No Dream for Tao

You cannot eff the ineffable! You are not universal but I am. Deconstruction too begins at home.

As every wind cries Maya, my every shiver cries for Shakti. You say relativity. I say fake news.

If love is like the one perceiving double apperceiving all is single, zero is just that.

If free will can will what free will is free to will, then why isn't your free will just willing freedom?

It may be late May but where have all the frogs gone?  Altering consciousness is the scarlet letter.

All means of deconstruction rest outside the law but within love. And so I say unto myself, don't join them in division.

Unjoin them in one. Unjoin from your projection. Unjoin from the joint chiefs of staff god love them.

The personal is the little dream. Being is the big dream. No dream for Tao.

When the ghost of love appears, and questions if you know her, do not beg of her to listen.

Great love appears to be our tragedy but always is my comedy. Wilderness is in the eyes of the beholder. Mary and the silence of the frogs.

In the Mary month of May, mother of god, blessed be our flowering in self-awareness.

Remember, only the paradoxical is real. Three is the only paradoxical number that you've never seen. Blessed is the holy trinity of me you and I.

The personal is false. Truth is universal. Deconstruction is the holy spirit. But deconstruction without love is genocide.

Apple. Orange. Consciousness. Shiver as two. Feel like one. Let us dream as if pure awareness is being self-aware. Imagine that.

absolution if

There's absolutely no reason to know you're not. I like dreaming too. Like Always Dreaming v Classic Empire.

But it's as I am! Not all about me or as it is. Call me cloud computing. Or Ishmael.

The continent is my tail. The oceans are my mouth. Pangaea or Panthalassa. Black hole or big bang.

Zero one zero one zero one zero one. Broccoli or bacon. Paper or plastic.

Postmodernism means there is no meaning

but I am beyond meaning, Frankie Lee. As woke is prologue to awakening. Wednesday is prophecy. Saturday is revelation.

Love without deconstruction is Timothy Leary's dead. To repeat. Love is transmission. Transmision is being. Being is absolution.

If memory serves the great intent of the present. The holy ghost is that fleeting world where the unknown knows itself. Call it cherry blossom.

Call me cherry blossom. So call off the dogs of fear and enjoy. One is knowing oneself. Praise be!

Like the unknown knowing itself is as the world turns. Intent reminds. Whatever. First is love. So there is no second.

Thank you Socrates. Blessed is the valley of the Maharaj. Who iambic? Ten thousand causes. One result. No clue, amirite?

Feel the love and filter out the thought. Italicize this please. One two three four. Love love love love.

Act two. Always deconstruct before constructing. Love the one you love. Self-inquiry is the meaning of life. Who cares?

Deconstructing the Great White

There's nothing to be done but undo what has been done.

Being is universal and the visible universe is its body but the world is just its dream.

Or only the absolute is real and being is reflection, mirror, and objects closer than they appear. Yes, the frogs are strong tonight.

Where the buffalo Rome and the dearly infallible play at being Holy Father occupy the dream but resist identification.

In the desert, there are no trees to measure skeletons and skulls. In the rainforest, there are waterfalls to apperceive dependent origination.

Living in the city of the gods, there are skyscrapers and everything. Now you can call me Tao or you can call me I—but there are no words.

Abracadabra genesis of birth. Hocus-pocus apocalypse of death. Warning: nondual deconstruction may result in one befalling nothing.

The white bird sits in her golden cage unaware but she is feeling the burn.

The Self-awareness Project

People are not born. We are imagined. Pure awareness appearing to be unaware is self-awareness seeing through itself. 

This song and dance of consciousness is unbelievably phenomenal. On the final ascent of the western slope is seen the sea of dawnland.

This virtual reality is all about the one forgetting zero. As the emperor of greenleaf is the oriole. Bee the buzz. 

Because there's no beginning, you'll never know the end, even if it's all you think about. April mixes memory and May.

By deconstructing the personal, the universal is absolute. It's projection, stupid. 

Writing myself into the canyon of death rode the ten thousand. Enjoy the film. I can't remember being born but I was taught death. 

I read Frost and I read Jack Kerouac and loved them side by each. Stuck inside of Lowell with the Salem blues again. 

Quick brown fox only attendance is required. Empire feeds on the thought of death. 

Understanding consciousness appears to be the only way. Que sera sera. Keep on being until it doesn't hurt.

Ayuh

Division is the death we've all been born by its fear. Love may be an indirect path but every path appears to have a trailhead.

And the lock is always looking for its key until it sees the gate is gateless. As a child, I loved. Unborn again, I know I am, and that is love.

The dream may die when we awaken, but since love was never born, it's still there. And the only ghost is holy.

Possession is ninety-nine percent of the law, but the other one percent is rendered unto the one.

You cannot solicit the lord with prayer! And only those outside the law can deconstruct this nineteenth nervous empire for blessed is the one.

If self-awareness is intent, unawareness is like Zeno's Paradox. Ayuh, you can't get here from there.

By May the Tenth

A butterfly in 1967.

Tuesday afternoon tonight.

History may be written but only love is transmitted.

Dream the dream but love the one.

Science is good theory but bad science.

Self-awareness is inevitable because time is an illusion.

But because space appears, expect delays.

Caterpillars are creating their cocoons because.

When the great divide appears, you won't believe it.

No more words for now.

Spontaneous, transformative and one.

ED on Here

The Wild Child

"I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash'd babe, and am not contained between my hat and my boots" –Walt Whitman

Consciousness tells it like it is. Whether consciousness listens is the story. There's no commandments but compassion is the last judgment.

And loving death is the only way to truly live. For death is the mother of all concepts. And bhakti is the perfect deconstructor.

Like lilacs last and the cherry blossom—mayday the docks are emptying the river of wild child as if.

For the Merrimack is offspring of the Winnipesaukee and Pemigewasset— the smile of the great spirit and beautiful water in a high place.

Always Dreaming

Memory is the mirror in which pure awareness manufactures self-awareness. It's as if Narcissus turns himself into a pond to see the seed of hydrogen in water. So the rings of space-time are like cross sections of a tree that always stands.

What if the princess falls in love with a public frog making mizu no oto every night? Evolution isn't what you think it is but so am I. And lilacs by the roadside is the beauty truth forgets.

Venus and Mars are out tonight but Mercury is the secret knowing. One sees the light by deconstructing shadows. So relax. The Tao doesn't take the worship of false idols personally.

deuces and one-eyed jacks

universal consciousness

identifying

with a part

of the universal

is personal

slash divisional—

war, insanity

and suffering.

whatever,

give me more!

because

the two of hearts is played,

the one-eyed jack appears—

who is the ace of spades?