be the change you want to see in the world...


All is the Radiant Seed. Seed never dies nor is it born; it is only in constant transition -- seed gives way to root and stem, to petals that bloom, to more seed that falls to the ground and again is the beauty that roots to the earth and reaches toward the heavens. It does so in perfect harmony. It does not cling to any of its forms, nor does it race on to the next. It is Pure Being. Follow Nature's example, and you will be Free -- Perfection Unfolding. 

Life is change. Allow it to be, or existence becomes a constant state of dying -- rejection of Life. 

 

The Answer in the Silence

i went to visit my Goddess tonight
i came to Her
with a question written on my heart
but She just smiled
and She
invited me to join Her
so, i swung underneath Her branches
and i left gravity behind
the weight of my emotion
the constriction of my fear
the binds of my doubt
the fixity of my tension
and my soul flew
while my body swung
back and forth
like a pendulum
keeping time
to the hypnotic groan
of the chains in my hands
that were setting me free
and my Goddess stayed silent
She just smiled
and She
wrapped me in the serenity
of her green
She called me
to come closer
obligingly, i dropped my feet
onto the damp earth
and i felt immediately
the depth of Her infinite pool
against my soles, against my soul
i was connected
solid and fluid
transition in motion
so utterly still
and beautiful
Her beauty was mine
but i cared only to watch Her
for one single eternal moment
because Her image
will last in my mind
for quite some forever
as i looked up at my Virgin bride
glowing in all Her splendor
draped in Her dress of purity
dripping with celestial bounty
and reaching out for love
She waits
to give
i told Her that She was beautiful
but She just smiled
and She
saw the question written on my heart
and in the silence
she sent a gentle breeze
to erase it
and replace it
with Patience
and with the faith of silent knowing
She instilled
i cried
in the arms of my Goddess tonight
but She just smiled
and She
called me to come closer
freely then
i stood at the feet of Her presence
and when i touched Her
i could feel Her beating heart
She would forever be
my Guardian and my Source
Her pulse revealed
as i felt the force of life
flood through my open palms
and feeling my
Thank You
She smiled
and i whispered the softest
I Love You
before i let go of my Goddess
and as the meaning occurred to me
i turned
and smiled
i knew i wasn't ready
for all the Secrets that she held
but She would be waiting
in the children's garden of Dreams
and as i began the journey Home
i gazed up at the night sky
to see my Goddess
in the space between the clouds
and She just smiled
and i heard
the answer
is on the wind
that whispers between the trees
beneath the feathering of your wings
beyond predictability to possibility
and bordering the galaxies
killing time
by banishing it
for no want
to waste it
it is that wise wind
it is that breeze
that blows
the kisses
planting messages on your tongue
and if you listen
you will speak
the words you seek
to be said

This Side Up
i'm just trying
to stand
to plant
my own two feet
in solid ground
where roots
can grow
deep seeded
in self-conceived
wombs

-
i'm just looking
for a place
to call
"home"
inception
and destination
where
orbicular revolutions
reveal eternity
through
tree rings
of life
cut down

-
i'm just seeking
to keep
my balance
in a tilted-axis
world
where ideas
are top heavy
and dreams
weigh us down
and we hope
when the world
turns around
we might see
right side up

-
i'm just aiming
to touch
the sky
and let my body
reach for light
and in such
learn to stretch
beyond the heights
of expectation
and find the
strength
in stillness
and surrender
-
i'm just finding
that all beginnings
stem
from somewhere
       and growth
may only be sustained
in hope

Secret Promises
there is something about the air
in winter
the air and the trees
sometimes i swear
they send secrets
on the breeze
their cold, soft whisperings
brush my face
bringing color to my cheeks
they speak
sometimes i swear
to me
they do
the bare trees hold the promise
of spring
i catch them singing
sometimes i swear
their promise lingers
in the air
and i breathe it in
the secret on the wind
hope
and it fills my lungs
'till it touches my heart
and releases my tongue
to whisper
on the breeze
to carry to the trees
my hidden promise
and we share secrets
sometimes i swear
just me and the air
in winter
the air and the trees


My feet are rooted to Earth
     no matter where I stand;
     I stand strong, solid, connected
    deep in the core of humanity.
My hands and crown reach toward the Heavens,
     ever-present, ever-expanding,
     with wings to carry me, to lift me up,
     to keep me seeking Higher Ground.
I am the flowing river;
I am the rain that falls;
I am the ocean from which they both originate
     and journey home to.


