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Friday, May 31, 2013

Too short (haiku) 5/31/13

we had the feeling
they wanted more time with us
now faint memories

Thursday, May 30, 2013

the just of oneness * 5/30/13

Time is a slight of hand,
a wick for the flicker of self-reflection.
Time/space are the cross hairs, scoping us out.
Time is baited questions about motives and goals.
Time is a deaf mute by presence
yet time is humbled when reality shuffles time
out of order and lets the measures of time
bleed into each other,
lets the frames randomly thicken and thin,
lets the soup of time through its jugular,
adrenal, dreamlike, or coma.
Time feels for these as pulse,
the projective source of reality bringing time down
to a boundaryless faint remembrance.
It is as remote as a groundless inkling, 
almost as an impulse that swallows itself.
Reality beyond time,
is this the source of infinitesimal commingling?
Is this a now without reference?
Is this an experience with no mind?
Is witness then just the bouncer
at the oneness entry door?
Is knowing just the whale of us
surfacing for reality's air?
Are we the free-fall becoming our own breath
of re-embrace?
When does this mindlessness reveal for itself a face?
Who is there left to make the sound
emerging from involuntary physical lips, 
featuring the impact of the facets of meaning
landing on us all as scintillating residue?
Are we all just the butt of the joke of dust?
The jest of the just of oneness?

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

Surprise topic (haiku) 5/29/13

the kids don't know yet
and we don't know what to say
it’s so exciting

Tuesday, May 28, 2013

duality as debunked * 5/28/13

In a dualistic world, contrariness is queen.
Without her, no gifting of paradox is offered.
In an un-dualistic world, edge is a birthright,
an offering and an invitation.
In a dualistic world,
substance is the formal stance,
ever solid, never empty.
The worldly path you take
is across the map of opposites.
Wrong is always invitational.
Right is seemingly mundane.
Wrong is alluringly eventful.
Right is an approach to ambience.
Wrong is billboard material.
Right is camouflage into apparel.
In this obvious world,
dualism is a crossing guard
catering to safe sensing.
In duality, knowledge is a Las Vegas deck,
where probability is the dealer,
standing upright on a horizontal clock face
in its ever-sweep, turning.
Intuition is there, as the tarot deck,
where spontaneity is the dealer.
Drama is the victim hood deck there,
where suffering is the dealer.
In dualism, we all wear a wardrobe
to differentiate and separate
into the wisdom of our isolation.
As the story goes, we are our own epitaphs,
used as the script that we say.
Who grieves with me about this
eliminates punctuation as our need.
Who breathes with me over this
and eventually we become a song
with a language of only vowels.
We leave dualism behind but not abandoned
and that forest of crutches will be set on fire.
If so, we have moved to a land where we live
without dumb-downs or lips service or account.
My headspace historically,
for personal expression,
had been dog eats dog, rhetorical remarks,
conspiracy theories, feign regrets,
issues as diversion, celebration of the blessed,
profound acts of omission, with consequences
chasing me down.
Duality is a contentious fill of now.
The bedrock of our consciousness
is this positional awareness.
Our self-wardrobe from there is contextual.
We are in scenes with lines to say
and stories to present.
We only have eyes for audience.
Enrolling others is a given or we are at a loss.
They are my senses providing,
consuming confirmation
of my individual isolation.
I need to defend my self-sense
and move it along.
Duality has me on a map,
going from here to there,
wearing the identity chip,
vulnerable to account
and geared for justification.
The world of duality is the land
of elegant denials, collectively share,
but in self-privacy.
Duality has provided for an endless series
of internal friends during the course of my life.
Some are lobbyists, some are kibitzers,
some are moralists, some are alarmists,
some would defend my every action,
if needed,
some would offer me worthy pretends,
some piggyback on my desires,
some offer logic forwarded into decisiveness,
some secure the riches of my aloneness,
some claim no legitimacy to my being,
and some eavesdrop into commentary.
And all of them live the dualism life.
They expect me to honor them
as my primary consciousness.
Dualism is this narrative as nurture.
It makes up the story of my life
but not the true isness of living it . . .

Monday, May 27, 2013

My hurt (haiku) 5/27/13

this hurt is so real
from my acts of omission
what makes up for that?

