One Late September Morning

This morning was as close to frost since early May. 

The sun which now appears within this picture window

warms the living room in a different way than summer sun,

reminding me I’ve built a shelter for the lack of one.

When the weather in September changes,

the change I feel is not external nor objective,

but this vital breath, this subtle feeling that I am, this seeing

affecting transformation in its universal earth-bound being.

There’s nothing but this sense of one,

affectionate awareness, easier done than said,

but being is conditioned otherwise to see myself instead as some display

divided into colors, thoughts, emotions, play.

In fact the world is not in battle, bloodshed, conflict, war.

The wind is not unfriendly, frigid, spiritless, far.

I am merely being in and breathing out—

of this I have no second thoughts about.

The Black Whole

Compassion is the default position of seeing.

Being is the only known.

Only being is known by the unknown.

If being is the only known,

and only being is known by the unknown,

then there's truly nothing

but being.

A mountain rises from the sleeping giant.

The sun is speaking from rare air.

The sun is my heart.

And I am that black hole from which the sun shines.

As the earth knows itself to be the sun,

the sun is an embodiment of that great black hole.

In this world, the language of the black hole is

the words of revelation.

Between divided emotions lovingly awaits deep sleep.

Or enlightenment in some translations.

Picture the sun as the source of the body

in tangerine clouds of absolute sky.

There's the unknown.

I am. And evolutionary intent of mind.

One not busy translating is a busy body—

urge urge urge of the procreant east.

For the discerning, 

the intelligent, the intensely questioning.

Furthur.

Ode to Affectionate Awareness

Ordinary is to time 

as nothing is to space—

conceptual pain-killers.

Being is beyond space-time

and so dangerous to personal attachments.

Resting in being begins

in the universal and eternal

and ends in the infinite and timeless.

O nothing and ordinary
is to universal and eternal
is to infinite and timeless

as personal is to being is to absolute.

Simply put,

we are conditioned to think personally

despite feeling universally—

like looking at my sometimes great surroundings

and experiencing beyond a notion

all is one

being.

Being is what love feels in-between the lines.

Affectionate awareness is such a wise and lovely name

for this essence of experience.

This affectionate awareness is the new frontier.

This not a thought, this feeling, this affectionate awareness.

This intuition is a two-dollar word for this affectionate awareness.

Revelation is the existing space

between ignorance and projection.

Intuition
is to the personal
as affectionate awareness is to being
as revelation is to pure awareness.

Deconstruct the personal.
Feel the universal being.
Absolution...

monster (in compassionate reply)

it’s the monster they fear 

that makes the monster they hear 

their champion. 

thus you shall never overcome 

a monster just by calling it 

a monster.

one can only see through

its monstrous clothes

child.

Après Moi, Je Suis: Is Is Not An Ism

Existence is personal

Conceptual.

Being is universal

Affectionate.

Existentialism is

A personal conceptual philosophy.

Being (not an -ism) is

Universal affectionate wisdom.

Philosophies are world views

Again making

Re-fictionalize

Reification.

Being is universal wisdom

Negative making

De-fictionalize

Deification.

Personal philosophies are conceptual dead ends.

One only comes to the parent through the child

The absolute through being.

Footnote—

Most religions are belief systems

Philosophies concerning the metaphysical

Dead-ending in a conceptual god—

Thank god for mystics.

The Country of Perfection

My gurus have always been stop signs and red lights 

Just a dream wrapped in a dreamer inside a dreaming.

This country of evolution is perfection as it is

All crickets and the sound of no boats on a September river.

Knowing what I’m not reveals I am the only knowledge

This red dirt muddy water universe beginning and ending.

On the silver sands of self-awareness.

I saw a sign

She is a dream

This universe

Perfection as it is.

I heard a world

The silence spoke

We are the word

That self-awareness is.

I saw a sign

That lightning struck

This thunder cried

A sign is always I.

I am
The sign.

Son Mountain 17: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

This place of my retreat,

so secret, it’s difficult to express—

without a wind, the wild vines stir,

without a mist, the bamboo is in the dark,

who do the mountain streams cry for,

why are clouds assembling together?

I sit in my hut at noon

suddenly realizing the sun is risen.

(from the translations of RP175, RH-176, BW-46)

Son Mountain 16: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

Layer on layer of mountains and rivers,

cerulean film enclosed in rose-colored clouds—

a brush of mist soaks my cotton bandana,

morning dew dampens this coat of straw,

on my feet are sojourning sandals,

in my hand is a bamboo cane.

Again gazing beyond the dust of the world

not bothered by the dreams of that land.

(from the translations of RP106, RH-106, BW-44)

Son Mountain 15: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

Divining a far-flung place to dwell,

Peace of Heaven—there’s nothing more to say.

Gibbons cry from the cold mists of the valley,

glowing peaks merge into a grass gate,

leaves thatch the roof of a home in the pines,

a pond is channeled from a spring.

Content at last to drop the world,

picking ferns as the years fall away.

(from the translations of RP79, RH-78, BW-43)

Son Mountain 14: A Cold Mountain Transcreation

My home is below lush green cliffs

with weeds in the yard uncropped—

vines hang in spiraling loops,

ancient rock rises high and steep,

monkeys gather the highland fruit,

egrets fill their bills with fish from the pond.

One or two scrolls of the immortals

go murmuring under the trees.

(from the translations of RP22, RH-16, BW-72)