Why is Pure Natural Awareness considered an Altered State of Consciousness?

The human experience is that which is synthetic -- artificial, manufactured by human agency, by the mind alone. It is our most altered and most unnatural experience of the world.

The human experience is a drug, with which we are in constant search of the next High; we are addicted. And like blind fiends we seek our fix in all the wrong places. Any place we seek cannot be found. There is no destination, no arrival -- no coming, nor going. There is only HERE, NOW -- Ultimate Source. There is only what IS.

And in our ravenous seeking, in our hunger, we resist what is. Missing the Wholeness of the Present, we ravage the earth and its people -- hurting our selves and each other -- our Greater Self, our Spirit Complete.

Cut off from the world, our skin becomes a boundary, our flesh a gaping wound.

As the Lost and Forsaken Child, our reality is pain and suffering -- fear and longing, future and past, dividing us -- our reality is duality, a constant tear in two.

Form is an illusion, the stuff of no substance, little more than a dream that eludes us at our Waking. In Waking, we become Masters of our Experience.

In that Waking Awareness, that Timeless No-Boundary Awareness, we Are without end or beginning. We Are .. all that IS. There is no conceiving of this, there is no seeking of it, nor is it ever found. It is the Truth of what we are -- without ceasing -- our Essence, Itz, Nectar, Breath, Life.

There is no escaping it. You Are It -- even now. You need only be Aware of what Is. You need only allow what Is. In breathless abandon, shout it, simply -- Is!

That is our Ecstasy. That is our Ultimate fix. That is our Greatest High Unfolding -- our own manifestation of Heaven here on Earth.

We are Divine Beings, having a human experience, not the other way around. 
 


Mastery of Self

wisdom tells me
that the mastery of self
is the greatest achievement in life;
but that we
as humans
are masters of being
what we are not.
we spend our entire lives
perfecting the art of
imagery --
the image we project
and sacrifice self to protect.
yet, by creating
this perfect projection of ourselves,
we procure a personal discrepancy
that invites emptiness,
impedes self-love,
and invariably effaces

any attempt to give oneself to another.
how can one give
of what they have yet to find?
experience has told me
that until i come to peace
with my own self
i will consistently be at war
with my own reality
fighting life
instead of learning
what it could be;
that until i own my life
deception will be natural
and acceptable;
that until i know who i am
i will never know another;
that until myself and i
are joined as one
the distance between myself
and others
will be forever greater
than the sum of both parts;
that until i am present
in my own body
my skin will never know
the touch of another;
that if i am not real
my experience will never be.


i love

i love

my body

my body is a reflection

of my inner goddess

my legs stand strong and planted

like the roots of the ancient Madrone

to the Earth Mother’s womb

securing me to the core of humanity

nourishing me from Her enduring source

of vitality

i dance

 

i love

my body

my arms are soft yet sturdy

long and flowing

they reach for higher ground

they extend towards the heavens in praise

they come together before the heart

in prayer and meditation

these arms have burdened sandstone

and lifted children

connected to the shoulder for you to cry on

they give solace

i embrace

 

i love

my body

my core is of power

but humble

it is here

that my inner goddess resides

She takes comfort in my curves

that were meant

for giving

i draw on Her energy

and release Her life force

unto the gentle breezes

with my breath

                my body is a messenger of light

                my body is a vessel

i love

 

                my body



Corporate Corporeality

Mangled manikins

Splayed in a lurid array

Made tenable the unattainable

In graphic display

 

Displayed pauciloquent

And passive:   The

Parceled piecemeal sale

Of edible, beautiful

Bites

 

Bitten bodies, eaten by

Blind greed. Power

Stripped, stark naked, sold

For green

 

Green machine proliferates

The unseen. Advertising --

Not-so-inadvertently --

A blanket sexuality

 

