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.

Superstring Quartet

Nothing but a dream 

wrapped in a dream 

inside a dream 

deconstructing personal belief

resting in universal existence

waiting silently—

for the intent of that absolute unknown

awakening harmonics

surrendering to intent

enjoying the flow of absolute intent

being intensity!

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

Hokusai, Mount Fuji, and I

I just changed the wallpaper on my Zenfone, yes it's called a Zenfone,

to Hokusai's 'Great Wave' where Mount Fuji looks from a distance

with dispassionate and unobstructed views at men in long boats

about to be enveloped by the ivory claws of transformation.

I saw Mount Fuji once myself while traveling the commuter rail

from Tokyo to Narita International. It was on a long and gentle turn

when its iconic shape came into view. It lasted for what seems a minute,

like an enigmatic whisper, like a voice behind a wall inside a dream,

and when the train had found its new assuredly unswerving direction,

I knew beyond that sea of great uncertainty there's never anything but
sky.

untitled

Float like Mozart. Sting like Zhuangzi. One heart leads to another. Third time is a charm.

Old math. Two hearts are better than one. Full house trumps no mind. Jokers are wild.

Basho

In the library

With haiku

Mojave desert

Without a water bottle—

The traffic center!

After thinking I am is I am; on knowing I am is I-I.

Samsara and Indians

Dylan going electric might be the uber myth for 'my generation.' Belief surrenders to being. Judas!

Action precedes words. I am the way. If you meet Bob on the road, don't kill him. Just don't follow him any further.

To dream or not to dream is not the question. Mozart was yet another crack in the western wall that finally fell in 1968.

The current restoration dates to 1980. Deconstructing versus building: in any dream, it’s no contest.

To dream i am dreaming is like a mirror reflecting a mirror. I am between the mirrors.

Restoration always means death for the latest Indian. The big secret is Indians never die. Self-awareness is a good day to die.

Beethoven’s 19th Nervous Symphony

When a dream is over, it's like it never happened. I am, therefore That is. To exist is nothing. To know that I exist is everything.

The river flows, for being is conditioned to see a river flow, the wind blow, the grass grow, high and low, yes and no, allegro and adagio.

The sun is shining on the water and the breeze is blowing from the south southwest and all that’s missing is the red-winged blackbirds.

Self-awareness is such an explosive encounter, one must conceptualize that experience before handling.

First, untrain the mind to play off the conditioned beat. This is the true counterculture. Live as if there’s no time. Scan your own meter.

It’s not about freedom; it’s about intent. One doesn’t kill the id or ego, DNA or social conditioning; one surrenders to disbelief.

Deconstruction is to disbelief as surrender is to intent as who am I is to I am. Rivers and mountains and sea oh my!

Self-awareness is the being and the bliss and the knowledge. Truly without human form, amen.

Canoeing the Concord River with my 8-year old daughter—a great blue heron witnessed at the moment of taking flight—a coyote crosses I-40.

Living like there’s no tomorrow is still living as if there’s time.

On the final steps of the western slope, the boundless dawning of the sea.

Nothing to know is easy. Nothing to teach is hard.

The Daily Current

The river hasn’t iced completely over yet this year although there were some days when it appeared it had.

They say the ocean temps are warm this season what with the record high December temperatures experienced.

Today the Merrimack is flowing black as unadulterated coffee underneath an overcast late January sky.

Minor slabs of ice came floating leisurely upstream while the tide was coming in this afternoon.

I watched the seagulls closely cross the heart of river in the name of wings and wind and holy largemouth bass.

Then an eagle flew with straight determination past those eastern white pine trees on the far shore.

And now I’m at a loss of words illuminating everything transpiring on this open closer one.