Spirit and Wilderness

No matter how wild or wicked the wilderness

your virgin eyes will find when your spirit

finally awakens,

know this:

It is your wilderness.  It grew whist you slept

and dreamed the dreams of a man

who thought that all he was was mortal flesh

cast here, perhaps, to defend or prove himself

among his likenesses of form.

That wild is you.  If unkempt, twas you who rendered it this

and twas you who thought, somewhere within, 

as you sensed that for which you had no proof,

as if realizing you had a blind spot in your vision,

in your perception,

that if and when your spirit should also blossom and find feet

to carry it throughout, 

it would be the wildest Life of them all,

infinity, minus fear.

shadow sculptures and other people

Shadow sculpture is especially beautiful because when you look at the physical sculpture, you do not see the order in it, you do not see the pattern, and therefore it appears to lack that standard beauty of proportion the human eyes seems to prefer. But when you cast a light from the right angle, the proportion and harmony of the sculpture becomes visible. I like this because it seems a clever metaphor for other people: sometimes we meet people who are so different, they don't seem to make any sense at all. They appear to be a mess and we therefore do not credit them as possessing a beauty of character that our own culture, our own way, our own upbringing has taught us to recognize. However, when we look from the right angle, maybe we see it. When we shine our own light upon the mess we perceive, maybe then we see that beauty, the universal intangible shadow that inspires our adoration, our affection -- Love.

today i shederized a tear

Melancholy does my heart

achey-ache observerin

mundial affairs as are.

Status, statisticus,

etcetera, ad infinitum

through death and

yummy-money stink

and good Chinese, Angolan,

Mexican – immigrants and native

to their own soils – slaves

of contemporaneity, my fellows.

Today I shederized a tear

or two, alone here in my

musicless interval of

thoughts, all of which was

full of heart and truth

like fetuses of my affair

with goddess Psyhe herself

which, for my health of mind,

were aborted before they could

a come on out screamerin

and distorterin my precious

world-view and pacificitificationdom.

I'm the only thing that matters, anymore.

Smarts is only good for getting

today cause smarts alone

with no business acumen

is that mortal recipe for

special sauce crack-cocaine;

methamphetomine; crystal-crumbed

super grass; purely man-made tasty-ass poisons;

hard, cheap corner store spirits

to numb me antennae,

falsify my delisions.

Validate yours, Gingerbread man.

Turn them into a lie

like you insisted they is.

Smarts from the books and ideas

without balls or a deep throat

so the world can f+ck the troof

into you immaculately

so that nastiness you hate

ain't nastier than you

and you is just humble

and workerin hard as the dumb

cog-man, cromagazine sex-changed

womenish miracles a science –

amazerin, distracten beautery –

drunk-drivinerin wives

gone mad at the maid

and life altogether:

Equality is killerinus.

You are killerin me.

My goodness, education tenderizes

when it should coat

cloak rape break

and gently casket

your goodness

put it on a shitty little

boatsy to Heaven

so a wave can smash it

to watery death

out beyond our innocent view

and not even your

prayers make it there,

you fool and

quit learnerin crap

start deceiverin. Deliver your freedom

to D'allah, in whom we trust,

and sweat for his green cape

to knight your worthless ass

and give you shelter

through these miserable,

sad, nasty sluts we've all becomified.

Ever feelerish as if?

Driverin from here to there

everyday and just now I seen

the billboard. It read,

“Welcome to the Animal Kingdom, Maaaaan!”

Lucky bastard was surrounderized

by ladies, beer, drugs.

Not a worry in sight

smiling from ear to ear.

Benchmark

Your benchmark days
are hidden in ordinariness.
Not everyone knows
when you learn
to ride the wave
enough lengths
to be a Man,
a Citizen, a Professional,
a Genius, or whatever.

But your own sight changes
and you marvel.

The world is what you make of it.

Hard Science

You want to run away

to the monasteries of

northern India.

Developed-world human beings

are straight bonkers.

The details of why or

how is the dissertation

you simply don't care

to write, anymore.

It'll remain the treatise

the observant lover

might spy in your movements;

the organization of your bedroom;

your reasonable protests;

your tender hypnosis,

honest and beautiful.

Let'em burn,

you've said to yourself

at your most anarchistic,

most rebellious,

most f*ck you, World.

You don't need to

be in robes in the

mountaintops of Asia

to do what monks do:

to pour water

with every ounce

of attention

pouring into

the pouring

and the water

fell beautifully enough

for the angels

to protect us

forever.

To acknowledge the life

in the plants and

the wild animals;

to bow to Life

or at least revere Life

with every act –

that is ultimately

the disconnect

rendering all of us incomplete.

You can do that here, I think.

Begin revering yourself.

Pour your sacred attention

where there is none.

This is the baptism

of lonely urban monks.

See?

The city and its dress

and gadget ornaments

drying up our moments

of contact

deserted human hearts

drinking greedily

from the mirage.

ARMA.ZEN

4 June 2015

WORDNERD

The word play here is that the word "armazenar" means, "to store", in Portuguese.  The word "armazens" is the plural of "armazém", which is "warehouse".  Also, the word, "arma" is "weapon" and "zen" is the same as it is in English, "zen".

a lot in life

Somewhere in the

Kingdom of God

there is a

post for you.

Live and learn;

follow and lead;

come and go;

open and close

the doors to Moments

Life invites you

to enter,

and be grateful

(In fact, if there ever

were a skill to develop –

a sense to fashion

keener than the rest –

it would be

that of gratitude.).

Close the door

if you plan

to stay in a moment,

to make it a forever

or a season

or a vacation

from Normal;

close the door

when you leave.

Let your spirit

not linger there,

in Moments passed.

You will always

get somewhere, just

keep on going.

That post for which

the Lord interviewed you

may not be your destination.

There are the called,

as they say,

and there are the chosen.

Even the eternal

wanderer who seems

to have no post

whatever

carves, from the

tremendous pace of sunlight,

a space with the blade

of his very being.

His and a cathedral's

shadow result from

the same phenomenon:

equal labor and industry;

equal symbolism, sacredness,

vastness;

equal beauty;

the same hands sculpted

both the beggar and the throne

of the very king he might have

been in a past life,

the same society lifted him

into palaces

as now forces him

to repose in an Eden

behind the veil of poverty:

should he find it,

he will profit the boon

of the rarest mortals.

The kingdom

may pass through

the gates of his bones,

but in this life

it is but a cruel metaphor:

a cold wind both trembles

and troubles him,

ironically fortifying

the stalk of his spirit.

He may have beheaded

Emperors with a single breath

lifetimes ago,

as with a single breath

the final iota of

Will will flee

the labrynth of forces

binding flesh to soil

or Adam to Eve

or atom to atom

until all of humanity

is riddled with wormholes

decomposing on a special rock

somewhere in the universe.

And the Universe

will eventually tire,

as each of us already has.

And she will have to sleep

for another eternity

if we are ever to be

dreamt up again.