Sexualized teens embody

What they see, wearing for

Show the struggle on their

Sleeves:    Corporeality

Of the textual

 

Text doesn’t fit the skin

Sitting on the margins

Boxed into a [too-thin]

Reality

 

Realize:    suppressed

Words reach through

What in silence

Keeps not silent --

Screams

The Tree of Life
and I
are cut from the same cloth
made from the same mold
bones and branches
blossom from the same
radiant seed
the same
Itz
the same
Life --
the same death
 and resurrection
the same perfection --
flows through our veins
bursting forth
     and breaking down
building circles
 upon cycles
of growth
and we are so old
our ringing
is the air we breathe
Truth is told on exhalation
Love is known in All Creation
a single body
a single story of We:

our bones and branches beat
with Blood of Earth
that falls from Heart of Sky
the sacrifice that creates Life --
the same death and resurrection
the same perfection. 

Nighttime held the sky

situated above our heads.

The moon, strung swollen

on its black chord, called us

away from the hypnotic motion

of cars hissing past.

We tried to penetrate

the buzzing fluorescent glow of

city life, our eyes squinched up

like bats, we aimed our sights

above concrete, brick, and steel

to solid moonlight. A casual

midnight stroll past shuffling

men who smiled through missing

teeth and girls who shrieked

with laughter.        

          Smiling,

he fingered the lighter

in his pocket, eyes waxing

in their tired sockets.

He smelled of smoke

and moist skin. Our timid palms

met in the middle of 10th St.

and Thyme, where the steady grind

of shoe against pavement gave way

to the nighttime's weary sigh.



Are you paying attention?

tomorrow
is just another day
to borrow time
for what we couldn't buy
to save our lives
because change
is a dying art form
and no one knows
how to do it with grace
and nowadays
people save face
at the expense of
wasting existence
the going rate is
your soul
SOLD to the highest
bitter
our fruitless bodies
gone sour from disuse
or abuse
and limbs lie limp
and useless as
vestigial remnants of
life
yesterday
i tried to write
my wrongs
out rhythmically
i set them free
across the page
the ink bled Truth
like open wounds do
unabated
hold onto
a shred of truth
like it's an illusion
and let it lie verily
under your pillow
until you learn
to speak it fluently
like dreams do
then let it go
and wake up
because
today
is the only reality
worth anything
and the question
of currency is
are you paying
attention?



heaven isn't far off when you're reaching

i deviated
from the culturally paved
path
and stumbled upon
myself
standing solitary
in a
New World
of green
and flickers of
light
dancing
ever graceful
playfully
on life's wooden tongue
tying spirit
of awe
i carved my way
with care
atop the clay-like
Earth
and i thought the
Sun
might consummate
my walk
for all eternity
leaving beauty
in my wake
to lead the way
for those who follow
their dreams
~
i saw heaven on earth
in a tangle
of trees
one had fallen
from grief
or some force
of nature
that struck
out of anger
seeking balance
my heart smiled
a sigh
as the sight
caught my eye
this felled tree
caught by neighboring
arms
branches intermingled
and embracing
warmed
by the light
of the sun
shining down
on they
the ones
who love
who lift
each other up
who rise above
who rise above
who rise above
these are they
that love
one another
and their testimony
stands
in their outstretched
hands
that heaven
lay in the heart
of those who love

 

 

A Prayer

Great Spirit, help me to see the good in myself, always,
                to shine my own light, always,
                that I might see the good in others, always.

Let me learn to walk in harmony with myself,
                that I will know how to be in harmony
                with my Greater Self, All Creation.

Thus, my walk will be made in beauty, and
                my footsteps will show others the way.

Let my life become the greatest offering
                of my deepest gratitude
                for this infinite well-spring of joy
                we know as life.

