A Joke Wrapped in a Parody Inside Make-Believe

One is either on or off but never two or nothing. 

A fact like this is self-evident when clearly seeing as oneself. If not, one is divided by belief and feel a separation is existing where there’s none. 

Thus the universe is not a universe and cause is not effect and action is a work of doing by a separate will that’s free of all holistic intent. 

In such a world there’s war between the one and suffering for this which isn't and a slow and painful death for that never born.

It's like the joke about the nonexistent chicken and the one who needs the eggs. Wake up if you've heard this one before.

Unbelievably Unborn and Deathless

The dream of leaves is waiting in this morning's snow. Although the spring’s potentiality appears to be a frozen void and blank impossibility or any metaphor for signifying nothing.

But from that ground in March, the buds of life will suddenly appear and blossom, growing into worlds fantastic. Such am I. From out of nowhere, I arrived.

And then the world conditioned this mere presence to construct a fabrication full of thought and raw emotion. There I lived forgetting what I am, like a wild and anxious being in a jungle of abandon and destruction.

But wisdom is always in the wind. Return to being and appreciate its simple unbelievability and more. Or less. For what we see as nothing comes to claim itself again. There never is this something else—

being has never been.

Uncertain and Unknown

No one knows which way the wind will blow. 

The butterfly effect is certainly as subtle as a flower. 

The birds are being and the bees are buzzing and 

the buzz is on the street; the news is never something old. 

The past is but the fiction that we build around ourselves 

in order to traverse an ever-changing landscape 

of a universe intent on knowing the unknown. 

The path begins among a green explosion we call trees. 

In fact there's no beginning, not to mention any object 

like our image of a tree. Thus, whether one believes or not 

is neither here nor there. Uncertainty is just this godchild 

of that great unknown and loving it is clearly godsend.

nothing much pseutra

like someone said: much ado about nothing.

  

1.

seeing the false as false is not seeing the false as bad.

suffering together = compassion = turning inwards = repentance = seeing through = awareness of oneself = love = wisdom.

pay attention to nothing and see how it came to be.

effortless, unintentional, sudden and timeless.

pure awareness unknowing viewless godhead, loving knowledge being silent godchild, and enlightening intent earnest wu wei holy spirit godsend.

not to mention compassionately deconstructing mind.

there are no words...

2.

there's really nothing to it. like remembering deep sleep.

like how the world just suddenly comes to you.

intent is self-medicinal

diamond, wind and water.

everybody is trying to feel nothing. one way or the other.

whatever way you take to feel nothing will be addictive until you truly realize you are nothing.

to experience something so completely as to know it arises from nothing, toward nothing, and within nothing.

3.

note there's not even nothing in nothing.

the gate only opens when you see there's no gate.

and without something there isn't nothing.

but the gate never opens if you believe there's no gate.

nothing and the art of surfing.

something and the art of suffering.

one doesn't experience nothing as much as nothing manifests one.

Venus on a Universal Shell

The gods go living in our DNA. 

Those primal waves of consciousness 

from numberless millennia 

are churning in its chemistry. 

Walking through this Mount Olympus, 

I am every vital one of them. 

I worship each on landscaped altars 

with grateful garlands of wildflowers—

for in truth I'm not a single one of them. 

In essence, even Mars is not a planetary 

warrior but the pull of earliest division. 

Seeing it as such is seeing through it. 

Holding all these gods within my space, 

I honor them but never occupy 

their territory. All but Venus. 

Love! The sea is parting. 

Love! All space is disappearing. 

Love! I'm washing up upon this desert 

shoreline, disembodied, universal, 

bursting with original intent.

Moby I

Thus I give up the search.

Existence is completely unbelievable 

and yet undoubtedly I am. 

Nothing else is as self-evident as this. 

The world is just conditioning, 

be it chemical or social, 

just this matrix formed by evolution 

in the service of enlightening intent. 

But all of it is nothing without consciousness, 

or in that little lower layer of expression, 

all of it is consciousness, all of it, I am. 

But further, maties, further: 

in the seeing all there is is this I am, 

the I that is is making clear 

that nothing other is than I. 

In other words, 

not even am is; 

only I. 

Aye, my captain, aye!

The Moon Quartet

Faith-healing

The moon is nurse tonight.

Its therapeutic crescent

holds the sky within its care.

I feel its soothing reflection

in the bottomless asylum

of these bones. And I divine

its energetic gravity

within this rush of blood.

What wolf is this that walks

my breath? What seventh son am I?

Apollo pulls me from the underworld

with power of a god’s intent.

Oh yes, the world is healed within

a faith beyond all space and time.

And shaman-like I shine!

New Moon Monkeyshine

The moon is only new

because it turns to face the sun.

