small.
Put in our face
As you.
Touch it
To see where I’m going.
What do you take me for?
I’m not blaming you.
In that camera
Is our hopscotch item,
Toll we count.
Better than a machine gun.
Coming events
We take a peer at
In a nodule.
I’m fixin’ your plate,
Mine too by the looks of it.
Will you look at that?
Out of danger.
Before I forget,
God makes this perfect.
You take it home.
Good idea.

What Must Be Heard

Baghdad, Baghdad,
Whatever happened?
Leave me alone.
Could see you bigger
Than Standard Oil
And America’s stovepipe.
You are looking
Do battle
For your freedom.
Let me talk to yah.
Good morning,
How’d you get here?
Stole brother.
Is that your annex?
What have you done to history?
Today bombs,
That’s all I hear from you.
Where’s my case?
I’m not wearing that.
Can we recall some people
Blaming defense?
What scapegoat nation?
What unwarranted invasion?
Then textbook came:
Let’s travel all damn day.

He gives us hope.
I give –
The volleyball
Of change’s position.
I gotta go.
That’s the front line.
Here for a second.
Where’s Chandru?
He just isn’t splitting up.
He’s off to race some other battlefield.
Getting hit in the face,
How did it hurt?
It destroyed my ability to spring.
That’s too sad.
Like I said,
Said no we’re goin’
To get rid of your dictator
In advance of the early warning system.
This was not our doin’.
Now we start now
Get someone else to replace ‘im
Or somethin’.
It’ll knock the fire outta yah
A foreigner,
You do
That get rid of.

Isn’t there right around here?
That’s for the trash.
It’s close to here
The idea I have to police my neighbor.
What are you tryin’ to do?
Here’s the horses
That step in and bother us.
Knock it off.
Is it always a lonely game?
I don’t know check Hitler.
We didn’t perfume
His army hop.
We’re open
To receive an apology.
We’re open
To receive war reparations.
Take your hardware
Give us your shoulder
Health minister said.
You’re still alive?
Let’s hope so.

Boy you go into some heavy stuff.
I’m gonna get you fired.
A poet in India
Make for you
Somethin’ more than snub your nose.
I made a donkey;
I made an issue
Of your going after me:
Someone not in your pretty scheme of things.
What are people going to think?
Good night.
Your mother woke me up.
It’s ten thirty.
Lens we got here.
Isn’t that beautiful:
Mountain ranges,
You’re up.
That’s what I’m sayin’.
I’ll be seeing you.

Come Here

(published in The Counterpunch Newsletter)

They drain you.
They punish you.
Not everybody on the boat spoke English.
I dunno,
Everyone in the class was talking about it,
Your grandpa,
Close relative.
I’m a little deaf,
Don’t remember.
I told you:
Let them come.
It’s unbelievable,
At a time like this
On earth.
You know,
Bottle opener,
There’s hope.
Problem with you:
You have a long tradition.
I was just readin’ it.
Things are complicated,
Somewhere over there.

Actually your office is one of the best.
Bradford likes it.
Now here he stole:
I ask you,
Poor fellow,
The death of
It’s a book of evidence,
Definite bush,
Within the
‘Nurse driven’.
You can do it:
A revised book of art.
Gentlemen please,
Don’t you think?
Definitely leaves
Golden tree.
This is a nightmare
For loved ones
Your death struck.
Thank you.
It’s the only way
Continued ex-president
Extensive long arm –
I couldn’t see out the window
There were signs that said
Keep this
Speech art.
Help me out agriculture.
He’s my cousin.
A gun belt,
He’s not wearing one.
How does who whoever look?
Grab you
The novel of textbook.
It’s here you count oranges,
Your beautifully crafted diagrammed poem.
Hand him the clue.
Did you use my print conflict
There on the front survival?
Mohammad asking.
Pricilla Presley
Needed shaving cream she didn’t use.
Truth seeker,
We’ll come back to this.
I lost him.

I need a Sunday.
Come on,
A nuclear bomb
To those playin’ the game.
You know not that popular
You know what that means.
Kinda heavy
What do you guys
Think about the world?
Do you know what?
It’s stupid,
Our kind,
Our people,
All around the world.
The odd approach.
Almost everybody
Would like that.
We’re gonna make him.
Oh you make us?
Get out of here!
You can’t blame them.
Force them,
Leave a comment.
What is that sir?
All freewill,
You don’t find it in God.
Of course,
I wanna know about
The non-Muslims.
Your spiritual philosophy,
How goes that song?
Many things.
I’m just concerned
With who American
Not Muslim.
Does he wanna be,
And join us?
Conversations with a gathering bow.
Now that’s
Did you get that
Young man
Born a few Christians?
That’s what I’m telling you:
That’s human.