 

i surrender
i am not afraid to die to this world
i am not afraid to lose
everything i have
i own nothing
i have only what has been given to me
i wish for nothing
i need nothing
i am grateful for All

i dance in the mystery
i dance in the flames
of kali's transformative fire
i die the shaman's death
i face all fears
i embrace them
i invite them to tea
make them welcome within me
i do not fight duality
because i do not fight phantoms
i do not fight reality
because i create it

i call on my sisters and brothers
wake up
wake up from illusion
your pain is a mask
throw off your coverings
face your self
clean your mirror
reflect your light
tend your garden
let go
be free
and remember
love is always the answer.



if you ever feel like something is missing--
it's you.

you are the one you have been waiting for.

you can bang on heaven's door,
but you are wasting your time.
the kingdom is within.
it is up to us
to create it without


The product of a hard life          maybe

he was              sitting leaned against

the building across the street

his bare knees

held fast to his chest

brown-bruised by stone

blue-bitten by the cold.

Lost in thought       no doubt

he was              dancing across

the nameless faces passing by.


A musing maestro         here

he was              conducting the city's

caustic symphony.


I studied him in his frame  

                 latent  laugh  lines           

graced

              his lips         

                             his brow

now weighted with the watching

of other lives.


Who was he     once

a man with a family       by chance

a man who loved.        

Left

impossibly broken by a dream   perhaps

intangible          or otherwise unattainable.


I imagined him     quixotic

contaminated by flightless fancies

a professor       maybe even      once

sitting much the way

that I am now               staring

over a hot cup of coffee.


“Shotoku Taishi: At Age Two”

Shotoku:

The artisan’s practiced stroke

has carved you clean. Whittled

down to a fine sapling, your

youth glows. Your two-year-

old body, broken from the mold,

stares constant to the east.

You stand at attention,

disciplined, yet supple and

yielding still, with your hands

together in prayer, small

as my palms, held motionless,

full of purpose. Peace

has been sculpted in your

stature, in the very folds

of your garment that

falls, gracefully as it does,

far beneath your toes.

But it is your eyes, Shotoku,

that have me mesmerized;

there is a warrior in your

focus. It bores through me,

heart first, in search of my

silence.

 

Standing before you,

I am daybreak.

I ascend with your voice,

flushing the morning sky

with the light of Om. 

i will stand
innocently enough
with patient will
impassively
though perhaps
inappropriately
in a field
simultaneously
shouting obscenities
screaming insecurities
and singing sweet
like sangre
somewhere
south of sundown
i will stand
on a purple
mountaintop
majesty
praying for peace
atop the precious
precipice
powerfully pummeling
preeminent
utterances
until they're
easy to digest
i will stand
easily
east of dew
adorned dawns
dancing dialogue
drawing deaths
and resurrections
in sacred sands
i will stand
wild and wistful
to the west
of winter solstice
waging war
through witness
speaking tongues
and teaching
transformation
i will stand
north of
nowhere
far from here
where worlds
are within reach
of each and every
elemental earthling
siblings soaring
ceremoniously
in sanctified skies
i will stand
wherever winds
are blowing
breaking barriers
by focusing
body and breath
i will stand
for dissasembling
detrimental -isms
in decent
dialectical
designation
of daring dreams
i will stand
for me
which is we
the people
i will stand
solitary
i will stand
sentient
i will stand
strong

i will stand
for something
 

 

 

your lips: sweet summer rain,
soft, fuchsia, flower petals

your eyes: honey and wheat,
cedar bark, dark-chocolate-rimmed
beauty, a hint of ash

your hair: feathers, down feathers,
sunlight, blushing pear, a lion’s mane,
untamed

your skin: adobe, a mix of;
age, youth, clay, sand, and
water

 

poemas a la madre

i saw the fabric of existence.
it appeared, immaculate, in night's time,
the dark hot void before me,
a flash of light,
brief candle, short thread of
grandmother's burning white hair.

a web,
reflected in moonlight,
spider's spindle craft,
the masterpiece of creation
woven intricate as a
grand design.

oh maker,
sweet black dangerous
mother of us all, may we
know you as the very
air we breathe.

~ ~ ~

i saw the Mother today,
round and squat, wearing
an olive green sundress.

it hugged Her almond skin,
cincturing Her middle into
stacked orbs. She was an
overstuffed caterpillar.

She didn't walk, she waddled
with Her bare duck feet as Her
companion strode along, pushing
a shopping cart full of dirty laundry.

"Gran Madre," i asked,
"what are you doing?"