No longer is the world

a matter of its slightest interest.

Wolves are tame, coyotes

just a waste of breath, and all

the poets drowned themselves

before this singular event.

Their words are washing up

upon this pointless page. They say

the moon is always new;

the world should get a clue.

Deep Goddess

Deep sleep is nearest

that to what I am

and day is time to suffer

all delusions contrary

until I know this that

I am. The moon repeats

as specified. Returning to

the source, the sun is guided

by the cryptic goddess of

our underworld with dark

surreal and swirling dreams

of baby corn and kings,

of river-ways and rings,

of thoughts and things.

Until another day

arrives and sings.

No Independent Variable

There’s a place where science cannot go.

No measurements exist to be observed,

no words to be reviewed. The best that one

can do is point to something obvious

but not within our grasp. A mystic says

to look upon the moon. But most will either

turn that lunatic into a cult

of personality or immeasurably

comment that Apollo 'been there done that'

in nineteen-sixty-nine and all we got

was just a lousy bunch of rocks. No matter.

There’s a thing that science never gets

and I am always That right here right now.

No Independent Variable

for Debbie
There’s a place where science cannot go.

No measurements exist to be observed,

no words to be reviewed. The best that one

can do is point to something obvious

but not within our grasp. A mystic says

to look upon the moon. But most will either

turn that lunatic into a cult

of personality or immeasurably

comment that Apollo 'been there done that'

in nineteen-sixty-nine and all we got

was just a lousy bunch of rocks. No matter.

There’s a thing that science never gets

and I am always That right here right now. 

Deep Goddess

Deep sleep is nearest 

that to what I am 

and day is time to suffer 

all delusions contrary 

until I know this that 

I am. The moon repeats 

as specified. Returning to 

the source, the sun is guided 

by the cryptic goddess of 

our underworld with dark 

surreal and swirling dreams 

of baby corn and kings, 

of river-ways and rings, 

of thoughts and things. 

Until another day 

arrives and sings.

New Moon Monkeyshine

The moon is only new 

because it turns to face the sun. 

No longer is the world 

a matter of its slightest interest. 

Wolves are tame, coyotes 

just a waste of breath, and all 

the poets drowned themselves 

before this singular event. 

Their words are washing up 

upon this pointless page. They say 

the moon is always new; 

the world should get a clue.

Faith-healing

The moon is nurse tonight.

Its therapeutic crescent

holds the sky within its care.

I feel its soothing reflection

in the bottomless asylum

of these bones. And I divine

its energetic gravity

within this rush of blood.

What wolf is this that walks

my breath? What seventh son am I?

Apollo pulls me from the underworld

with power of a god’s intent.

Oh yes, the world is healed within

a faith beyond all space and time.

And shaman-like I shine!

Siddhi Sense

The kinesthetic understanding that the past and future are contained within the existential present—

the kinesthetic feeling that the undivided universe is my extended body—

the kinesthetic seeing all is here within this space of being—

the kinesthetic flash from nowhere knowing I am That—

such primal powers are the common sense of self-awareness.

And the evolutionary elevation of this human existential self-awareness is now leading to awareness that awareness is oneself—

one can merely remember one is in the world; one can only be the moon; one is sun!

“Perhaps the sentiments contained in the [preceding lines,] are not yet sufficiently fashionable to procure them general favour; a long habit of not thinking a thing wrong, gives it a superficial appearance of being right.”

Undoing Dimeter

This is being 

writing now. 

Somewhere in 

the world, a child 

is learning long 

division. Yes, 

it's summertime 

in Rio; heavy 

lies the Yang 

in Yellowknife. 

Thoughtless people 

are full of thoughts 

they never see 

but seeing thoughts 

for what they are 

is simply mindful. 

Would you like 

to play a game 

of paradox-

ical roulette? 

Silence is 

the ammunition.

Really Heart Matters

She was five years old when I told her that her world was breaking. Her mother and father were caught within an argument without an ending. 

So I was moving out. And she was crying like I'd never seen her cry before. The world her parents built for her is being broken by her parents.

It's twenty-eight years later and I know just what I'm not and what I am and even know that knowing is a matter of imagination. 

It doesn't matter, though. Of all the places in the world that I've been driven to, that's the only one I wish I never visited.

Because I know I broke my daughter's heart that day. Although in time, of course, she mended. 

For hearts are not a matter of this world and can't be really broken. That's why it hurts so much when breaking one.

The Sermon on Love v. Love

Some say that love holds us in our time of incarnation 

resulting in continued ignorance of what we really are. 

And strife, and its resultant disaffection of its suffering, 

releases us from holding onto this divisional illusion.

