Cardinal: First Epistle to the Birds

You are entering the woo way—be aware. There is no limit to the speed of light except the one your gravity is giving it—so lighten up. Verbs without borders.

Even conditioning is as natural as the water in a mountain stream where rocks are slowly rounded. Take two of these and see yourself in the morning. As god is my witness, I will swim in the ocean again.

The only authentic voice is that of one's intent. Through the mystical cloud of unknowing into the wild blue yonder. My oracle used to be a database but now is being.

Psychological deconstruction—mystical reassimilation—absolute transportation. No person, no division, no thing. Individual, universal, subjective.

I'm still adjusting to the fact that all is in my consciousness and no one isn't I. If it's not experienced in consciousness, it's fiction: even Nisargadatta's words must be confirmed. Imagine what lies are spread as news!

It's not that almost everything is a conspiracy as much as almost everything is unproved. Experientially. There's one fact. I am. Everything else is a lie attempting to convince I'm not.

Where was I before fiction walked in? Belief is not being. Deuces are wild. One only knows I am. The bus stops here. That absolute transportation to deep sleep is not in my job description; the best i can 'do' is deliver my self to bed.

I’d rather be wrong interpreting this experience than right in any other way. “Capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason”: Keats' negative capability.

Not thoughtful but experiential; not conditioning but being; not positive reinforcement but negative capability. Much like hiking a mountain is actually leaving the ties of civilization behind; not ascending heights as much as surrendering gravity

Maps are essential, but proving that the map is accurately reflecting the actual terrain is the very next step. When you meet the map on the way, put it in your back-pocket. Hiking was a great guru of mine.

My first therapist suggested I return to Henry David Thoreau despite my buying the hype he’s impractical. Because I loved the natural. Later, my second therapist suggested I start hiking mountains because I loved Thoreau. Then I stopped hiking mountains because I love a greater height. I’m going hiking in the mountains this summer.

It's not as much leaving spacetime as forgetting it. 'I don't know' are the only magic words. First, learn your fractals. To stop going further is going back to the beginning. More hiking wisdom.

Either god is good. And thus, you. Or god is impossible. And you don't exist. It really is your call. Nisargadatta says his life flows between one and nothing, did not choose a side. Love and wisdom.

Your prophecy is manifesting as we speak. My prophecy intends its own word. Are you experiencing? Self-awareness is the reflection of pure unknowable awareness in consciousness. Self-awareness is one definition of lucid being—where awareness is the supreme unknown and mind is the reflector

Self-awareness (lucid being, enlightenment) is the mind-reflection of pure awareness (absolute unknown) in experiential being. Do not mistake no-mind for mindless.

When I was 21, my girlfriend’s mother said I had no ambition, and I took it as a compliment. To me, Richard Nixon was the epitome of ambition. At least I wasn't him.

Beyond all good and bad is intent. Whether a belief is good or bad is not anything intended. If it's manifested itself, on some level, you need it. Everything you have, you need. What comes next is what you want. In other words, accept this moment completely. You needed it. Stop denying that fact.

Bliss is the crux. Not believing a belief is a belief is not that unbelievable. Realizational (enlightening) intent is Tao. Evolution is the natural way. Being is not nothing. As the absolute unknown is, I am.

The Undertow of Mind

Again, the docks. Again, the docks crack the emptiness of the river, as if the sky was hit by something little on the way

and stars begin to circle overhead like cartoon boats in a stunning regatta. Not a boat is tied up to these docks as yet.

They're like a crossword puzzle waiting for some words to people them. But as sure as if you build it, boats will come.

One will sound like some jet engine hydroplaning on the water, a cigarette boat. Rum Runner, Rum Runner, going faster miles an hour.

It smuggles noise into the silence. In the summer, everyone is drinking it until inebriation is descending like the embers falling to the beach

from fireworks I saw once in Ogunquit, paid for by George Bush the First, who ran his cigarette boat out from Walker Point that summer.

The sea knows how to deal with big bangs though. Being silence, waves come crashing to the shore to know they are the silence.

That will shut them up. And in the lucid undertow of mind, the ocean knows the sea.

1st Postcard to My Child

The universe begins and somewhere 

light is turning into matter 

like water freezing into ice. 

That is the way it will appear 

to this which has solidified 

but mass is moved within by light 

and so the evolutionary 

process of the mind begins 

to lucidly reflect the light 

I am.

Cherry Blossoming I Am

I'm waiting on the cherry blossoms, which gives their famed impermanence a backwards spin.

But this year spring is slow, developing in motion slower than desire intends or memory is remembering.

And so it's May already, not every tree is blossoming, and even ones that are, are blossoming sporadically

and look like far-flung stars seen through a mist of a greenless wintergreen breath.

