Self Play

The angel of absolute I is whispering a firmament of words. If April is all about memory and desire, March is all about innocence and experience. Clear woods, full sun, choiceless awareness.

So the universe is a phenomenon of an absolute I as we are the circus of the universe. Monkeys see and monkeys do. This is the elephant in the great room of the blind. Being may be useless but belief is a wasteland.

And absolute I is like the experience of deep sleep. And this universal dream is like the self-awareness of absolute I. Oh wisdom and love are too nondual for cats. Inhale, exhale, sneeze, and god bless you.

As if we the phenomena could usurp the blessings of absolute I. Not even the six eyes of lions and the four wings of eagles can approach the vanity of these two faces. To end, one must locate the beginning of this play.

Who am I? Absolutely.

Ode Sakura

You are my mirror and I'm looking beautiful today. You are my self and I am writing every moment of this play. This is my dream and lucid self-awareness its display.

True, self-awareness is not a laughing matter, but all that clouds awareness is. Why did the turkey vulture cross the road? The reflection of the sky in this stream of consciousness knows no sides.

Every word is just another brick in the story. Real masons deconstruct conspiratorially. In an ocean of Shiva swim invisible whales in true moby glory.

Thus, dreaming separation is the first addiction. Dreaming self-awareness is the last step. Still, I keep telling myself over and over it takes zero steps to reach the heart of godliness.

And In a gadda da vida lived the plus and minus. One would think it's zero, yet I know the great unknown. Knowing I am, while understanding I'm not what I think I am, is like walking on a razor's edge without a net.

Oh the godly-mystic-experiential-naturally-without-thought is being like a cherry blossom once again.

The Church of Earth

Secret beach and open sea.

Slow seductive waves.

A sudden metronome of an unseen bell-buoy.

Dune grass kissing sweet mirage.

White mountains spied from an ancient crow's nest.

The blessed Satori in every grain of sand.

Sunshine Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

Cumulus clouds. Pink granite. The deep blue sirens of the sea.

Like the gods singing around a midnight starlight love-bright bonfire.

The radio blue response of earth wind and fire.

Agni. Vayu. Indra. Uma!

I dreamt they came from all around the world. Their names were Amadeus, Janis, Frank. They gathered in the Himalayas. Listen!

Taste the fire of the woods. Soothe your eyes in the circle of the sun.

The Optical Geometry of Rivers and Sky

The math of walls

and windows

doesn't add up.

I walk outside

to be the open space

of vast awareness.

A river is always

running through this

pleasant valley view.

Houses populate the northern bank

but on the southern side is eagle

innocence and disbelief.

The blue canoe of sky is ferrying

this ground of blind belief to the other side

where no side is the ground of seeing.

Another way is walk across the current

in a different pair of shoes

marked with the swoosh of compassion.

The calculus of pine trees swaying in the wind is whispering

there's no solution for

the absolute unknown.

No matter what one thinks,

clouds can never separate

the sky.

Listen, all of this is just a polychromatic vision

which I speak while sitting

silently at home.

Hey Jack Kerouac! It's Canyon de Chelly.

preface

This body's like an amplifier and my love is like the music of I am; this amplifier is like electricity and I am water falling; my lightning is like a mirror and my thunder is like this dream reflecting words.

introduction

Hiking in the Whites, I fell into a waterfall and turned into a river. I then remembered playing World War Two with plastic soldiers hiding in-between the ancient roots of Jesus trees.

chapter one

The next thing that I knew was tripping over Lucy in the sky with LSD. I was later interrupted for an all-expenses-paid vacation to a transformational experience.

finale

Ten years ago today in Canyon del Muerto before Ancient Pueblo cliffside ruins across a running canyon desert brook like lightning exiting a bottle,

the magic and the perfection and the glory!

afterword

As if this universal consciousness is kissing thee, my most beloved absolute, nearby an endless hidden summer pond so many thousand dreams ago.

The Voluminous Fantasia of Forgiveness

The poor girl thinks her heart is wicked but the rub is in the thinking.