Of course, there's some that say love is what we are 

as universal consciousness and its presence in our lives 

is just our way of telling us there is no ‘us’ of separate 

entities but just the one.

This apparent disagreement on the nature of love 

may just be one of definition, say romantic love, 

which sides with our desires, and unconditional love 

which has no sides but shines like a jewel of light—

universally pervasive and without a single facet 

in its diamond-like appearance, manifesting 

from the great potentiality of what one really is…

The Sermon on the Wall

It's said that Bodhidharma sat 

before a wall for twenty years 

and so we sit before a wall for thirty, 

not knowing what the wall is pointing to. 

It's like a most significant metaphor 

heard by idiots signifying nothing 

but exactly what they think they heard. 

Thus most of our religions are created 

by the metaphorically-impaired, 

who wouldn't know a Fiat 

from a Pavarotti. Listen, 

Ahab knew exactly what 

that white whale was, pursuing it 

across the waves of consciousness 

until he was absorbed within its sea. 

It's how all great explorers come to know 

they are the great unknown.

Hiking the Whites

I’m looking at the days of hiking in the Whites. 

At first, the climb appears to be a chore; 

you fight for every step you take. 

Is that a pebble in my boot? 

I think my backpack isn’t packed precisely. 

Maybe I should stop to have a swig of Gatorade. 

Maybe I should turn around and try another day. 

But soon there comes a time when such 

a wall of thinking disappears, 

when you yourself have disappeared. 

I am the bear claw imprint on the ash tree. 

I am the deep ravine hardscrabble rock-slide. 

I am the Lapland Rosebay far above the tree line. 

All that now remains is just the closest cairn 

and that resplendent clarity of alpine fresh awareness.

Sermon on the Shit

Cain slew Abel 

now we're really in the shit. 

This primal myth is 

screaming out so loud 

that no one hears it anymore—

kind of like white noise 

but only redder, 

saying violence is 

our only birthright 

and to be divided 

into individuals 

inevitably is divisive. 

No shit Sherlock! 

Yet it's subtext says 

it's all holistic in existence 

but unborn in its incipient reality. 

Though no one gives a shit 

upon the whole—

we're all too busy choosing sides.

American e^(pi * i) + 1 = 0

Winter time and the living is inside. 

Foolish thinking—stops. 

Returning to i. 

The bad news is we die. 

The good news is that one is never born. 

We hold this truth to be Self-evident. 

Dividuals will be dividuals, 

and violence is their other name—

although we never answer to it.

A house divided is the world. 

There's nothing to fear 

when fear is viewed clear through. 

See through that wall! 

Ask not what you can do 

but ask just ‘who am i.’

The business of the world 

is dropping business. 

Peace, baby!

Insomnia Divina

No one ever knows the world as well 

as you do. Pine trees pine for nothing. 

In Arizona, everything is all about 

your altitude. Without the ocean though, 

what about the waves? It seems the moon 

shone full and midnight was alive 

with silver dreams about the morning 

in America when dreams were full. 

This light is all about the intermittent 

flashes far beyond the desert emptiness. 

Sometimes coyotes eat the starry night. 

Sometimes the night will talk your ear off. 

A Sermon on the Magical Event Horizon

Nothing is ever known. What we think we know is variations on a theme of light. It’s the hydrologic cycle at its subatomic core made manifest as if it’s matter. 

Matter doesn’t really matter though, although it is the stuff of dreams. And dreams are useful in their tendency to point to truth that light of day will never see. 

Beyond our sun is that black hole to which astronomers have said each sun appears to fundamentally become—and sages say from which it never disappeared. 

That said, one is that which. This is its spell. Abracadabra, hocus-pocus, shazam and presto-chango! But a wise magician keeps in mind one’s not at any point the trick. 

Meditating Words

It’s winter and the river is reflecting nothing. 

It’s not the words which say it wrong 

but our insistence on translating them. 

Have you ever noticed that it’s always cloudy 

when you’re living while it’s January? 

Begin this sentence with a noun instead. 

The antichrist is driving off the bridge again. 

Working in the relative, we rest within the absolute. 

In wintertime, telecommuting is like 

a slow waltz from amazingly nowhere. 

If you haven’t learned to shoot a word, 

you shouldn’t read or write them. 

Silence doesn’t kill but the cold will do. 

Quick Start Guide for the Heart of Poetry

To craft an authentic poem, 

first rest in silent inspiration. 

Let me quickly clarify: 

if intuition is defined 

as universal consciousness 

whispering to divided mind, 

then inspiration is reflection 

of awareness sagaciously 

informing that holistic being. 

Now begin to write, or rather, 

write what one is being told. 

When all appears complete, 

perform an end inspection 

and remove whatever time slipped in.