Sunday, May 26, 2013

In tears * 5/26/13

I am in tears
as my authorized permission 
for passing through this moment,
shimmering from the impress
of the grand.
Eyes wide,
full of emptiness, glistening.
Some sense of levity carriage,
stringing this thought
into buoyant extension.
A view frame sacredly held
and vastly expanding.
No boundaries, love exploding.
I am through everyone,
in a shared breath embrace.
All cells dancing in oneness.
This awareness humbles me.
This rush offers no time or space
as explanation.
The knowing of it itself
is just a blush of after affect.
I am in tears. A weep, a yearn,
the bloom of coming home.
I would gladly give way to it,
to bring us all as one,
into this never end . . .

Saturday, May 25, 2013

too hot (haiku) * 5/25/13

burning in your mouth
question, “How hot is too hot?”
answer needed now

Friday, May 24, 2013

pain towards dignity * 5/24/13

Pain can be a flood plain
pervading across the known self-land.
Pain can be a root bound self
never previously revealed from underfoot.
Pain fools around with your focus,
teasing that focus of your of yours, who is
innocently willing to meet it head on.
Pain is inviting and yet consuming
of what your focus’s full intent
has to offer and deliver.
Pain will playfully distort
your sense for time.
Pain will alter your projection of self,
that you broadcast for the world to see,
and yet audience,
any sense of audience, yours, theirs
will seem to be far away
from what is painfully center stage.
Details, all those delicious
story bound details,
posted on your mind walls,
the whole back story hack of it
will be lost in the surges from pain.
The acoustics of this pain will play loudly,
thunderously loud, yet unexpectedly so
and that quality of internal surround
will go from back stage to stage front,
from source within
to all the nerve sensory speakers
you have in your body, tweeter to base.
Even though, mightily muffled to others,
the sound check works clearly within you,
you will come to notice that frequently.
Profound pain ascends to its own deity.
The counter intuitive surrender to pain
provides a deeper self expansion,
as an unrealized zestfulness of self
may appear more so
than holding back could ever claim.
Blocking pain can be an internal witch-hunt.
Pain as a distraction,
appears to be a short-circuiting
of the familiar self’s hard wire.
Pain dressed up in language
appears as an alarm system sequencing
but does not present as a working solution.
Profound pain solicits a deeper sense of self
to wholly participate.
Going beyond the experience of pain
demands a ground figure beyond locale
that usually is not in play.
The engine room of self is awakened,
multiple alerts are stirred
by this awareness of pain,
yet self-hum is always in the background.
Pain can become an unsuspected doorway
to expand your sense of self,
and seek far away octaves of peace,
where a peculiar serenity
lives beyond conclusions, body states,
and the radical self-spectatorship
of the presence of pain.
This whole of sky pain solicits
a deeper sense of self in response
as an unrehearsed authenticity
comes to the fore.
Audience, at a distance,
would have wanted you
to put out the fire.
But few would have engaged
and opportune churned richly
at pain proposing
a realized dignity of being . . .
Pain, you know.
Going beyond pain,
you have to come to know  . . .

Thursday, May 23, 2013

towards closure (haiku) * 5/23/13

strive towards closure,
those who command in questions
will demand answers

Wednesday, May 22, 2013

mirror of perfection * 5/22/13

I stare into the mirror of perfection.
Only to discover
I have an imperfect stare.
Principled, I change mirrors.
Only to discover
I have an imperfect stare.
Outraged, I change mirrors.
More slowly, with scrutiny,
to discover an imperfect stare.
Well, who is that?
Who is that
that I’m looking at?
I only asked for conformation.
And now I get further inquiry.
What I was looking for
seemed like a simple request.
Instead I find myself asked,
who of you is asking (?)
My stare is broken
but more importantly
it is broken down.
Somewhere in that looking
I was inwardly asked,
who of you is asking (?)
Who of you,
dressed up in a stare
with the momentum
of presumptions and expectations
came to me,
face forward, presenting?
Well, I was not prepared for
an honest answer coming back!
And so you initially call it
of yourself,
“an imperfect stare”?
Expectations not verified
and that yielded a conclusion
called an imperfect stare?
Now obviously, this conversation
will have to include
many more inner voices.
The topic has shifted
from simple passage
to deeper self-inquiry.
It is safe to now say,
it is not the mirror in question.
It has to be
about the ritual intended.
So, cut to the chase.
There is no perfection,
just a mind-bound concept applied.
And the reward for its usage is?
Well, generally self-agreement,
confirmation of expectations,
are the straight up, givens.
And whom of you
do those providing answers serve?
Wow, I open that door
and it is like
there is a bustle of me’s.
It is like lifting the cover
on a dark space within
and all of the cock roaches of me
rustle nervously for new positions
in response to the light of that action.
Well, this is not a mirror environment
any more of my choosing.
There is no more mirror inquiry here!
These are all my kept puppies of me!
All of them only have a life through me.
And I have reduced their lives or my life
to this range and limitation for living.
Living in the dark of me
bent on eternal survival but lowly so.
Can we talk, I mean communicate?
I get it metaphorically
but can truth be spoken.
Okay, no more mirror time.
And I’m not putting this cover back on.
We need a common language base
and more light on our living as me.
I’d like to transform the cock roaches
warmly into my kept puppies
and then grows us up all together
with some conscious bonding
and my life
without this superficial awareness
of mirrors of perfection as feedback,
at my beck and call.

