Being in the core. Awareness from on high.

Awareness being self-aware is scientific myth—where science is just another story and mythology is fact articulated in the language of lies.

All thought is simply a virus like an Asiatic bittersweet vine and love is like the next tree over.

If the past is prologue, the preface is the way to original face. June and it's not easy being rare.

Forgive yourself. Heavy lies the crown of creation. Enjoy this ode to joy of June for there is where the absolute is living.

And the black hole sees itself within the sun. The Nova Scotia fog is lifting.

The colors of a dream after waking to the fact that black is white or vice versa.

Dropping off body and mind is like a flower. The fragrance of true eyes. In the name of pure awareness and all projection.

No preface. No afterword. See what. Touch who. Hear where. Smell when. Taste why.

Nothing but the net of now. Do you want to know a secret? Consciousness is the fountain of youth.

Different tribes. One truth. Anything other than one or zero thinks it's one or zero.

Growing old is my latest koan. Poetry isn't real. Late night perambulations. Trust is like a unicorn.

First there is belief but there's no belief but there's what there is. Love without check is instant karma.

Karma without love is a hungry ghost. The holy grail is not an object. The renaissance is all about perspective.

Nothing beats trump but no trump. Henry David Thoreau. Leo Tolstoy. Martin Luther King. Arjuna.

See through you. Like crossing the Mojave Desert. You can’t make a horse drink but you can’t lead a person to water either.

Act Nine

"The intention is to see the state of things in their correct perspective."

They're never going to catch the midnight rider. The eagle flies on Friday and Saturday I go out to play.

War is high division. And the workaday world is low war. Do not ask for whom the day remembers. The day is dreaming you.

Whatever isn't love is thought hiding as emotion. And philosophy is the blackest magic of all thoughts.

Love is that which thinks it's separate but knows it's not and thought is just a tool.

Joy is this child-like River Beyond adulteration. Joy is like the last number nine of number nine number nine number nine number nine.

Joy is my corrected vision. Joy is universal being without a personal check. And joy is a river overflowing its banks.

For joy is the default position. As if deep sleep is really what you are. And then you dreamt a big bad bang so I, pure awareness, am also self-aware.

Like take your stand on the highest ground you know. Dare to be embodied! No sin. No saint. No doing. Merit is intent. Being is Te of Tao.

The true trapper is like the Holy Trappist Who is waiting silently to be trapped. Like Thomas Merton at Polonnaruwa.

Learning to be is the final degree. Asking who am I is just like saying here I am. Sometimes you eat the snake and sometimes the snake eats you.

Heart Four

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.