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.

The Limits of Deconstruction

The Empire never loses. It just co-opts the new next story. Constantine buys Christianity. Disney buys Star Wars.

A person not busy deconstructing is busy serving the Empire.

Deconstruction is always lovingly impersonal. No material or worldly violence is ever needed.

The greatest error of personal deconstruction is nihilism.

Nothing is the greatest concept. Subtraction is the work of mind. Being is limitless.

(It's as if the mind in deconstructing itself continues madly into negating being, creating this black hole of an ultimate concept.)

The unknown isn't nothing. Being isn't unknown.

Being is true knowledge. Being knowing being is unconditional love. Being knowing the unknown is self-awareness.

In this way it's all about being the unknown.

Harbinger, Herald, Courier, and Prophet

Death is a concept. The person is a concept.

So death is a concept about the end of a concept.

Therefore ask yourself today: am I a concept?

One doesn't really die before dying.

One kills the concept one thinks one is.

The emperor has no clothes. I am.

On the other hand, lucid dreaming knows

the clothes one wears and wears them well.

But there are tricksters tricksters everywhere!

Some like Coyote believe in tricks

and so become outsmarted by them.

Raven flies on black wings.

The Basic Secret

Evolution is about the journey from self-centeredness to self-awareness and back again.

Science only tells the surface story.

This game of clue always ends with the rattlesnake in the garden with its so-called tools of knowledge.

Deconstruction is the first sign of the personal apocalypse.

If belief is fundamental to the transformational existence of the world, who am I?

I dream. Therefore I know I am.

And there’s the ancient way of unknowing who I think I am.

The basic secret to nonduality is either way I am.

Believe it or not, nonexistence takes thinking.

Simply being is meditation enough.

And lucent dreaming is being enough.

Deconstruction is always further. Dreaming is always now.

The basic secret to nonduality is either way I am...

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.