The truth is
You wouldn’t bother me with it.
Use a carpet
To understand its loveliness,
A plastic liner
To adapt to situations.
Oh you don’t?
There goes
Kenny does it,
Accepts you.
True religion
A spontaneous outpouring.
Not so concerned
With the parrot.
Nobody likes the
Grandma makes
Carrying the newspaper
To grandpa,
And she wants him
To cut the grass.
Yeah open it:
Change his girlfriend.
I’ll do it.
There are people
King of a version.
We’re gonna
Flip it,
See where it lands.
It hits on you.
You are the person
That makes
Your organ.
Find it here:
You’ve always known
You have some of that suitcase.
Okay, lock your door,
Give ‘im your privacy,
The inmost voice come in.
Coming down.
I was over things.
I was things over.
Stands up
Your soul
And tailor this to you.
You gotta go
Hear the tailor.
This is deeper than skin,
Than the world blows up,
Than a pocket full of aliens
Than you furnish gravity.
Put ‘em up.
What happened?
An earth change.
To do it
Funny and easy
Would that
Mean wide and flexible?
You’re quite right.

Tryin’ to cut up short on the internet.
Why did you come to America?
I thought this was about freedom.
Get ill-fired
Cause we meet the story.
What about the railroad?
Big pressure –
Could marry you.
I do an island.
Starrin’ ‘em
With lots of discrimination.
Here sir burn his milk.
In your face
For creatin’
Body and sense.
You have no business over here.
Lockin’ the door.
Guns without borders,
That’s hungry.
Of course
Someone might go with her
Causing the disturbance.
Is that America’s honor?
So much it’s pitiful.
How much more big power?
Find me the tree
Where all this is put to sleep.
Foot another reason.
Don’t do it.
I don’t know what you’re talking about.
Y’all get your act folder.
What about rising to weep
Hand custom made?
Alert the security council.
I love slow your uncle.
Whichever state you want.
I have a free wedge.
Quick to judge
Plagiarism is played
She does just fine by herself.
There’s a beer thirty miles up the road;
Would you get that?
What’s goin’ on?
Jim Crow legislation,
Even racial discrimination.

I’m doin’.
There we go.
It’s funny,
The file you’re watching
Got bulletin board by
A wind-maker,
Fire also,
Only seen as a deterrent to his society.
Where are you?
See how close you are,
You don’t have present conditions
Much longer.
You got about
My last day of troops.
Today wants to talk to yah:
Emergency overthrow
Honor boy.
The eyes of humility.
Definitely that one
Right now.
What are you starin’ at?
A bump in the road
Much bigger than any other.
I’ve got an account
In a civil service grassroots program.
Name us all.
You had a bad dream.
The nicest dream
That can be done
Walk this way:
Look at the face of the earth.
The volcano
Leads us to it.
Are you serious?
Where are you?
The bottom door.
I’m done.

Training Wheels

Ugly everything temporary.
He’s like a fashion model.
I’m not going anywhere.
Cut it off
The front line.
Don’t start everything right,
Here you know,
Not the pen and ink
Got married.
I’m so smart –
So short means:
I wanna put this in the incinerator
To eat.
Have spaghetti
No meat balls,
Fried shrimp,
One piece.
Let ‘im oar.
That’s how yah
Find out what matters,
Find out what happened.
Are you comin’ with me?
If you will hand it over.
My attention span
Not what it used to be.
I’m gunna help.
What do you say?
What are we waiting for?
Look who’s here,
Your thinking
Points of view.

There’s some new fish
Operating on the windows.
I’m a fish.
Don’t get angry.
It’s a trap:
That’s how much a subscription costs,
One fifth of your brain power.
Think you can do it,
Cover his adventures,
Use some coffee.
I thought I’d just hope for a second.
Very nice,
We certainly went out.
We did a little.
That’s it,
Pull the rabbit.
One more thing,
If you don’t hear from me
The government
Tackle it.
It just kills me.
Gotta go.

A poet in India read.
Why should we read?
Had the lipstick on
For a better future than what we have now.
Advanced search option,
You’ll be alright.
Did I know that guy?
How could he get here?
The net Jay jihad push,
It’s the horror.
Are you kidding me?
Check this out:
I got an idea
Blog worthy,
Put on social media.
We don’t want you to have that idea –
The police.
Do we
Stop this?
Now where’s conscience?
On the count of three roll over.
Why won’t anybody stick,
Stick their neck out?
I am the sound equipment.
Let’s hear it.
And another thing you’re watching.
Don’t you even dare
Say it.
Certain situations
Can’t include here you know.
Just gunna cap it off.
Why don’t you come over life?

Gets yah home.
It’s a long effort.
Don’t skip the reason please,
It’s messed up,
Head count.
Why don’t you leave me alone?
Thank you.
Would you like my toenail clippers?
End the poem.
Oh God.
What did he look like?
Did he look like …
Can we go?
Policeman, pow!
This available?
Wherever you read it.
Jason wasting my time in my tuition dream?
He’s coming into both of them,
Thirty seconds,
Eight hours,
Grand Theft Auto.
That’s the equipment leader.
They want to end the poem.

I’m just lookin’ for a
There’s too many of us,
Too many.
What are we going to do?
Give me that –
The product of the new government.
Who is he?
Go ask yourself.
Careful now,
I’ll bet
We’re under control:
Log in and register to post.
Who’s the new government?
That would be you.
The attention span,
Oh boy,
The pressure is ours.