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Truth is not statistical,

my dearest one.

Nothing is not you.

Objectivity is

the hardest of delusions

known to humankind

unsigned to hitherto.

All now plays

in a consciousness near you.

For Emily

I saw the best souls of creation sinking in the quicksand of a blathering world. Only one can prevent the separate fires of division. After everything is said and done, one can say it slantwise or be like a tree and Wu Wei.

Some will light my fire and test your metal. One will let it be. Arthur Miller writes The Crucible while Marilyn Monroe is starring in Niagara. Soon they shall be married. Melville publishes his novel, Moby Dick, in 1851, and Whitman, Leaves of Grass, in 1855. But Emily always was anonymous. Correction: Emily always is anonymous.

As deconstruction is the only necessary evil, being is the only scientific knowledge not a theory. No object and no number and no modifier equals what I am. For every Horseman of the Apocalypse, there's a horse's ass pointing toward eternity, said Emily with a voice as cold as I.

On being unborn:

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me – 

The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring – 

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –

The Dews drew quivering and chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ Heads

Were toward Eternity –

Children striving at recess. Ouch!

"The Dews drew quivering and chill." See Wu Wei.

If she needs me to be there, I'm there. If she needs me to be not there, I'm not there. Such is my unconditional love for Emily.

‘haiku of revelation’

dreaming up theories

mythology awareness

being an unknown

Science is the one American Idol. God is still the other.

What would will Shakespeare tweet if a Shakespeare could speak Basho?

I don't like it but I love it.

I love Emily.

She is a revelation.

Matsushima ya!

The Inner Groove

Self-awareness

like a nameless desert

underneath a rainless sky—

all the pretty

horrible mirages rising

in the heat of our conditioning—

taking everything

in this wasteland of a world

with a grain of salt as large as a southwest

salt flat, say that three times—

being

being

being

is the only record

of a truthful absolute.

Behold from This Green Earth

Only I am. Everyone else is

just a lovely secondary thought.

And the same goes for you as goes for me.

For Being is the primordial and

immaculate conception. All thoughts

to follow are purely unoriginal.

But in Acadia did

the mountains rise spontaneously

from the deep blue sleep of the cold Maine sea.

And a wedding party hikes the eastern slope of First Light Mountain—

Wapuwoc—or what aliens will christen as Green Mountain—

but empire is calling Cadillac.

Upon sacred Wapuwoc the sun of all

duality is waking up

in stormy threes and sevens.

This is written in the great bronze age of

the United States Geologic Survey

but just wait until awareness is aware of awareness.

Shrieve Me, Shrieve Me

Even being is a dream.

But the separate

person is a nightmare.

This universal dream of heaven isn’t

absolute

but hell wasn’t built in a day either.

And you simply can’t

spell self-awareness

without awareness.

A Rainbow in the Sky

From awareness to self-awareness

in what appears to be a universe

and what appears to be a universe

is simply in the eye of the bedazzled.

For if the parent is pure awareness

and the child is self-awareness,

then everything in-between is

the play of utter conception.

To accept the conception is

the first decree of awakened dreaming.

To accept the conception is

the first degree of being.

To accept the conception is

the seminal way to self-awareness.

And no bedazzlement comes

to the absolute except

through self-awareness.

For it is said, either

the child is father of

the man or let me die.

Thus the question ‘Who am I’

is answered by

the dream of being ‘I am I.’

Insinuations

This false

impression

of separation

is flattened

by one hard slap

from the universal

cosmic Zen master.

Intuition of the catholic.

Revelation of the absolute.

Let the ley lines enter and

insinuate their wisdom

through and through.

Bare trees rise

from white

ground.

Astronomical

energetic waves

are surging through

this central nervous system.

Countless snow flurries are falling

from a muted sky.

The Way of Dreaming

First there is the world.

Then there is a void.

Presently there is a dream.

In this universe of causelessness—

the spirit of intent selects your causes

—effecting a great awakening—

depending on intensity of sleep.

Causes are neither good nor bad

—but pushing and pulling—

along the intentional way.

And when a dream aligns with great intent

—synchronicity will walk the earth—

in enlightening lucidity of self-awareness.

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There are no words for heart.

And love is never having to say.

If there are no words for heart

and love is never having to say—

what is there to say?

Nothing but blue skies.

Like the northwest passage of global warming,

que sera sera.

Something there is that doesn't love a thought.

So much depends upon a dream.

I am. Who are you?

Come forth sweet hermit shaman poets and unite.

For in the land of one, there is no two.

There is nothing but I am.

One word at a time—

unbelievable compassionate interstellar presence.

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What is the word for being. I dream therefore I am.

The world is burned into my eyes. I see things.

Social conditioning is another way of saying being born.

We are all unindicted co-conspirators.

Truth is self-evident: pure awareness is unalienable.

Ceci n'est pas une windpipe.