Arthur Miller said to love the idiot but marry Marilyn Monroe.

John Keats said truth is beauty after he said beauty is truth; that is all.

  

Unconditional and absolute forgiveness, both of the other and oneself, is the bridge of gods.

Take two. Forgive the known and be the unknown. End scene.

Stephen Stills sang love the one you're with. It's an ancient Christian hymn. Like Hare Krishna.

  

Forgiveness is the bridge of gods. Forgiveness is the bridge of gods. Forgiveness is the bridge of gods. It's like a one hit wonder.

If it wasn't for misunderstanding, there is no understanding further.

After living the dream, be the myth. Long division is black magic; love and zero is the power and the glory.

  

It's a mirror until you see straight through it, and only light sees through the light.

Reality’s Ninth

All is as clear as desert air.

The streetcar is desire but all the streets are in the past.

The only difference between the gods and someone mortal is appearing in this universe of self-awareness.

Coyotes howl at the moon while daytrippers stare into the mirror of the sun.

Experience cannot be memorized. Intent knows no desire.

Transformation is apparently the answer to all questions.

The night is darkest before the dawn; the mirage seems brightest at high noon.

Look. Everything is perfect as it is. There is no real thing.

Comedy, tragedy, history. Imagine not knowing your self.

Stop action. Forget cameras. See through the light.

A Fantasia in Here and Now

No creation story needed. No apocalypse required.

No shoes, no mind, no effort.

The past is spotty; wear it lightly. Enjoy the perfect breeze.

Mythology and deconstruction are two sides of an empty coin.

Understanding and manifestation are synchronous. It is written.

A child of three sees through the terrible twos. She's like a rainbow.

The holy experiential matrix of here and now is the gospel. Truth.

Presence is the perfect meeting of sea and sky. Hallelujah!

Picture oneself as the god of the river with whitewater splash and rainbow trout.

Three Ways of Looking at Vishnu

We are like Frankenstein awakening from the material.

Sex and deconstruction are like taxis to nowhere if you don't know when to get off. Both Brahma and Shiva need their Vishnu.

Sometimes I laugh. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I'm Vishnu.

Love and deconstruction are like my yin or yang roads, but Vishnu is Tao.

Deconstruction is to death as sex is to love; mere translations of Vishnu.

Vishnu is speaking to and from me when I am silent.

Gone beyond this Tao of Vishnu is going gone altogether beyond.

Tao is to intent as Vishnu is to evolution as science is to story and the chorus sings mythology.

Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu Vishnu

dear me, it's as if there is a God, and God in its omnipotent power knows God the God, and I am that self-awareness, yours truly, i vishnu.

Great artists paint that what's not there. Great singers sing the silence. Great gods walk the earth. It is always that way.

This moment here and now exists forever in all of space-time as consciousness the universe and the black verb of self-awareness.

Dreaming self-awareness is self-awareness and that's the other truth.

Neither Tibet nor California but the natural state of Tantra.

See the story of my life as one of evolving self-awareness. That is the intent of transformation. My Tantra of Mythology. Song of Myself.

  

Dreaming self-awareness is self-awareness. Everything else is karmic.

Visualization is the vision.

The eye of seeing perfection is the eye of perfect seeing. Natural perfection.

A Shiva is a Brahma is a Vishnu is a rose.

In the beginning as it is in the end, DNA is to the Satguru as thought is to visualization. Remember the great perfection!

Absence, openness, spontaneity, unity. In other words. Freedom, liberty, life, love. And don't forget love.

Pastoral

Begin at the beginning, Beethoven said to Alice nine times.

Corporate movies. Independent films.

The personal is to fear as deconstruction is to loathing.

Stay in love without another.

It is now as it was in the beginning and as it is in the end, the nondoer is intent, not nothing.

The Cosmo in Lowell, Jack looks at the crippled and the handicapped, Neal hits a cop car in front of City Hall.

In the land of division, spontaneity is ground zero.

It's either poetry or the absolute.

A great blue heron is wading across Abbey Road.

