footnotes on an island

what is awakening?

when kensho happens late in life but who knows what on earth this kensho is—maybe dementia?

what’s so bad about bliss?

here we are now. nirvana is samsara. imagine me?

what if aliens were enlightened and earthlings were not?

consciousness only. experiential always. don’t forget the pain of belief. always further. furthur?

to subtweet or not, is that the question?

My Private Island Stand-up Sutra

It's never what you think it is but it's always what you know. If every Buddhist killed the Buddha, there'd be no Buddhists—only Buddha. I mean it's not exactly dropping body-mind. It's more like renting.

Then again, what is body-mind if I don't think about it, sailor. The world is doing everything in its power rubbing the red dust of the world out of my eyes. Talk about tough love! Still, it's best to do some light reading—like mystery sutras—before one's eyes are opening.

All I know is consciousness. Like I was only told about my birth. And the senses tell me everything appears as attributes of energy—light, sound, smell, touch, taste—but everyone says the material opposite and I go believe them. I don't even want to think about their takes on death!

But Maya has a vital, crucial, consequential part to play in self-awareness. Many parts in fact. Everyone.

Imagination—when released from its conditioning—is free to picture self-awareness as it is—or as one imagines it to be—my private Lankavatara—off the coast of Maine so to speak.

As self-awareness is so self-evident, it's easy to forget the Dark Ages. In the blink of an eye is born a new belief. As they say, if you're not going further, you're gone again. Even if Hunter S. Thompson never said that, he said that.

Truthfully and experientially, all appears in consciousness. But once there was a great notion otherwise. Always respect your roots. The world scares you awake. Give thanks every night. Don't hurry absolution. It happens every early morning. Imagine self-awareness. As if I am the Light! Cameras! Projection!

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tl;dr 2

imagine the world

as some bizarro realm,

like this reflection

in a funhouse mirror

where everything is opposite of truth.

it’s a crazy game for sure.

but now, it’s dealer’s choice;

i get to call exactly

what is trump.

imagine that.

Son River’s Seventh Sudden Symphony

Confusion begins believing there are others who impart their precious knowledge to myself—

there is no one but oneself and that is all the knowledge there is.

Without this experiential understanding, the rest is so much noise and commotion.

So a sage points a finger to the moon and the world believes it has to go there.

But listen to the little lower telling, I am Moon as You are Moon and We are All the Absolute's Reflection.

The only authenticity is consciousness. All belief is second-hand.

Not that there's anything wrong with this—

for the world—is like a Mayan auditorium—and Beethoven's Ninth is the teacher—

the violence and sirens—the lies, betrayals, ignorance—and inattention to—All the Signs of the Prophets—followed by an Ode to Joy and Kensho—

In consciousness alone is the energetic feeling of the senses before the mind creates a story all about it

—call this bliss—

and that eternal sudden insight into unborn Absolution—I am That

Every lover knows what rebirth really means.

Every single person knows that sudden sighing of well-being

in deep sleep—like Death I would imagine.

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going prime. a sonnet.

dm while openings are available.

first consultation is always free.

i know the sidewalks of the broken-hearted.

jesus imagined all your sins already.

go in peace. pay at the exit.

buddha explains everything in exquisite code.

jesus lives it. this is my humble translation.

buy it or not. the odds are one in a million.

the joke is i am. text me already. priceless.

get in on the ground floor while you can.

options are still available. no irony necessary.

sonrivers.not2@gmail.com

Marketing Water 101

It's not like I’m asking you to sell your soul! I just want your money.

Or maybe you still think your money is your soul. Then my bad. Turn, turn, turn!

Once I tried to give my book away because this woman really wanted it. She wouldn’t take it though. Like it had to be a bargain. Seven dollars!

So buy my latest books tonight. The price will triple maybe more tomorrow or the next. I’m practicing guerilla marketing. Beginning now.

Bottled air is the very next phase. Do you believe it or not? And bottled air is the name I call my words. Coincidence?

My words don’t come cheap. Since they’re actually bottled in space. And available only here. Avoid all other worlds.

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Water for Sale

In a perfect world there are no words, but words are that which make the absolute unknown and pure awareness god buddha nature brahman tao or that, perfection.

If the god called pure awareness is omnipresent, and omnipresence is obviously and manifestly self-aware, then the storied stuff of process in-between is called 

the evolutionary self-reflexive universe, myself in being self-aware, eom. To the senses come a scent of roses, cherry blossoms, Italian-roasted coffee.

Despite philosophies that go against the grain, a vein of love runs through their breathless conversation like a fantastic movie, O Romeo. But my black light reveals a universe of psychedelic colors—

self-awareness is like now knows now without the when or then or any other sound of silence. Listen! The world is just a box of dreams I dreamt more than thirteen billion years ago.

There's nothing wrong with the world that can't be unbelieved. And unbelieving is the gist and perk of my patented contemplative meditation. Just pure awareness being self-aware. Buy it or not.

tl;dr 1

outer desires make the world

but secret desire is most wholly desire—

call the difference suffering.

open heart, swallow story.

Secret Footnotes to First Tantra

The Red River parts itself

and there is one John Wayne—

it’s all an inside joke.

Dreams die a thousand deaths but live just one.

I never tell a story I can translate. So

ten thousand inarticulate mystical words of the one and only

heart. Emptiness is story and vice versa, November.

First Tantra of Manifestation

One of the benefits of a leafless season starting in November is the woods across the way empty—and thru lucidity the river sparkles! Part one.

The sirens of the world enticing me with all their advantageous knowledge in exchange for unavailing love and wisdom—

they promise wealth or possibly world peace, whatever floats your boat. For war and peace is equally delusional.

Awakening of deconstruction is the only worthwhile wealth of mind. Only resting in that meditative and contemplative sky of absolution is

there tranquility of silence. Opposite, pacifists and warriors create the yin and yang of such duality.

This is actually the dance of Maya called Samsara—don’t be fooled again says Who. Part two.

I remind myself there's just myself again and again and again. This is called versification. 

And in the world of temporality, tonight is the longest night. And full frost moon to boot!

O November night as daylight savings time is deconstructed and the meta-paradigm of a scientific and material world 

is dropped for one sacred hour, science is conceptual only, as economics is material only, and both are but appearances 

in Consciousness only. I cannot emphasize this fact enough. Consciousness is the only knowledge known.

What passes for knowledge in the world is knowledge of the world. That is the joke behind every koan.

Do not ask what is the meaning of life. Ask what is the grass? For Joshu answers dogshit! Part three.

Yes, no view on views, but on this longest night with full frost moon, what about a revelation?

Manifestation is the deepest deconstruction in awakening as contemplative meditation is the deepest sleep of absolution.

Part four.

I am manifesting this world now to remind myself I’m not the mirror of the mind but pure awareness as reflecting in this being only.

Call this Alice Through the Looking Glass or The Platform Sutra. I call it Consciousness Only. I am that I am.

Manifestation is not an error nor is it evil, as failure to learn is also neither. Just teach your parents better in the next light of day.

Part five.

Listen. Fake worlds have real news. William Carlos Williams calls it poetry. William Blake calls it prophecy. Christ calls it tantra, love.

John Keats beautifully says, beauty is truth. Truth, beauty. But here and now I say this art of manifesting is the law of self-inquiry—

one calls it negative capability or says it's positive deconstruction. Lucid dreaming works in mysterious ways.

Part seven.