The Way of Dreaming

First there is the world.

Then there is a void.

Presently there is a dream.

In this universe of causelessness—

the spirit of intent selects your causes

—effecting a great awakening—

depending on intensity of sleep.

Causes are neither good nor bad

—but pushing and pulling—

along the intentional way.

And when a dream aligns with great intent

—synchronicity will walk the earth—

in enlightening lucidity of self-awareness.

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There are no words for heart.

And love is never having to say.

If there are no words for heart

and love is never having to say—

what is there to say?

Nothing but blue skies.

Like the northwest passage of global warming,

que sera sera.

Something there is that doesn't love a thought.

So much depends upon a dream.

I am. Who are you?

Come forth sweet hermit shaman poets and unite.

For in the land of one, there is no two.

There is nothing but I am.

One word at a time—

unbelievable compassionate interstellar presence.

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What is the word for being. I dream therefore I am.

The world is burned into my eyes. I see things.

Social conditioning is another way of saying being born.

We are all unindicted co-conspirators.

Truth is self-evident: pure awareness is unalienable.

Ceci n'est pas une windpipe.

Story Time

Between awareness and self-awareness is this dream. Between the deep blue sea and sky are waves. There are a billion stories crashing on this beach.

Being is a trip. Awareness is self-awareness. Emptiness is form. This is what the godhead looks like when it looks upon itself.

Like the starry sky as seen from Big Sur. Like the ten thousand sunrises seen one morning in Grand Canyon. Like stopping on the loneliest road in America.

Awareness being self-aware is all she wrote. There's a streetcar named desire and there's a bus called further. Yes, I'm writing this story one verse at a time.

But I’m skipping this 13th line. Other than being Krishna or suffering Kali there's Zhuangzi. Paradox or paradigm. Caterpillar. Butterfly.

It stands to reason that if everything is in your consciousness and without consciousness there is nothing, then everything is consciousness. Or simply put, you are what you dream. Look out for coyotes or look for love.

Once upon a time there was someone who believed she was born. This took place in a time when people believed they were separate and volitional. In other words, this took place before the Great Awakening.

Sometimes I’m  an actor and sometimes I direct and sometimes I have a great notion to be. Feed the body but spare the mind. Everything is penultimate.

Self-awareness appears to be material but awareness always is. And this dream is the holy ghost. It is said the only emperor is the emperor of deconstruction but the only god is that I am.

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Psalm for Molly

There's no need to run from fire or play with fire. 

We are the fire.

For fire begat fire, and fire, fire. Fire, fire, fire.

So render unto steel and glass its ironworks

and sands of time but render unto fire, fire.

Yea in the flames of consciousness dances

this reverie of universal consummation.

From out of that unknowable unborn is born this knowledge

like a dream emerging from the deepest sleep.

O rockabye baby in this universal love light!

May you learn to question everything we teach you.

May you see that being never needs improvement.

And may you stay forever self-aware.

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You can reach for the stars.

Or soak in the sun.

The sun appears to be external.

But it's just a metaphor.

I am the only energy I know.

My Pretty

You are the chosen one.

The big bang is the black whole.

Evolutionary intent is the greatest story ever told.

Thirteen blackbirds are playing blue guitars.

I saw thirteen outhouses coloring the Acoma churchyard on Sky City.

Ah Matsushima Acadia ha!

Love is good for nothing.

But love is what I dream the best.

For love is this dream of pure awareness knowing

pure awareness despite the clouds of deep belief.

  

Look at all the pretty colors in the void!

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Dream is emptiness. Emptiness is love.

Love your super dream star character

As if it is one’s faithful shadow dancer.

And love oneself as if one is the great god

Pure awareness being a mirror to see itself.

To whom it may concern: dream. Oneself, my child.

Basho was the last avant-garde.

Cold Mountain is the highest hermit shaman poet.

Deep blue skies inform

The river watch over

Your valley spirit

Absolutely let this universal being guide

The worldly personal to my deep blue sea.

Along the way there will be jellyfish and

Monkey business and your cheating heart.

Attention check. Who am I?
I am that dreaming this to know I’m That.

And to devote my dream to oneself

In the name of generations of women,

All the blessings of love to my daughter

And my daughter’s daughter to be.

A Tree Grows in Canyonlands

An intentional universal dreaming coincidence—

Energetic karmic streams of sadness

burning like the Cuyahoga River—

Messing around in the personal is like playing

with the piss and shit of ignorant conditioned

consciousness and stinks to high heaven.

Love begins with oneself.

In the middle of a desert, a green river

flows within its canyon and cottonwoods

go growing in its mystic morning mist.

The Imperial Division of Knowledge

Keep on dividing, disoriented one. 

Split a universe and the world appears. 

Split an atom and all hell breaks loose.

As above and so below.

Like looking for truth with science is

like sailing the sea with ice skates,

like looking at the sun with sun-colored glasses,

like a surgeon cutting open her own chest

to heal her patient’s heart.

As white is the presence of all color

and black is the absence of light,

fear is never object-oriented

and love does not objectify.

So how does it feel to be on your own

living in the last house at the end of the world?