cold poem 1

I Is the Witness of Am

All beings are being but only the human being after forgetting being knows being. Such is the magic of the material world.

If to love being is to be, and being is the unknown knower knowing, then I am that.

Let it be and realize being is a concept too.

The love of the world and its experience is the mishandling of the material as being.

Loving being is nothing personal.

Just be and love this being. No one ever knows when this primal fact will merge with the absolute unknown.

In other words, the concept of me is, of course, never there when the primal concept of being is being seen through.

If not being, not thought. Not the experiencing. The knowing.

Being is all of space-time but knowing is gone gone, gone beyond, gone altogether beyond.

Deep sleep disproves every state of dreaming.

The person is to the world as being is the universe. spontaneous combustion.

Being is new but not real. Only I is real.

Maharaj says to "put your money away and take my water."

Follow the river to its source and there you shall see there is no water.

There is nothing higher than being and in being there is no concept such as being higher.

Towel and Tool

Indeed, 

there's nothing to do—

but dropping that thought is 

the first thing to do.

Drop thought and rest 

in the unrivaled knowledge of being.

The only spiritual knowledge 

one needs,

love this being—

and form no new religion.

On Reflexive Speaking

I am what I eat. And I eat I am. Tao is as Tao conceives. Wave or particle. Yin or yang.

One is mortal because one is immortal. My concepts pass because I'm not a concept. Dreams fade because I'm not a dream. Follow the fractals.

As the world becomes clear, you will be disturbed. As you see through the clarity, you will be amazed. As you shall witness all as sovereign.

Paranoia. compassion. eyewitnessing. In other words, compassion trumps paranoia. These days, it's right before my eyes.

The I-witness is silent on such matters. It's like an almost desert dry full moon tonight. Listen to coyotes howl in Cleveland.

Deep sleep is a name for where I come from. I don't know about you but I go home every night. 2016 might be a sight. but look out for 2020!

When Consciousness speaks to Consciousness, only Consciousness can translate that to your language.

Read words as words. Let words rest in being. Translate rested words to mind. This is called Reflexive Reading.

“It is something like a deer taking rest in the shadow of a tree. The color of the shadow is neither light nor very dark, this is the borderland.”

Chop Chop

Somewhere on the Bay of Fundy, 

high tide is rising to 

the height of fifty feet 

or more. 

On the other hand,

I’ve never seen a land

as flat as that around

I-40 on the Texas Panhandle.

This Sunday morning I’m at home

in the middle of a summer weekend

full of coups, mass murder, and more

political 3-ring circus acts.

Still, I know there’s nothing

to be done each morning

but wake up

and swallow water.

Sans Everything

As the unknown knows

the unknown,

there is a knowing.

This knowledge is called being—

I am.

As the knowing

doesn't know—

this is called the world.

And as the unknowing knowing

suddenly knows,

all’s the unknown…

The Pendulum Swings from 0 to i

1.

The world begins

when one believes in two.

The world will end

when one sees through this two

to no particular point of view.

2.

Survival is the name

of the evolutionary game.

But being unborn

is the crown of creation.

sumsara

all of this

is but

the sweet nothing

whispered by

that

i am

that says—i am

but don't be mistaking

my word for

my self

yet every summer

the word of spring

begins to eat itself

still

the world is only my word

being is my voice—

I am the silence

Catawba Aura Sky

Following the Black Mountains of North Carolina on the Blue Ridge Parkway,

there’s a place they call Craggy Gardens where Catawba Rhododendron bloom in June at 6000 feet above sea level.

The colors lilac-purple to magenta reddens the rugged landscape.

From out of the deep eastern valley arises this universe of phenomenal irregularity in tone and occultation.

And from out of this arises the silent watchful flowers of indigenous and everlasting Issa

saying unto all—no one comes to the source but by this peak.

Summer Paraverse for Ma

Van Morrison sings about the youth of ten-thousand summers. This is what my mother felt within herself despite her 92nd year. I know this to be true because I asked her, and I asked her because I know this to be true.

She would tell whomever were to listen never to grow old. By this she meant the physical decline that happens to the body. But inside she knew the spirit of mid-June.

I could never speak to her about some nondual truth of universal being or absolute awareness, and so I’d just remind her of that inner self when she would talk to me about her growing old.

And she knew it for a fact because it is, in fact, the only knowledge that there is. When she was 93 her body died, but that youth of every summer still remains undying and unborn.