Looking from this point of view, I see that even nothing doesn't last, although it lingers in each stop of breath

and permeates the daily happening with deepest sleep. But that's subjective to some other transportation.

Right now, I am the cherry blossom, slow in learning what I am but incandescent in the natural lucid being I'm intended

as a cherry blossoming to be, delicately universal and singularly nuclear in knowing the unknown.

In the Beginning was the Word

By the shore, a crow is giving chase to a red-tailed hawk. It's persistence is quite noteworthy.

Despite the hawk’s maneuvers in an April wind both brisk and steady, the crow is having none of it.

Its black discernment permeates each wave of wing and tail feather until the hawk heads out for open waters.

The crow cries out a single caw and turns into a butterfly. Its wings are black but bordered by a filigree of gold and seems to have no flight plan.

It flutters here and there as if connecting dots that only it can see. I walk into its verse and witness inspiration is the force behind each word.

I write a line that comes from blackest nowhere and then another one just follows it as if it saw a place to go I never saw before.

And so I see myself in open waters after what appears to be a span of countless years, although I know I'm only now conceiving all its reverie.

The Causeless Cause of Vietnam: April 25, 2015

So I saw some poets read today. One was Michael Casey reading poems about his tour in Vietnam.

Another was Paul Mariani who has a chair in poetry at Boston College and writes a kind of Catholic word and way.

I have a chair in poetry as well; it looks out upon the river, and from there I feel these poets were fortuitous for me to see and hear today.

I went to Boston College too which meant I was deferred from fighting in that war. And then I got the lucky number 2-0-4 selected in the lottery

which meant I could quit college finally; I didn't need it anymore. And by that time I’d forgot all other rationale for my attendance.

I talked to Casey after, had him sign his book I bought in 1972. He asked, was I a vet; I told him no but I had fought the good fight back at home.

No one my age got away from Vietnam. It either killed you or it detoured you from original intent, much like life itself one would suppose.

I went to school a few years later, got a liberal arts degree at Merrimack. Maybe if I'd finished Boston College, I'd've been a more fortunate son.

Now, the only thing I'm here for is to write unlettered poetry. So you can thank the war on what you had to hear from me tonight.

It's even making you less knowledgeable in this moment, or so I hope to figure, ain't I right?

The Fractal Wheels of Revelation

Some definition first is needed. Machines are non-volitional contrivances utilizing energy to undertake an action of Intent.

Ghost is that essential energetic spirit which remains upon the termination of an implement of that Intent.

Dreams are images in deepest vision playing out a way to see through my intended illusory objective known to know that pure subjective great unknown.

Fractals are phenomenal repeating patterns of self-similar arrangements in descending or ascending scale depending on one's point of view.

And now the poem begins.

Not a ghost in the machine,

but a machine in the ghost—

'we' are the holy spirit consciousness;

the machine is a dream within our self.

There is a fractal nature to reality—

as a nightmare is a dream in the mind,

the mind is a dream in consciousness,

and consciousness is a dream in absolute I.

A self-aware interpretation

of each fractal dream is just the way

I see through all the dream into my Self.

Seeing through the nightmare is psychological.

Seeing through the mind is mystical.

Seeing through consciousness is nondual 

pure awareness.

Questions to Experience

Let's deal with your beliefs in death and its accompanying fear which occupies your thoughts in all but deepest sleep.

Do you remember anything about your birth? Or have you taken that it happened on the word of someone else? Or something other.

And as a parent, did you see when consciousness was born, or were you merely witness to a transformational event? And its outcry.

And as to death itself, have you any evidence to bear that consciousness depends upon the body for its godlike power?

And you know the only thing you know is you exist. I am. That all resides in consciousness, with which without, you can't imagine.

And so to summarize. Do you remember birth as an experience? Have you experienced the state of death? And please be honest.

I'm asking this to one who prides oneself as being honestly concerned with proof. Like scientific, non-religious, totally objective.

Or have you just assumed you are the body that was born and destiny is death and disregard the evidence consciousness is all you know?

A Signal Discourse on Signs

Nothing doesn't fit within your story. 

Everything outside 

within your world 

is revelation of an understanding 

in your true essential depths 

becoming manifestly obvious. 

Don't let the blue jay fly away unnoticed. 

Listen to the caws of crow. 

You'll know a sign is more 

than just the traffic talking 

when you feel it stop and yield your heart. 

Its divination is the god without you 

talking to the god within you 

nearing an experiential realization of one self.

Translating My Self

The mind evolves into transparency and resonates in consciousness as lucid being—

and the unknown is the known that isn't named in this enlightening intent of that unknown to know oneself—

the walls come tumbling into clarity—the world is seen as revelation— love is sounding in the meadow with compassionate efflorescence—

I shall wear and write the form of my translation and samadhi when I'm dying to.