She smiled. "Nothing, hija."
"Just taking my things to wash them.

as i turned to walk away,
i felt the rain.

 

do you see the flowers?

 

 

Flower, that’s what I call her,
she wears a smile,
sends her son for Starbucks
and cigarettes while she weaves
roses out of reeds -- or weeds--
depending on how you see them.

Depending on how you see them.

Depending on how you see them,
the people of the streets might be
flowers.

Puppet likes to tell stories.
Emphatic gestures greet infinite
eyes in one fluid movement.
He tells me the one where
the tractor ran over his hand.

Pain is boundary-destroying --
here, we meet, and the healing
of his hand is my miracle, too.

Henry is not from the streets,
but he is wandering. Red wicker
hat, crimson-rimmed glasses,
grinning in his seventy years.

Laughter is his medicine.

He says the size of the human soul
is one ten-thousandth that a single strand
of hair, the spark of which is responsible
for warming the entire physical body.

This is from the Bhagavad Gita.

Loretta just wants to go home,
but she can’t afford bus fair.
The hospital band, illumined
by street light, looks foreign
on her weathered, bony wrist.

Her liver is failing.

Michael’s fiancée died on 9/11.

He’s shouting at the Jack-in-the-Box
security guard:
“Back up off that woman. She’s trying
to feed her baby. And I don’t give a fuck.
I’ll go to jail for killing a rent-a-cop.”

We sit at the bus stop. He tells me
he can see my aura. “Yes, it’s blue,”
I say. “No,” he says, “it’s sad.”

William thinks I’m beautiful.
I kiss his cheek.
“I think you’re beautiful, too.”

 

She Sees

my child wants to
live
my child wants to
swing and
touch the tips of the trees
with her toes
she wants to dream
and laugh
with the freedom
from an intrinsic trust
in the world
that i lost long ago
she wants
to run
through fields of
possibilities
and scream
with delight
and not the fear that binds
the frightened one
the enlightened one
is the child
who smiles
in silent knowing
that she is love itself
and the misconstrued and mangled
misconceptions of the world
have not yet tangled her
perception of reality
because she sees
     hope
springs eternal
in the arms of little ones
and it's the hands that long to reach
that will lift us up
my child wants to
dance in the rain
and sing on the street
smile at every stranger she meets
because she sees
     God
is everyone and everything
she believes in God
as surely as God is She
my child wants to
hum
to her soul's content
and creation's concerto
playing hopscotch backwards
while counting figures in the clouds
and laying on her back
in the grass
spread eagle
feeling she could fly
higher than the mountaintops
that she has never seen
but in her dreams
they are more real
than anything
that stands before her
because she sees
     truth
is known only to those who are honest
and a promise is something you keep
and it lasts
forever is an eternity and a lifetime away
but she'll experience it all
because she sees
time is an illusion
that adults become slave to
but she is everything
in a single moment
and she has faith
in what she believes
my child wants to cry so hard
that she laughs
because she knows in her being
that it allows her soul to breathe
and because she sees
freedom is free

 


the [sum] of my parts < me

i am more than the sum of my parts
more than eyes, than lips, than thighs
more than sex and gender combined
when they're not like
                                fractions
of self

more than cell and egg
and counter-reproductive
self-destruction

identity is -- or rather,
will cease to be
culturally constructed
disorder
             of eating
or any other kind

this right + that wrong
does not complete me
or solve the problem

 

there exists
an unbalanced equation
wherein the division
of bodies and souls
is long
           extinct --
or rather, will be
    within the unity
    of st
           rat
                is
                  fied
    parts
    of me
    of you
    of we

 

    lets take d
                  o
                  w
                   n
                     the WALL

    and put our [selves]
    together again

 

ella cayó como un pétalo en otoño
el desconocido le dijo
que sus ojos fueron amable
pero ella no pudo reconocer
la luz, la maravilla, la fuerza serena
residiendo en el brillo
de sus estanques profundos
ella estudió su reflejo
en el espejo
su mirada fija fue intransigente
pero sus ojos brillantes
no reflejaron bondadoso
su visión, su visión de sí misma
y su tristeza persistía
porque sus ojos sólo pudieron revelar
lo que su mente creyó
ella miró mientras las lágrimas
acumulaban en sus estanques profundos
y caían como pétalos en otoño


rough translation:

she fell like a petal in autumn
a stranger told her
that her eyes were kind
but she was not able to recognize
the light, the wonder, the serene force
residing in the shine
of her deep reservoirs
she studied her reflection
in the mirror
her gaze was intransigent
but her brilliant eyes
did not reflect kindly
her vision, her vision of herself
and her sadness persisted
because her eyes could only reveal
that which her mind believed
she watched as the tears
accumulated in her deep reservoirs
and fell like petals in autumn


