It is my honor, privilege and pleasure to walk among the most beautiful and fine
alignments of stardusts and dreamweaves that are Life's Forms, not Plato's,
which all aliens, if they be wise connoisseurs, should come to see:
the human and the tree, flower, snake and bee, one two and three, dance rhythms
our streets ...
there is simply not enough time to see, at least they would claim
that life is wrapped in the box Eternity to be opened, taken, and thrown away
eventually by our mortal decay and reckless folly partial to the perfumes of sin
lustfully slipping in to Rubik's own solution,
a bar called Blue Side on 42nd street
where you will laugh and fall on that slippery loose Love
leaning on a beam you just smashed into the soil
preparing a perimeter for a mistake you will never regret
not knowing that you, yourself, were more a dream
in unborn eyes, a flame in the eternal skies
upon which some quickly coming super-natural soul gazed,
having heard so much of sentient Life, Earth's immeasurably rare benevolence,
and how freaking cool it is to Fear Death
and not be 100 percent sure about anything
except that it will happen and you will pay
Caesar & Co for the all Karmic and Commercial goods and attractions
which, it should be added, result in an amnesia
leaving most scratching at the question in their brains,
"what is the purpose of all of this, anyway?"
It is a common question we prefer to ask than answer.
Here is another, almost never spoken thus:
by aging into a time and mind frame wouldn't we cease to be “we” if thawed out
when the Next Now comes a'rising?
Disbelief in the Self and its Endless Depths
render the divine messengers and prophets dust like everything else
as if said dust was not formed and placed with a care implying intentionality.
As if you yourself are not a prophet, nor is he or she,
nor can anyone be, not anymore. That's just craziness!
Ay, compadre, I admire the polish of your doubts
and still wouldn't trade them for a single stone of my strewn cairns.
They beget distrust among, between and
then beat the drums of discordant hearts accumulating stress in the shoulders
as the weight of the absoluteness of His truth increases in proportion to the strength
of modern multi-cultural arguments against absoluteness in general;
verily: relativity and plurality of truths, or, if you prefer, the velocity of the Light is constant and the same no matter who or where you are, and, equally important, its white is potentially prismatic, especially at sunrise and sunset, which is as lovely from where I sit as from anywhere.
Whatever book you read, 'tis more a testimony than an argument, can't it be true? That all behold and bother to testify seems a lovely little skeleton key, presently useless, it seems. I wonder if there is a book shut away somewhere it might open.
Don't get so bummed learning that you are majority empty space, vacuum.
Don't come a'wantin to cut anyone down or dead on account of the emptiness you might feel, friend;
that emptiness is the space in which powers and forces fly and the wings of your angels,
by whatever name, soar with as much right and love as any others.
Heaven is built of seen and unseen deeds by real live beings.
Surely, the scent of blood will remind anyone of us of how animal we are
and the calm in dead eyes will arouse some intoxicant cocktail
of sympathy and thus goodness, rejoice and thus evil, filling that emptiness
with human feelings when what are needed are divine ones.
Even the scribe sighs as he dreams of eternal words above
his very own name,
thus he reclaims not, he protests so quietly as the whispering slices of his pen, carving, as he imagines, in Time, a deep tattoo on the breast of a Victory Goddess, not a wound, never a wound ...
but no two men perceive the very same, nor believe from the same heart,
though origin's shared.
Space-time is a trick of the eye, even the eye of the mind, so meditate on your Peace
my brother, my sister, Mother Earth holds you gently against Her and Her gentleness is a manner of
speaking so grow not so accustomed as to be numb to Her touch, deaf to Her ballad of love and faith and you can do it so here we go,
her language is so greater than our own
but even the simple mechanics of our carnal ears
can pick up on her acoustic falling waters, water on high, sun torn sky wearing a bolt of
lightning like a badge of my childhood courage
watching her through the window bathe the trees, yawn with such pleasure as to own
chew and render sublime the object of my attention, arousing my affection for both Life
and Dream, pardoning my foolishness like a dog who knows only forgiveness, return,
and shameless unconditional love.
