Canticle of the Heavenly Fall

As the tree is dropping leaves, 

the tree prepares new leaves. 

Yellow, orange, red and green! 

O goddess you are not unseen—

your central point is always present.

The universe is just your name 

while being is my manifestation 

in all your glorious transformation. 

Sea of green and sky of blue! 

I know myself through me and you.

Third Eye Talk

She dawned on me while watching CBS, 'The Big Bang Theory' I believe.

"Third eye is the first eye and two eyes are my ten-thousand things."

I take a little melatonin just to saturate this desert vision in the natural tears of her affectionate awareness.

Thus she comes to me in that rare quality of some hallucination in its final stages,

or its first—my love appears to be a pineapple whose outer layer is dissolving in sweet nothings

which she whispers in the rhyme and rhythm of my dreamtime.

That is what she says.

The Psalm of Sleep

Deep sleep is calling to me every night

and every night I follow her to bed—

she gathers me lightly in her arms,

a crescent moon embracing earth itself,

and like the sea we undulate in love

until I spill into her goddess depths

and disappear within that soft unknown.

But in the morning she has left me there

alone, awake, and waiting for the world

to slowly tick this daydream day away.

O Jesus, she will be the death of me!

Third Eye Song

Oh god and goddess of the third eye, Ardhanarishvara, half male, half female, Shiva Shakti,

do our actions manifest, is manifesting moving action, is it all the synchronicity of a timeless one?

Are there seven poets just because I gathered seven books? Did I gather seven books because of seven poets?

Is the number seven just coincidence of one—this universe is both the cause and its result, the mind divides the indivisible,

crow caws the causelessness of crow, and you, Ardhanarishvara, are manifesting only that I know.

The Oracle of I

I of I that sees through me and knows I am and has the mind of me say this

deconstruction isn't nihilistic but a revelation of this timeless being, spirit, Christ you know it isn't easy but surrender is the only way,

while Janabai, this humble household servant knowing Vithal holds the broom, is saying void is not devoid of God.

So Son is singing from the core:

that unknown lover

come to me

with crystal

flowers of awareness

and accepting

their known fragrances

with all my heart

I am at once

my self—

and when the clay container in the sea dissolves, there isn't simply nothing—there's the sea.

Letter from the Goddess of the River

O Goddess of the River, I had built a boat of personality and thought it was my everything.

Yet in my heart of hearts I knew it really wasn't but I didn't know exactly what was what.

And so I built an unknown hell from dark disheartening conceptual deep nothings and my boat turned out to be the only thing between those hellish depths and me.

O every minute I was struggling to defend its frail integrity!

But you kept floating me your notes and I kept reading them in wonderment.

Until one day I finally declared my love for you and lifted up a floorboard and saw instead of death and blazes—yes! a river underneath. And river talked to river and I knew I was the river and the boat was just another concept built from flotsam and from jetsam floating madly on these living waters.

Here the river glints and shimmers, Goddess of the River, and I know there is no great divide of black and blue between this tidal being and that unknown sea of you.

The Gospel of the Great Blue Heron

Ever since I was a little boy I loved the golden light. I looked for maps in yellowing books searching for its source. O it was causing me to carve strange words in fits of lines and chaos!

I found myself within the great gorge of the dead when it dawned on me the source was in myself. And then my love approached in prehistoric visions of a great blue heron.

I embraced her ancient song of crystal evolution and she embraced my life of being here and in a sudden golden flash we disappeared like western pathfinders returning to their sea.

Eleven Notes Playing One on One

no

one

wants

to hear it

but nobody

wants to listen

truth isn't personal

until one

makes it so—

then

it isn't truth

you are david

and the world is goliath—

give it your best

shot

hey superman

basically everyone

else is you talking

to me about how you

remind me of me

in some bizarro way

although there's only i

here now

the empire

scares

me

but I know

that’s only the empire speaking

there are no

definitions

other

than the ones

which define

me

there's nothing wrong

with duality—

it just hurts

if you believe

it

you can drop

the world

and

still play

but you can't double-

dribble

the great

thing about words—

you can say

two things

with each

one

I stare the

wordless

in the face and

blink

every time

the best one

can do

is be—

after that,

it’s not about one

A Little Day Night Sutra

1. On Two and an Epigraph

Compassion is loving one being that believes in two. In this fugue of being.

How do i know myself? Let's make a universe and count the ways. The loves are many but the way is one. I am.

The way is always present in a love, but love, like any act involving two, is tricky and may lead to an attachment, hate, or damned belief.

“Ask my heart about the pain of love and it will tell you / The half-drawn bow’s the assassin, not the arrow that pierces through.”  ~Ghalib

2. One Introduction

A person thinks one is divided from the one. Yes, it is as absurd as it sounds. Yet that is the world and why it is as it is.

The world can’t be cured. It’s only a symptom of the personal. One treatment is to stop taking things personally.

By definition, a person is broken—therapy therefore must be transpersonal—unconditional love, personal deconstruction, resting in awareness.