Neftalí Ricardo Reyes Basoalto

He was the Earth.

His skin was the color of

Chile’s sands. His hands

were rough as a hide,

folded like a gentleman’s,

indicative of the giving of

Love. His lips were two

twin tamales, leathery and

wet, a mouth of hot breath

and incendiary words.

His words tasted of passion.

He sat regal as the mountains

and, seemingly, as tall. His

eyes held the wisdom of

stone, and all its strength.

They said:

                  “Pido Silencio.”

 

“My soul is an empty carousel

                at sunset.”

His voice was gravel at its

sweetest, mellifluous

to my small ears.

Pablo, what does it mean?

It means yo volveré. Life

is circles.

 

I visited his grave.

He was the Earth.

The worms fed on his

flesh, and the birds,

after breakfast, sang

his praises. And I, one

of many, keep his words

Alive.

 

“My soul is an empty carousel

                at sunset.”

Yo volveré.

 


A Confession

i want to carry you on my tongue like a prayer,

say you until you become the echoing

of my everydayness, never dulling

against the whetting of my palate.

 

i want to press you firmly against the roof of my mouth

until your essence overpowers me, flooding

my oral floor to the point of slavering

as you water me, rain over me, reign

over me.

 

i want to take our not-two-ness to a new level,

make as above so below, bringing the Heavens down

in how i fall into you.

 

i want to fall into you.

 

i want to fall into your translucent surface

and make waves, make a sea of concave-

convex complexity, weaving in and out

as complementary aspects of one in the same

sultry skin-boundary.

 

i want to enter you on an inhale,

fill your lungs with life and therein

       die

to be reborn

            and die, be born, and die…

and be reborn as some immaculate conception

in your chest cavity

 

         until you exhale me

and i am made bournless in your breath


Francis Jean Gaston Alfred Ponge (1899-1988)

Francis,

You have been taken from this place (been put out), moved on from one thing to the next.

 

Without you here, the world has lost some of its color, just a bit of its luster has been snubbed out by the crude rub of a chewed up eraser.

 

Time does that to things; it wears them down. But you were la voix de choses. You translated the wakefulness of things, saw models of the universe reflected in the most unlikely things.

 

Without you here, an orange is just a fruit –  a dull one at that. It is still life. We do not approach its rind with anticipation – which it rightly deserves – for the pleasurable pealing and scraping of our fingertips, catching bits of juice beneath our nails. We are remiss, neglecting to smell its humility – less sweet than the apple, less sour than the lemon – content to be an afterthought of our awareness. The truth is, we cannot tell our oranges from our kumquats.

 

Your words gave life to ordinary things, gave that little extra to ordinary things. Like a canny magician, you filled the world with extraordinary things.

 

And we are children, enamored by your alchemy.    

 

Please,

let us, through you, remember the raison d'être of the orange, the verdant life unseen within its seed – a magnificent portent of what is yet to be.

sea como cristo

i am god
and this is not a statement of
egocentricity
but one of
practicality
and actuality
and i do not find myself to be
omniscient or
omnipotent
though quite possibly
omnipresent
as i am everything
such as everything is me
yet i digress
from a point that doesn't really exist
beyond my own perception
*ahem*

