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Wednesday, February 29, 2012

Success * 2/29/12

Success, in many respects,

is a form of collateral collusion.

Success is a past, reflected

by having re-visitation rights

celebrated as a completion.

Success is where expectations

are now ancestors.

The cues for success line up

as in a wedding party’s

greeting line execution,

and the eventual results

from these successes,

are the names to live up to,

given to the grandchildren.

Now is a deep pothole

in the road

that we fix

by putting up

more billboards

as signage gives us

the intentional preoccupation

to successfully fill the now . . .

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

gratitude (haiku) 2/28/12

tears of gratitude

for everything that happened

for how I am now

Monday, February 27, 2012

Response to “nothing matters” 3 of 3 2/27/12

if a Buddhist made a dildo

out of contradictions,

would we simply have to have one?

What pleasure could we derive

from an object made with

singular unending intent?

Show us the scratch pad

that counts only black sheep,

that made us all

tally worn beings.

We are all pigs

eating our debasement

towards oneness.

And in that pile,

defiled by that pile,

there is only oneness of spirit

on the rise.

We are the avalanche ascending

disguised as thundering cascade.

We are a combust

of weathering’s expression.

We appear

as a union of consequence

yet higher alignment prevails.

Integrities only apply

as if chaos were ordered.

We are, in all ways,

still leading towards the one . . .

And you, continue to think,

that, “nothing matters”?

Sunday, February 26, 2012

giving a gift (haiku) 2/26/12

being the dying,

one bold choice, to share your death

as giving a gift

Saturday, February 25, 2012

response to “nothing matters” 2 of 3 2/25/12

Well what are in these moments,

the mechanics of self,

claimed by superficial repetition?

What equivalency floats your soul?

Why the button down gloom

of self-consciousness in passing?

Where is the broom closet

in the big brain of your body building?

And when does the forty watts

of light within you, burn you brightly?

Is it there,

where the lipless self-kibitzer

of inner voiceyness,

offers you the plague of insistence

to gnaw at your attention's bone?

Help me to help you find

where experience is

now an exile of taxation.

Help me to help you

to set this phantom

of yourself, set free.

Free, as if, in the course

of the divine expression,

“nothing matters”,

and saying it

in that light,

sets you free . . .

Friday, February 24, 2012

grace (haiku) 2/24/12

from those who have gone

so many special moments

grace my memories

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Response to "nothing matters" 1 of 3 2/23/12


Into a blacksmith's old soul,

there is this familiar space

that strikes no pose

and does not gather any excess.

For there is more deeply imbedded

a forever rootedness.

It is more than life,

by sensory observation,

comes to demonstrate.

Here, before the feet of perception

have solidified images

or the tongues of self-awareness

have persuasion,

lies a sourcefulness of being.

This is where all contradictions

bang their maggot heads

upon this door.

This self of door,

hinged of tissues and sinewy,

that has words slap at it

and meanings left there to smart.

What that attempts to say

is what cannot be spoken.

What that attempts to mean

is what cannot be understood.

What is that, that is not to be?

Was there ever

another point in time

ready to answer?

Was there an embellishment of world

that was not empty

for spirit, your spirit, to fill?

Is it an insane fixation

of worthlessness as your continuance,

a we-they of clamor towards yearning

that is yet to surmise,

a dingy of softly spoken whispers

coming from all four corners

of the universe at you at once,

a deep envelope of self

filled with promiscuous liquids

and breeze of constant breathing,

as an elegant intercession of breathes

in a nerve fusion dance?

Well, was there ever a something

coming towards you

and yet now,

you boldly stand and profess,

a “nothing matters”?

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Critique industry (haiku) * 2/22/12

critique industry

is say what hasn’t been said

well, so much for words . . .

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

we all have something that ends 2/21/12

We all have

our own forms of myopia,

a terminal illness

that ends in enlightenment.

We all have

our own form of genius,

a path of karmic release

that ends in enlightenment.

We all have

our own forms of friendship,

a weaving of kindred spirits

that ends in enlightenment.

We all have

our own forms of pretend,

a private language of self-intimacy

that end in enlightenment.

We all have

our own forms of desires,

an interior means

of expansion or contraction

that ends in enlightenment.

We all have

our own forms of isolation,

a set of gradually ineffective

projective skills

that ends in enlightenment.

we all have

our own forms of connecting,

a sequence

of opportunities explored

that ends in enlightenment.

Eventually we all have

a notion of everything

that we keep everywhere

that ultimately ends

in enlightenment.

