Memories in Triskaidecameter

They're cutting down the woods again to build another house upon the hill that overlooks the river valley.

They haven't reached the woods I see directly out my window but I know it's just a matter of the timing.

The world is always changing and we love it better in the memory than the one we see before us changing.

A memory is a work of art creating something out of nothing freezing form from endless transformation.

The past is always being lived again because the past that's in our memory always changes with our living.

Today the woods are lush and green and yesterday the woods were empty and tomorrow never really happens.

mahatma summer king

in the territory of gray

squirrels, red ones

hightail branches

going sixties

steve mcqueen

dead vines

tumble down

a tamarack

like waterfalls

whipped with time

do not ask

the woods

for whom

the tree

is falling

everything

is

for the benefit

of knowing

this unknown

a rose-breasted grosbeak

finally arrives

from somewhere

southern, innocent

and full of pure potentiality

every living form

appears to be obsessed

with summer’s near arrival

disregarding every clue

it comes and goes as never here

sleeping means

seeing something is happening

awakening means seeing

nothing

ever does

great ones only

go beyond

division

by dividing anything

by nothing

there’s nothing

to say

that needs to be heard

except

it’s nameless

the leaves are green

the space is green

and my interpretations of

my dream is green

that’s what i’m dreaming

the summer’s here

and time is ripe

to contemplate

the transformation’s later light

and sing what no one’s saying

following after poets

filling the birdfeeder 

with sunflower seed 

watching the splash 

little blackened shells 

big bang fireworks

a red-winged blackbird flies

across the empty road

a man is walking a dog

a dozen boats are floating

on the late sunday river

books of ryokan and saigyo

robert lax

on the coffee table

birdsong coming through

open windows

the light above

my shoulder lighting

purple ink on paper

reflecting in the picture

window

like a moon

in space between

the wall and green face

of an evening

summer wood

manifestation

is

the translation

of revelation

into mind

bliss

is

the revelation

as felt

by body-mind

as evening deepens

reflection of the room

deepens in the window space

basho walking through

the woods

poetry is

the inspirational

reflection of the revelation

seen in words

and dancing

in the dark leaves

appear like clouds

shadowing deep images

although I know

they’re nothing

spoken silence

saying something

leaving

someone

silent

To the Purple Rose of Consciousness

It would appear, in evolution, this form of being which has called itself a human being, is the only form of being self-aware.

Instead of being, basking, in this self-awareness, the human being has discovered transformation, called it death, identifying with the form itself.

The world it builds is just the fear, forgetting self-awareness, disregarding being as its base, and practicing idolatry of form

in semi-permanent outstanding structures of its buildings, roads, and infrastructures, pyramids, cathedrals, banks of skyscrapers,

in other words, materialism, scientific and objective, praying at the feet of form to overcome the fact of form,

to fear of death and not a celebration of this awesome functioning of self-awareness, being, basking in and as this self-awareness,

being light and basking in the light, this being, basking, being, basking, crowning function of creation, crown of evolution,

noumenon of all phenomena, true revelation and apocalypse, the power and the glory, knowing all the universe is just reflection of oneself,

the mirror knowing it's the mirror, truth unborn, undying, I and nothing else.

opening the field

it must be

almost

summer solstice

i can smell the sweetness

of hay

the field is divided 

between tall grass 

and space 

now 

in bales 

  

imagine this confluence of 

intelligence 

consciousness

bliss

like a field of sea

(write with mind

as self

to nobody

then

circulate)

emptiness

using the mind

and not

mind using

itself

consciousness

between intuition

and inspiration

reflecting awareness

is the revelation

tree frogs must be

at their peak

i hear

a distant siren

in their harmony

further is our intent

the open road

is consciousness

dividing lines

speak to mind

a new wild voice

not one in memory

almost like a seagull

in coyote staccato

beyond dna entrusted archetypes

heighten experience

lowering experience

consort or saddhu

any experience

will do

one

doesn’t make

the moment empty

the moment is

empty

reflecting

experience

not

reflecting on

experience

the experience itself

touches dna

mystic third rail

seeing

there’s no archetype

beyond

archetype

is

that

unknown

the time

to speak in

tongues

is fast

approaching

the moment

without reflection

experiential

beyond archetype

the great unknown

deja vu

is stuck between

an archetype

and distant

memory

you may remember rome

more power to you

but experience itself is how

that archetype

got milk in a day

it’s not so much

being mindful

as being

doing

mind

see the moment

beyond all archetype

now phantom

the noumenal

unknown

arjuna doesn’t

just arise

arjuna will

experience

for krishna

by knowing

now

the great unknown

now knows

the great unknown

to know now

i need to know

what isn’t now

this is the clown

of creation

there is a window

i see the window

the window is open

there’s an open window

i am the opening

straw frogs

first there were peepers

now there are tree frogs

around the time

of crickets come

fireflies!

every movement takes

about fourteen billion years

if you really

wish to believe

evolution

a religion

may be

detected

by its glorious

guilt

wax

wane

yin

yang

full moon tao

guilt or

being mindful

there's your yin

and yang

of all religions

i've never not been living

i've never been dead

i'm not guilty saying

i don't know

the difference

you're probably

at the corner of love

and I

you’re probably

within spec

my latest death

poem is

that Evolution see

there is no

death

i've been trying to eat

less words

and finally learning

who to copy

never mind this writing

the word

becomes the primal scroll

then it's printing the copies

later is the reading and at last is

silence

the grass hut

thank you

tree frogs

yin yang noise

for my grass

hut

god is

the foundation of empire

while mind is

the foundation of dreaming

god

doublespeak

is what

the empire

hears

as truth

truth is

destitute

and homeless

in the speech of

doublespeak

truth is

seeing there appears

to be two

as the world believes

in one

the act of knowing

yourself

there’s the john of revelation

mona lisa now

apocalypse

when the movie

leaves the screen

to walk within your world

it’s basically

over

my generation

the first generation

to see illusion

from behind

because wizardry of tv

the closer you

get to the end

the more I see

there’s no

beginning

we die

when the slow clock of intent

meets the fast clock of transformation

someplace other than

now

listen to the tree frogs

alternating stars and zeroes

ever since the big one

it’s either something

or the other

the difference

between freud and jung

is yin and yang

young

old

i will go

further

as long as i feel

like going

further

honestly

speak your truth

as if it frees

you

or kills you

all these words

aren’t the

eye

of the

hurricane

  

the grass hut

is

one

seen

through

noumenal reflections

neither

rhododendron

mountain laurel

nor azalea

neither summer

leaves

nor winter

snows

neither yin

nor yang

but nameless

tao

there's nothing

personal

in this

process

as you

see it

and

misunderstand

let's say

the noumenal

unknown

spontaneously

knows

the noumenon

and such a knowing is

phenomenal

We Are Kurosawa

On Kurosawa’s Throne of Blood

false ones that usurp

that great immortal god

the noumenal unknown

will now be overthrown

by their own phenomenal truth

On Kurosawa’s Great Humanity

Kurosawa is a singular visionary

but not a nondual one—

his deconstructive sun

blinded focusing his eye

on rubble of imperial delusion

Atomic Dreams

imagine being one

coming of age

in a land

devastated

by two

Credits

know

there is no one

nor other but

that noumenal unknown

i am

Leaving the Remains

Approaching summer solstice,

there's a flower to be faced.

The act of getting to the edge

is not for living on the edge.

Something isn't deconstructed

just to live within its rubble.

Seeing through the false

is not the seeing in itself.

The truth is not extreme,

nor desolate, nor cynical.

Breathe in that fragrance

of a spaciousness beyond

all narrative of space.