Fifth Fantasia

What Trickster should I be tonight? Some Puck or Crow or Kappa?

On the slopes of Mount Osore in volcanic waters of an onsen, I bow before the water deity.

Poet, father, mystic, I. These are a few of my favorite words.

Only being knows of lucid dreaming, cabbages, and kings.

Somewhere between cicadas and a Golden Buddha, I meet an ancient Chinese woman on the steps of Yamadera, and she takes a picture of me.

All my life, through all the transformations, significant or otherwise, I'm on the way to Graceland.

Whatever confidential character I dream, it's only proof I am that great unknown.

Ah! Matsushima! Ah! Big Sur! Ah! Nisargadatta! Ah! I am!

On the shores of Lake Chocorua, before the distant peak of Passaconaway, I watch my daughter make-believe while knowing all is love.

Between Baroque and Nonduality

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan. In apricot is doing not.

And absolute intent is only delayed by thought.

Meanwhile surfing a wave is a reoccurring metaphor in all the great works of California.

Wouldn’t it be nice if God only knows—

(translating the sage in saying

following only love

appears as equal measures of pain and pleasure

but really is constantly always

pure bliss)

what’s in a name Wolfgang Amadeus Malibu?

Quicksilver radical in inner-knowing knowing nothing, one is next to godliness, but being is the absolute unknown!

One personal story tells the curious marriage of not-knowing and the magnificent distrust of the known.

Coyote trips between the thin and ever-thinning stretch of beach between the dunes and sea—until Xanadu!

If a sonnet is fourteen lines, an epic is at least double-digits.

Fantasia Number Three

Watching the wind-swept snow, the mind is moving.

In a sudden stillness, snowflakes surface from a barren current.

Then in a change of wind direction, wintry ghosts are swirling in their dervish robes.

This cutting scene is taking place before a triptych picture window.

Inside pictures of New England mountains hang on milky walls.

Meanwhile a forty-one inch television screen is holy with obscure blackness.

There are no mirrors outside. There are no mirrors inside. I am the only mirror.

First, there is a snowstorm. Then there is no storm. Then there is.

But in an Arizona desert, ravens finger blue guitars.

The Sage in Snow

Near the final moments of this latest winter storm event, the sky turned rose-colored

is the snow on trees turned rose-colored is the air itself turned rose-colored

and the universe appeared to look at me and I was looking at the universe and rose-colored glasses was our common god.

Then night fell and the trees were ghostlike earthlings visiting an alien environment as if their god had banished them from nature.

But if they keep an open mind, one sees the universe is in my head and every thought is just illusion turning self-aware.

In the morning, everything was not only black and white, but cardinals, blue jays, evergreens!

And so the sun is telling us we’re everything. The snow is telling us we're nothing. Between the two, the songbirds sing.

Chuang Tzu Absolutely Loves Freud

The Zhuangzi woodwinds of the earth are practicing tonight.

Whatever sounds appearing in tonight’s Fantasia aren’t in any way my doing.

This, that, these, and those are not demonstratively dissimilar.

The sorcerer’s apprentice is following this low and powerful intent.

This is always that—but that is never this—although if truth be spoken—this is only that because that.

The wind cries holy Mary mother of that absolute unknown and blessed is one among the universe and blessed is the fruit of your imagination!

In the beginning is the butterfly and everything to come is shaped by special effects.

In the name of love the tongue of sky is kissing this holy country of nameless depths,

Martians and werewolves and lovers oh my!

Out of its angelic silence, the wind is whispering in a still great voice—the unknown is, the unknown is, the unknown is—and I am that.

At this age, I have to be told what to write although I only listen to my self.

Orange green and black or white the sky is blue the sun is red in violets growing royal flush i love you—love you—love love love!

If division, love. If one, three. Eastern white pines in a northwest gale.

Four. Love the unbelievable and the universe is yours!

Jesus Mary and Joseph, how many hurricanes and earthquakes or lifelong heartbreaks do i have to say the way is love stop—love death—love stop