Monday, February 20, 2012

picture (haiku) * 2/20/12

eyes across the room

sight a most favored picture

so perfectly straight

Sunday, February 19, 2012

waiting 2/19/12

Waiting for an action

to counter the anxiety.

Waiting for a clue

to avalanche towards answers.

Waiting with bystanders

breeding a numbness.

Waiting as pauses with pitfalls.

Waiting without incentives.

Waiting with no inclinations.

Waiting for organs

to degenerate and die.

Waiting for any permissive greed

to flood onto the scene.

Waiting for indulgence

to seize a moment in time.

Waiting, lost into a way of life.

Waiting as edges and efforts

and emotions solidify

into wearing a sickness as a smile.

Seeing the monument of wait

in a stone valley of time.

Waiting for the geologic column

to wink back.

Waiting for time's sweaty palm

to shake mine.


for the metronome of breath to end,

with an opened mouthed breath,

on a toc. The t---o---c,

that “k" sound of toC,

out of the last breath’s end

on that “K” sound,

then flushed and faded.

Waiting for the mind focus

to follow, in full dissolve,

as if the end of the parade of wait,

as if the gargantuan parade

of wait’s end, were near.

To the end of that parade,

with last band, last float, last toast,

last drink drunk,

cup down, tossed and crushed,

last partied player asleep,

last horse's tail flicked

and fodder gone,

last sawhorse and pylon

packed away,

last bleacher disassembled,

last trash can emptied and stacked,

cash receipts counted and banked,

last time card punched,

the last person to think it as now,

totally complete.

Over and done with.


To know waiting,

the life filled with waiting,

is no more . . .

Saturday, February 18, 2012

pizza (haiku) 2/18/12

catching up with you

in quite a voracious mood

pizza to attack

Friday, February 17, 2012

vast yet within * 2/17/12

I awaken each second

to recognition's hot breath

of particulars,

to the ever whisper within,

accompanying the image coming

into my inner view.

It’s the work of my internal kibitzers,

extracting a linear movie account.

It is embellished with cross weaves

of nuance connections

and emotional fill

as if it were all

from a cash-fold currency of stories

constantly being read to me

by an oh so familiar elder

sitting within.

I can almost be

a fully intent listener

as if it were all consuming.

It can be so full with display

and reasoning and connections,

so precise

as if to complete my perception.

It can seem to be fully flooding,

pouring down

all the tall sensory spires,

metaphorically playing before

me as a wide-eyed child ingesting.

Who of me looks up

from these passages

to inhale and imbibe

these droplets of permission,

to live down the fear,

to go on

knowing and not knowing,

to feel for my inner movement,

and by that very action,

find a great deep cavernous hologram

embracing this onslaught’s account?

This who of me

is vast yet still within.

It humbles my senses with echo.

I am momentarily

and dimensionally slain

in the demand to decipher.

I am learning to give away all,

to have nothing,

to have no tools, no skills,

no positions of strength,

to have no axis that polarizes me,

to be all points,

all opposites bowing,

to see all contradictions kissing up.

I leave evidence

as if to distract me.

I make sense as if to delay.

I love as if intentions merit.

I let go as if to release from effort.

I laugh as if to counter

inconclusiveness’s firm stand.

All these tenets possess the same.

I am tongue-less with the weave

of all these as particulars.

I am weakness bowing

in the light of these claims.

Entry is a constant prayer

without praying.

Being is a constant prayer

without knowing.

Feeling is a constant prayer

without reason.

Presence is a constant oneness

without experience

as this light . . .

Thursday, February 16, 2012

A plea for water (haiku) 2/16/12

a plea for water

it’s its first day up in house

as cut Christmas tree

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

The sanctuary of viscosity * 2/15/12

At this point,

we all are liquid constituents

in puddles and pools,

or lakes and seas.

We are all droplets in action.

Few of us are drops

in a desert newly as dew.

We have our pace

and time in the sun of life.

The skies, by this metaphor,

although beckoning,

will also vitally play

in the movement of all our lives.

But we are empathy as viscosity,

waiting for worthy cause,

to give us the stream of it

as rivers into the human ocean.

It is there that we become

as the salt of the earth.

It is there the cycle of oneness

expresses our fluid fullness

in its formalist of fashion.

It is there

we have evaporative means

more than droplets of identity.

We are of deeper cycles

from there,

revitalized and returned.

We are an embodiment

of shared thought and feelings.

We are, from there

expressing and nurturing as one.

It is there

where chemical hydrogen

is metaphorical humanism.

However we wear the disguises,

the D.N.A. is adaptive

and integrative as our means.

