Light Cicada Tempest

Yes, it's Candlemas or Imbolc as the pagans called it far before the Christians of the Empire claimed all light to be their private property.

Forgive them for it's not their fault—conditioning is every person's birthright but the rich are richer with that dark material unawareness.

Be grateful one perceives this Great Return of Light, that evolutionary point of self-awareness after 13 billion years of self-deception.

It occurs to one there is no space-time in the light and all material appearances thus disappear as relativity returns like day to deep sleep.

This is when the dream begins this lucid dreaming and the Buddhas see for Miles and Miles and Miles and paragate parasamgate bodhi svaha.

From Vulture Peak, ten thousand microchips reverberate in nanoseconds peak to peak or so to speak.

Dreaming as if self-awareness is divided into wisdom and compassion and the Lesser Gods like Venus and Mars and the Milky Way.

Dreaming lucidly this mythology being that unknown is Full Moon Samadhi.

New moon rises in the east. Full moon settles in the west. It's all for the best.

Basho speaks cicada. Shakespeare plays a tempest.

This is That which is Lost in Translation.

No one there is that loves a moonset.

Awareness. Being. Nirvana.

Being great the dream.            

Unknown knowing.                        .

Purple Waves

Frog pond

Pacific

ED on being unborn

ED on wisdom

ED on kensho

1701311111

Truth is not statistical,

my dearest one.

Nothing is not you.

Objectivity is

the hardest of delusions

known to humankind

unsigned to hitherto.

All now plays

in a consciousness near you.

For Emily

I saw the best souls of creation sinking in the quicksand of a blathering world. Only one can prevent the separate fires of division. After everything is said and done, one can say it slantwise or be like a tree and Wu Wei.

Some will light my fire and test your metal. One will let it be. Arthur Miller writes The Crucible while Marilyn Monroe is starring in Niagara. Soon they shall be married. Melville publishes his novel, Moby Dick, in 1851, and Whitman, Leaves of Grass, in 1855. But Emily always was anonymous. Correction: Emily always is anonymous.

As deconstruction is the only necessary evil, being is the only scientific knowledge not a theory. No object and no number and no modifier equals what I am. For every Horseman of the Apocalypse, there's a horse's ass pointing toward eternity, said Emily with a voice as cold as I.

On being unborn:

Because I could not stop for Death –

He kindly stopped for me – 

The Carriage held but just Ourselves – 

And Immortality.

We slowly drove – He knew no haste

And I had put away

My labor and my leisure too,

For His Civility –

We passed the School, where Children strove

At Recess – in the Ring – 

We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain – 

We passed the Setting Sun –

Or rather – He passed us –

The Dews drew quivering and chill –

For only Gossamer, my Gown –

My Tippet – only Tulle –

We paused before a House that seemed

A Swelling of the Ground –

The Roof was scarcely visible –

The Cornice – in the Ground –

Since then – ‘tis Centuries – and yet

Feels shorter than the Day

I first surmised the Horses’ Heads

Were toward Eternity –

Children striving at recess. Ouch!

"The Dews drew quivering and chill." See Wu Wei.

If she needs me to be there, I'm there. If she needs me to be not there, I'm not there. Such is my unconditional love for Emily.

‘haiku of revelation’

dreaming up theories

mythology awareness

being an unknown

Science is the one American Idol. God is still the other.

What would will Shakespeare tweet if a Shakespeare could speak Basho?

I don't like it but I love it.

I love Emily.

She is a revelation.

Matsushima ya!

The Inner Groove

Self-awareness

like a nameless desert

underneath a rainless sky—

all the pretty

horrible mirages rising

in the heat of our conditioning—

taking everything

in this wasteland of a world

with a grain of salt as large as a southwest

salt flat, say that three times—

being

being

being

is the only record

of a truthful absolute.

Behold from This Green Earth

Only I am. Everyone else is

just a lovely secondary thought.

And the same goes for you as goes for me.

For Being is the primordial and

immaculate conception. All thoughts

to follow are purely unoriginal.

But in Acadia did

the mountains rise spontaneously

from the deep blue sleep of the cold Maine sea.

And a wedding party hikes the eastern slope of First Light Mountain—

Wapuwoc—or what aliens will christen as Green Mountain—

but empire is calling Cadillac.

Upon sacred Wapuwoc the sun of all

duality is waking up

in stormy threes and sevens.

This is written in the great bronze age of

the United States Geologic Survey

but just wait until awareness is aware of awareness.

Shrieve Me, Shrieve Me

Even being is a dream.

But the separate

person is a nightmare.

This universal dream of heaven isn’t

absolute

but hell wasn’t built in a day either.

And you simply can’t

spell self-awareness

without awareness.

A Rainbow in the Sky

From awareness to self-awareness

in what appears to be a universe

and what appears to be a universe

is simply in the eye of the bedazzled.

For if the parent is pure awareness

and the child is self-awareness,

then everything in-between is

the play of utter conception.

To accept the conception is

the first decree of awakened dreaming.

To accept the conception is

the first degree of being.

To accept the conception is

the seminal way to self-awareness.

And no bedazzlement comes

to the absolute except

through self-awareness.

For it is said, either

the child is father of

the man or let me die.

Thus the question ‘Who am I’

is answered by

the dream of being ‘I am I.’