Story Time

Between awareness and self-awareness is this dream. Between the deep blue sea and sky are waves. There are a billion stories crashing on this beach.

Being is a trip. Awareness is self-awareness. Emptiness is form. This is what the godhead looks like when it looks upon itself.

Like the starry sky as seen from Big Sur. Like the ten thousand sunrises seen one morning in Grand Canyon. Like stopping on the loneliest road in America.

Awareness being self-aware is all she wrote. There's a streetcar named desire and there's a bus called further. Yes, I'm writing this story one verse at a time.

But I’m skipping this 13th line. Other than being Krishna or suffering Kali there's Zhuangzi. Paradox or paradigm. Caterpillar. Butterfly.

It stands to reason that if everything is in your consciousness and without consciousness there is nothing, then everything is consciousness. Or simply put, you are what you dream. Look out for coyotes or look for love.

Once upon a time there was someone who believed she was born. This took place in a time when people believed they were separate and volitional. In other words, this took place before the Great Awakening.

Sometimes I’m  an actor and sometimes I direct and sometimes I have a great notion to be. Feed the body but spare the mind. Everything is penultimate.

Self-awareness appears to be material but awareness always is. And this dream is the holy ghost. It is said the only emperor is the emperor of deconstruction but the only god is that I am.

.

Psalm for Molly

There's no need to run from fire or play with fire. 

We are the fire.

For fire begat fire, and fire, fire. Fire, fire, fire.

So render unto steel and glass its ironworks

and sands of time but render unto fire, fire.

Yea in the flames of consciousness dances

this reverie of universal consummation.

From out of that unknowable unborn is born this knowledge

like a dream emerging from the deepest sleep.

O rockabye baby in this universal love light!

May you learn to question everything we teach you.

May you see that being never needs improvement.

And may you stay forever self-aware.

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You can reach for the stars.

Or soak in the sun.

The sun appears to be external.

But it's just a metaphor.

I am the only energy I know.

My Pretty

You are the chosen one.

The big bang is the black whole.

Evolutionary intent is the greatest story ever told.

Thirteen blackbirds are playing blue guitars.

I saw thirteen outhouses coloring the Acoma churchyard on Sky City.

Ah Matsushima Acadia ha!

Love is good for nothing.

But love is what I dream the best.

For love is this dream of pure awareness knowing

pure awareness despite the clouds of deep belief.

  

Look at all the pretty colors in the void!

untitled

Dream is emptiness. Emptiness is love.

Love your super dream star character

As if it is one’s faithful shadow dancer.

And love oneself as if one is the great god

Pure awareness being a mirror to see itself.

To whom it may concern: dream. Oneself, my child.

Basho was the last avant-garde.

Cold Mountain is the highest hermit shaman poet.

Deep blue skies inform

The river watch over

Your valley spirit

Absolutely let this universal being guide

The worldly personal to my deep blue sea.

Along the way there will be jellyfish and

Monkey business and your cheating heart.

Attention check. Who am I?
I am that dreaming this to know I’m That.

And to devote my dream to oneself

In the name of generations of women,

All the blessings of love to my daughter

And my daughter’s daughter to be.

A Tree Grows in Canyonlands

An intentional universal dreaming coincidence—

Energetic karmic streams of sadness

burning like the Cuyahoga River—

Messing around in the personal is like playing

with the piss and shit of ignorant conditioned

consciousness and stinks to high heaven.

Love begins with oneself.

In the middle of a desert, a green river

flows within its canyon and cottonwoods

go growing in its mystic morning mist.

The Imperial Division of Knowledge

Keep on dividing, disoriented one. 

Split a universe and the world appears. 

Split an atom and all hell breaks loose.

As above and so below.

Like looking for truth with science is

like sailing the sea with ice skates,

like looking at the sun with sun-colored glasses,

like a surgeon cutting open her own chest

to heal her patient’s heart.

As white is the presence of all color

and black is the absence of light,

fear is never object-oriented

and love does not objectify.

So how does it feel to be on your own

living in the last house at the end of the world?

The Big To Be

Belief wasn't built in a day. Render unto thought 

this thought. I am. Therefore I am.

Self-awareness is as ordinary as a caterpillar 

turning human.

For awareness to be self-aware, there is this big

'to be' that happens.

I am that I am is prologue to That I'm That.

Whereas I am, awareness is self-aware. Whereas

I know I'm empty, open, spontaneous, and indivisible.

Whereas infinity, eternity, in high fidelity.

First Poem In 2017

All these enlightened flowers forgetting their roots—my words and your words are hanging out clothes.

Knowing what the story is and not just knowing it's a story—all projection is reflection or deception. Which ghost gets your vote?

Like child's play. Playing with fire. Fire in the hole! Totally feel the affectionate attention of self-awareness.

Meanwhile, while knowing being is pointless, hipster-headed angels nonetheless measure out the eye of a needle.