Tuesday, May 21, 2013

Tracer (haiku) 5/21/13

visually track 
along a shadow’s sharp edge
finger as tracer

Monday, May 20, 2013

the marrow of this moment * 5/20/13

These bones are dancing
yet even in motion,
they appear to be as solids.
Held still, a lack of motion
is what we would see.
But sitting within this body,
there is no sense of density
or the posture of a dull frame
as if just strung together
to represent behind tissue
and what not.
Oh I know, there are few nerves
near bone to identify with the action.
Who could know for themselves (?)
Yet these are dancing bones
as there is a sense of self
in lightness and expanse,
with soft inner tissue
kissing up to vast.
Humming sound is reverberating,
without overture,
and with no visible shimmers. 
It is so resounding
as if a rumba array
is ushered across the sky,
horizon to horizon.
And yet, deeply buried inside
what is solidified.
Within there is a timbre
to bathe in as cellular hum,
a special wizardry for dawning.
Time has fascination on its face
in a thick of lightness in the field.
Traditional tic and tock
are unpronounceable.
The metronome of self,
is mesmerized and soulful.
This is marrow and moment,
fused in enchantment.
Only muted questions ascending
are readily heard.
Self-observation has no elements
of forthright focus.
Breath is breeze,
everywhere escorting
all the senses,
together as a capella,
joyously uplifted into aliveness
as the marrow of this moment.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

tradition (haiku) 5/19/13

the Saturday sound 
horn-blaring wedding party
passing down the street

Saturday, May 18, 2013

The work of joyless joy * 5/18/13

I am my own
eye sore for looking,
my own touch
returning as distain,
my own paradox of embrace.
What I breathe in,
never leaves me cleanly.
What I say as will
comes back to be haunt.
Where there is bother
I am bound as a listener.
What is cruel around
fills me with sacred nod.
Blasphemy prays without victims
from deep within me.
Deluge affirms me
by its inward calling.
Disaster is my sweet science
of sanctified regard.
God is a mind state
yet directly unrealized.
I am predicaments
yet without cause.
I am a broad wick
somehow constantly on fire,
burning away all of the wax
that keeps me sane.
Meaning for me
is as liquid exists
until the paint of it dries.
Then as flat face fixtures
these symbols do somehow transcend.
It is a hall of mirrors
that only reflects sheen.
Tears are my joyful slip n slide                                                                     
down from these calamities.
Yet joy, simple joyless joy for me,
never has an outcome.
It just gives me a permission
to engage from the light within
with whatever these initial offerings
may give as appearances in dismay.
Such is the work of joyless joy . . .

Friday, May 17, 2013

trash day (haiku) 5/17/13

garbage truck sounds off
gearing, grinding and grunting
neighborhood pickups

Thursday, May 16, 2013

Beyond on * 5/16/13

I do not want to be surrounded
by what turns me on.
I want to live beyond on-ness.
I do not want to be the fixed burn
in this, a fall back life.
I want to be fully aware
of all the rules of on-ness.
And surrender to a life
yet beyond on-ness.
No stimulation to be in response.
No dream to live alive and claim.
No proof of worth to demonstrate.
No story to fulfill, pulling me along.
To surrender, beyond on-ness.
Art beyond the frame as coming.
Isness without the wail or wishing.
Presence without the claim solidifying.
All things made out of oneness
as they are confluent and stream.
Fluid beyond what measures.
Time is as a mobius strip in passing.
Space beyond what its gifting means.
Not a here nor there to locate.
No edges made of something solidified. 
Just fluid, viscous, into overflow.
Where mass as wardrobe,
winks back, and knows.
Yes, beyond what turns me on,
and be . . .