i am god
my body is a manifestation of god
i was created in the image of god
(as i have been taught to believe)
and if all that is created
contains the heart of its creator
thus i must be
as i have come to see
that i am christ
for i am the hands and feet of christ
in the world
i am the embodiment
of an idea
and my hands and feet
were made
to make
ideas into realities
making dreams
the stuff of
presence
not of legend
a certain presage
or presentiment
that Hope
and Faith
and Love
and Truth
would become my light
to shine in the darkest of places
but principally
to See
that we are all beings of light
and to show the way
through action
of my hands and feet
but being everything
i find that
i am human
and am fallible at best
but quite possibly careless
is the worst thing that i could be
so, i continue to walk
and i continue to reach
with the hands and feet
of christ
with the hope
that i am working towards
something greater than myself
all that I AM
which is all of creation
and it will all begin with me
a representation
of the individual
a single body
with the hands and feet of christ
just an idea
but as a great man once said
there is nothing more powerful
than an idea
whose time has come
and what it stands for
gives me the strength to stand
on my own two feet
of christ
and use these hands to create
what i believe

what is the gestation period of love?

suppose it is something like:
          the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings
ed. note: [during courtship, the hummingbird can flap
                  its wings up to 200 times per second]

suppose it is something like
          the time it takes to recognize your lover
          in the proverbial ‘crowd,’
or      face to face,  the time for eyes
to communicate the ancient dance of love
within the soul
ed. note: [this involves fire, drums, and movements
                  i’ve forgotten]

i suppose it is something like
          no time at all

for what does time know of love –
except its passing?

time creates a differentiation, a dissonance,
          between Then and Now
there is no such difference

love exists outside of time
love exists in All time

did i not love you from the very Beginning?

Truly, i tell you, you are my lover

 

Drawing Connections

we tied string around our wrists
to heal the rift between

our hearts, torn apart by space,
we danced our shadows

along the wall, while all the other
kids laughed, but they were

the lonely ones.  we set our
differences aside, the left side

we decided was the best
place to rest them. we were

silly then, seven years old and
strong [-willed and-hearted], not yet

sorry for actions.  guilt weakens
the bones.  did you know

the body replaces every one
of its cells in seven years?

we were nothing of our first-
born-selves, save our wonder. 

 

love is watching a sunset
from its very beginning,
a moment indiscernible
in a world of light
impregnated with color.

there is no separation between things
nor is there any distinction of time nor space.
this All-time, All-space, ever-present-ywhere
Grace
                is love
this love is our love
this love is you, is me, is we.
love is the flower, unafraid,
it clings to none of its forms or stages.
it is constant becoming, blooming,
blooming, rooted and reaching
in perfect harmony.
i love you like the flower.
i love you like the flower loves
                                     the sun
and the wind loves
                          the flower
and the rain falls…
                                      with eternal compassion.
i love you as the Earth,
receptive mother, womb
of All, who takes the seed
and warms it in Her belly.
i love you as Her love,
with Earth’s love, the
resting place of your love,
and you, my love, are
always welcome here.
Love,
            Love

Kerouac,  I love you, darling

Nothing makes sense – and why should it? – when reality is a nonsensical mess of perfect order.  Fuck. Shit. Reality – what we see – is not seen at all. It is the unseen screened by the manifestation of rotten non-sense. Left over conditioning played and replayed in a tired drama. Rewind to yesterday when you thought thinking thoughts and got lost in the play where … all the days are the same. Are you happy? You should be. Because you are The Golden Eternity. Now and now and… Now. What you ate for breakfast is what you spit out to strangers so be careful what you put in your stomach. Food for thought: Miracles grow on trees and lies are the echoes of eternity burning truth in concentric rings around my lips when I speak it. There is no difference between you an eye, so smile wide as a cracked canyon and let your river flow. Who do you know? No, who do you really know? Do you get it, yet? Who do you really know? Nothing no one no-thing. And it’s a damn good thing cuz there’s no separation btween wings in The Golden Eternity. We’re all flying. Rings, wings, and beautiful things all sing one note. Om. Note to self: I’m running out of things to say cuz words confuse the . The point I’m trying to make is – I am obviously restless in the forgetting of emptiness. The full-empty-Allness has been filled with clutter – and trash. And We need nothing more than to remember that The Golden Eternity is full-empty-Allness is nothingness is somethingness is everthingness is you is me is we is to know that remembering is a distraction. Just Be. Fruit your flower and taste the Divine nectar of Now.

 

Make a Free Website with Yola.