alignments of stardusts and dreamweaves that are Life's Forms, not Plato's,
which all aliens, if they be wise connoisseurs, should come to see:
the human and the tree, flower, snake and bee, one two and three, dance rhythms
our streets ...
there is simply not enough time to see, at least they would claim
that life is wrapped in the box Eternity to be opened, taken, and thrown away
eventually by our mortal decay and reckless folly partial to the perfumes of sin
lustfully slipping in to Rubik's own solution,
a bar called Blue Side on 42nd street
where you will laugh and fall on that slippery loose Love
leaning on a beam you just smashed into the soil
preparing a perimeter for a mistake you will never regret
not knowing that you, yourself, were more a dream
in unborn eyes, a flame in the eternal skies
upon which some quickly coming super-natural soul gazed,
having heard so much of sentient Life, Earth's immeasurably rare benevolence,
and how freaking cool it is to Fear Death
and not be 100 percent sure about anything
except that it will happen and you will pay
Caesar & Co for the all Karmic and Commercial goods and attractions
which, it should be added, result in an amnesia
leaving most scratching at the question in their brains,
"what is the purpose of all of this, anyway?"
It is a common question we prefer to ask than answer.
Here is another, almost never spoken thus:
by aging into a time and mind frame wouldn't we cease to be “we” if thawed out
when the Next Now comes a'rising?
Disbelief in the Self and its Endless Depths
render the divine messengers and prophets dust like everything else
as if said dust was not formed and placed with a care implying intentionality.
As if you yourself are not a prophet, nor is he or she,
nor can anyone be, not anymore. That's just craziness!
Ay, compadre, I admire the polish of your doubts
and still wouldn't trade them for a single stone of my strewn cairns.
They beget distrust among, between and
then beat the drums of discordant hearts accumulating stress in the shoulders
as the weight of the absoluteness of His truth increases in proportion to the strength
of modern multi-cultural arguments against absoluteness in general;
verily: relativity and plurality of truths, or, if you prefer, the velocity of the Light is constant and the same no matter who or where you are, and, equally important, its white is potentially prismatic, especially at sunrise and sunset, which is as lovely from where I sit as from anywhere.
Whatever book you read, 'tis more a testimony than an argument, can't it be true? That all behold and bother to testify seems a lovely little skeleton key, presently useless, it seems. I wonder if there is a book shut away somewhere it might open.
Don't get so bummed learning that you are majority empty space, vacuum.
Don't come a'wantin to cut anyone down or dead on account of the emptiness you might feel, friend;
that emptiness is the space in which powers and forces fly and the wings of your angels,
by whatever name, soar with as much right and love as any others.
Heaven is built of seen and unseen deeds by real live beings.
Surely, the scent of blood will remind anyone of us of how animal we are
and the calm in dead eyes will arouse some intoxicant cocktail
of sympathy and thus goodness, rejoice and thus evil, filling that emptiness
with human feelings when what are needed are divine ones.
Even the scribe sighs as he dreams of eternal words above
his very own name,
thus he reclaims not, he protests so quietly as the whispering slices of his pen, carving, as he imagines, in Time, a deep tattoo on the breast of a Victory Goddess, not a wound, never a wound ...
but no two men perceive the very same, nor believe from the same heart,
though origin's shared.
Space-time is a trick of the eye, even the eye of the mind, so meditate on your Peace
my brother, my sister, Mother Earth holds you gently against Her and Her gentleness is a manner of
speaking so grow not so accustomed as to be numb to Her touch, deaf to Her ballad of love and faith and you can do it so here we go,
her language is so greater than our own
but even the simple mechanics of our carnal ears
can pick up on her acoustic falling waters, water on high, sun torn sky wearing a bolt of
lightning like a badge of my childhood courage
watching her through the window bathe the trees, yawn with such pleasure as to own
chew and render sublime the object of my attention, arousing my affection for both Life
and Dream, pardoning my foolishness like a dog who knows only forgiveness, return,
and shameless unconditional love.