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

trees (haiku) * 5/15/13

all trees remarry
every year with a novel 
ring ceremony

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

placebo code * 5/14/13

Deep within the alchemistry
of the brain,
unseen electrical overtures as rituals
are evoked by the combined usage
of exterior symbology
as an external motherboard.
This as a stimulant, if you will,
is constructed over time
by physical practices,
momentous impactfull innuendos,
innocent beliefs carried forward,
consensual Machiavellian overrides,
personalized private trauma,
propinquitous conditioning,
psychic imports,
natural affinities,
generational miasmas,
the spillage from undisclosed genetics,
the negative Zen of the conscious mind,
and the unheralded call out, 
up from the deepest void sensed within.
All of this is, as part
of the workings of the placebo code.
Science, driven by
the dumb down of dollar,
has made inroads
into physiological responses
as the result of ingesting drugs.
But this as truth,
is not to the core of being
where mind, by its own means
can produce physiological interventions
non-medical but effective.
This features neurotransmitters
at work on biochemical pathways
where by placebo is medicine,
as this neurology makes a difference
activating electrical and metabolic,
moving molecules as if by perception.
Where by caring
is a healing ritual self applied
using the placebo code
as a somewhat conscious process
activating subtle healing cues.
The art of medicine
has died in the mind.
The science of care
has never had a soul.
Placebo has heart as mind
and lives to serve soul . . .

Monday, May 13, 2013

trees embrace (haiku) 5/13/13

your favorite stand
of silent trees embracing
a soft breeze passing

Sunday, May 12, 2013

the involuntary work of the exiled * 5/12/13

Barred from expectation's homeland,
cut out from familiarity's heart
as an option to respond,
voided from all exterior confirmation,
the orphan's empowerment                                                                            
is in the expanse of emptiness
and imagined rejection
strengthened by travail.
Abandonment spawns
the sweeping efforts towards search,
redirected in scope and ardor
by mystical enterprise.
The possession of unique powers
by unusual means as mediums
of the contradictions,
have parented the way.
Circumstances conveyed lessons
into character.
First impression oppositions became
the endearment of friendship.
Opportunity is blindly knighting
the far-reaching-ness of all things.
All thorns became unsolicited mentors
of encouragement.
The blood is transformed
as the self-chalice is transforming.
There is no death of significance
to undermine the yearning.
The unwanted-ness
makes for an intimacy
of a vaster space.
No one is afforded the opportunity
to help in a kindly way.
All props of representation
are lame and askew.
All symbols of self
are confusing to everyone.
All imperfections,
as others would claim perception,
are rejected.
The belonging never ceases
to be destroyed by further acquisition.
And sorrow becomes the consort
filling breath with solemnity.
Hurt becomes the skeletal firewood
supporting an inward blaze.
Creativity becomes a form
of isolation's prayer.
Bazaar elements commonplace
what others ignored.
Sacrifice has no properties
of self-imposition.
The martyr appears
as if by invitation.                                                                                    
If all goes well,      
this never ending dies
into the arms
of a new beginning . . .

Saturday, May 11, 2013

Understood (haiku) 5/11/13

if I understood
then I would do nothing much
but distance myself

Friday, May 10, 2013

common soul * 5/10/13

Under their limited caste
and karmic circumstances,
a paper plate sits on the table 
wishing only to be
the likes of a paper napkin
in a paper napkin’s life,
while a paper napkin
also sits there on the same table,
secretly wishing to be 
the likes of a paper plate
in the paper plate’s life.
Glances are distantly exchanged.
Later they happenstance met
in the trash,
face to face, so to speak,
only to discover
the tragic story
they commonly share.
But in doing so
they come to recognize
that they may have come
from the same forest,
surprisingly from the same stand,
maybe even the same tree.
They then commonly rejoiced
at their mutual consternation
that has given them
a depth of perspective
and their shared consciousness
of common soul . . .