Politics is as destructive as any war. Religion is as addictive as any drug. Science is as misleading as any superstition.

What passes as knowledge in the world is an ability to manipulate the past most efficiently. True knowledge is being.

Form follows memory. Being follows emptiness. Form is emptiness and emptiness is form. But memory isn’t being. Is it?

Think with all one's heart. Love with all one being. Be with all that unknown. Do all that other stuff on your own time. For now, be.

3. Photos of Reality

mountain way

hiking

in the dense fog I

spot any further cairn spot on-

ly in the present

one

catch 11

the catch about taking

pictures

of the moment is

there is no

moment

when

taking pictures

flash

if the price of undertanding

the wordless

is

to give up each, every, and all your words,

would you?

anything less is believable.

4. Reconciliations

Experience is the great compromise between nothing and something. Creation is the great compromise between silence and noise.

Being is the great compromise between not knowing and disbelief. Between dreaming and and being is making a living.

The greatest love is between noun and verb. The greatest verb is between noun and object.

Every straight line deserves god.

5. Three Endings and an Epitaph

on koans

plural

of koan

is koan

the circle be

the buzz of energy

is being

and

any metaphor is like a bee

buzzing

satisfaction

can't get no

i without

i am

the epitaph

“I Am is the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Absolute Parent except through the Child of Being.” ~Jesus transcreated

Sea Change; A Divination

My first time on a cruise ship and the captain says we're in for wind and rain and waves and sets the Beaufort scale to eight.

We're staying in the bow and night is like a wicked rocking and the waves are banging on the forward deck and sleep is something hard and passing shallow.

In the morning such conditions haven't changed, although by noon we've settled in a leather chair up in the bar room called the Crow’s Nest

looking out at seas of twenty-foot high waves and white cap waves upon those waves and plowing bow splash reaching to the windows of our twelfth floor observation deck.

This ain't the Sixteenth-century though and I'm enjoying all the brave new worlds of nautical experience this tempest brings to play.

For I appear as well to be a similar chaotic dream of waves surrounded by unknown deep seas that I, at best, may call deep sleep and be.

A Pastoral of Leaves

The leaves begin to turn their colors from the green we think is natural, although another month reveals space is what they always are,

to reds and oranges and yellows. As a side note, notice none of them are blue. I am looking at their clear reflection in the high slack river.

In the middle of this mesmerizing symmetry there floats a bright red navigation buoy. Call it what we like.

The river of our universal being always sends a sign to pay attention to its underlying current.

The Map of the Gods

I

intending

to know

I Am

is sudden,

nondual and obvious,

although,

within the process

itself,

or mind,

it appears to be

all space-time.

A Map of Truth

Love 

is truth 

from the view of illusion.

Wisdom 

is illusion 

from the view of truth.

Truth 

is 

no view.

Prayer. 

Myth. 

Silence.

Signs of the Apocalypse

It's not so much that everything exists because of consciousness but nothing other is existing but this consciousness.

And so I dream at night to see straight through the dream of daytime. Psychological manipulation is the way the dream is manifested—

understanding and compassion is the way the dream is apprehended and unveiled. So-called external signs will further this direction by the way.

Undoubtedly, if science points to evolution, evolution points to self-awareness. Anyhow, that's all folks.

A Pastoral Told in Time

Seagulls are sitting on slack tide. A fish is jumping out of nowhere. The sky is deepest blue; the sun is radiantly unobservable.

Leaves are floating like a constellation. Another leaf is falling from the heavens. A single wisp of cloud is playing like a dolphin.

Pleasure boats secured to docks are currently approaching nowhere. A cormorant is diving in reflections of its sky.

A breeze is picking up and diamonds start to sparkle on the river. A pure white moth is fluttering in reverence nearby.

A Pastoral Told in Spirit

While contemplating boats upon the river being put away like little toy things at the end of summer play,

I see a falling leaf fall on my folded hands and feel its weather-beaten revelations.

Universal consciousness is like a tree and every insect-riddled sunburnt leaf is just another apparatus cast away in time

making way for its replacement, next spring's gold device continuing the amplifying of awareness in the ground of Buddha nature.

I Am is what I truly am; this body-mind is just another leaf that obsoletes with time, no need imagining some narrative device like death

to tell its story. Trees themselves are speaking truth and beauty in a shimmering October morning glory.

Letters to the Revelations

Without this being, what is love? Without the known, what is that great unknown?

You can try to build a better mousetrap or know you're not a mouse. But seeing through this something is not the same as seeing nothing.

The world has tried affirming its own unaffirmable and nihilism will deny the undeniable. Deconstruction is the dark beginning—

many will get lost within that wood. The world is what it's not but I am what it is.

Division is division only when it’s seen within division. Beyond division, division is intent for that unknown to know this one is that unknown.

Awareness in this consciousness is suddenly aware awareness is but what it is and this phenomenon is nothing.

Thus, the world is your reflection; think but nothing of it. This illusion, even though inherited, is utterly self-generating.

You are all the power and the glory, love. Be this universal. Speak that absolutely.