For any lesser cause

of regional or local

and we become rain.

And in doing so,

a cumbersome isolation of longing,

wanting to get back

and to give back,

is wanting to live,

back to a oneness of means.

To identify with anything less,

we are states of unconsciousness,

where gravity is the prayer,

sky is the assistance of angels

and sunlight as the breath needed,

bring us cyclically

eventual love-viscosity deliverance.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

patient (haiku) 2/14/12

manifest patience?

cutting almost anything

using a dull knife

Monday, February 13, 2012

the wisest moment 2/13/12

The wisest moment,

is bottomless and empty.

It wants for nothing,

not construed,

with no lens of need,

no surface towards recognition,

no preparation for words,

yet tethered to everything.

But with no pull of polarities,

there is less tension

then an ocean's sense of itself.

The wisest moment . . .

would never come to know

what self-consciousness

could deliver.

This moment is enabled

but undifferentiated,

entitled but unencumbered.

There are no reservoirs

for eagerness,

no frame for closure,

no compulsions towards focus.

The wisest moment,

fails to realize itself,

within its passage of time.

As it self,

it is muted wistful bliss . . .

Sunday, February 12, 2012

Rabbit (haiku) 2/12/12

floppy eared rabbit

munching carrot from your grasp

in rhythm of trust

Saturday, February 11, 2012


From a quantum perspective,

in the method of oneness,

belief, as we practice it,

is a form of taunting,

an insular sacrilegious gesture

said in the mind out loud

in formulation,

for the mind to hear,

over and over again.

It is a time capsule,

sacredly presented to oneself

when called upon to justify.

It functions

as a hidden agenda,

almost as emotional subterfuge.

Surely beliefs are fumes

of feelings formed

into speakable words.

It is a formidable stand,

somewhat like a sneeze,

against self-accusing fears

almost as the internal irritant.

But belief, for the majority of people,

is more like a series

of fire drill practices.

It is where you read from

to answer inquiring tourists’ questions

towards your personal landscape views.

It is where the verbal exits

as finishing touches.

It has a internal life

of credit card status.

It is an inward oral tradition

hand forged with

and by every new challenge.

It may seem like

the chorus hummed

to an every day living song.

Belief is a innocent lobbyist

for the prominent status

of retaining a retentive mind.

It is the accepted cure

for the common cold of “why”.

It is the verbal ovation given

to look forward to a sunny day.

Belief is icing on a cake

that is daily made from scratch.

It is a card shop

when explanation is the gift

about to be given.

It is kind of like, a new math

with polished principles

which become axioms

of a functional nature

as its means.

It is like having

an invisible house pet

living in your inner private world.

Belief is a lot like a pier in a lake

where the deck is the mind life

with weather and play

and occasional emotional splashes

while the anchor posts

are the emotional underwater life,

where the stable belief foundations

hardly ever see directly

that light of day

in much the same deck way.

Belief is a form

of hand-me-down trust.

It is an attempt

at a legible nametag

on a two-year-old conclusion,

possibly lost and

wandering through your life.

Beliefs, are in abundance.

Can’t live without them.

Can you believe that?

Friday, February 10, 2012

up wind down wind (haiku) 2/10/12

up wind and down wind

are elements of my means

we breathe together

Thursday, February 9, 2012

love is 2/9/12

Love is, first off,

love, never a noun.

Love pushes through

a not knowing why

that appears as itself.

Love reveals the truth,

more importantly,

about from where we speak.

Love is getting up to dance

to the letting go.

Letting go of self as hostage

remembering that

passion before expression

has the stage.

Love calls as an invitation

to an endless ovation.

Love lives details

into a blaze

of oblivion

as a song rising.

Love bangs the drum

inside of our hearing it clearly.

Love has no boundaries

in lives with all edges.

Love has no altar

or pedestals or anything

done in elevation or stone.

Love has no outer whereabouts

to feel for where you are.

Yet love has been touched

by sacred moments.

Love cannot someone less

by loving someone else more.

Love is the continuance

of given as received.

Love is an oncoming path

finding its way through you.

Love drinks from inner expression

before the form is served.

Love invites circumstance

to come sit

from beyond the view.

Love is a confirmation given

from inside of that you realize.

Love is everywhere

there is pleasure

without performance.

Love undresses gestures.

Love is the compassionate handrail

of beyond.

Love does not dwell

in expectation's sky.

Love is a constant pouring

that attention drinks as life.

Love is the scissor’s work

upon an endless ribbon's run.

Love is the fury

that makes chaos

tell the truth from within.

For love, is . . .