seven footnotes of war

1. I wrote you a love song.

2. It’s seeing through the me and you.

3. It’s even bigger than war and peace.

4. But it’s smaller than a flower.

5. Only you can declare war and drink their poison.

6. Let love be the first and last words of every train of thought.

7. My lonesome nondual heart is singing.

a. Everyone needs a myth to surf the great unknown.

b. If I'm not love, forgiveness, or compassion, what am I?

s/he not busy seeing through is war

As there is observer and observed, observing is unknown. As observer and observed is being seen through,

observing is all-knowing. Subject-object eject. Any belief is just an argument for war.

If division is the old math, deconstruction is the new lit. If it isn't love, forgiveness, or compassion, it's war.

Where have all the Mahākāśyapas gone? If it looks like an object, feels like a subject, and quacks like a quack, then it's probably war!

Everybody dies but no one is born. This is the crossroads of the blues. Please forgive the wayless for they know not why they war.

The Autobiography of Jesus Me

Earth. Sun. Black hole. Let me convince you with my scientific gibberish, objective obscuration, and logical gobbledygook. Projections aren't to be believed but loved.

I saw a fox today. Or maybe it was just another psychological encounter with Coyote. To call me up in Dreamland or trick me into thinking dreams are the only dreams?

Not to mention that this cardinal keeps on keeping on the bird feeder like some Roman Catholic crimson bloodstain of conditioning experienced in childhood until I feel the consciousness of Jesus as myself.

Note that this occurs only after discovering I may read the word of god upon my own! Is it just coincidence the Beatles and Bob Dylan, love and deconstruction quickly follow

leading to that quicksilver night upon a sacred dot of acid, sitting on the edge of Half Moon Lake, looking at a show of August falling stars, knowing I am making all of this spontaneously happen?

After all of that, the world appears to be a giant waste of space-time. So I quit BC and find myself in the Canyon of the Dead a lifetime later to see essential being. Science is so fifth dimension. Imagination is the seventh!

footnotes to fetpv

christian fundamentalism as a certain kind of direct path.
if you see it, don't believe it.
i'll never know anything more than self-awareness.

i’m on both sides of great intent.
on the other hand, imagine imagine.
know negative. think positive.

zhuangzi, like tao, is not so much about relativity as balance.
as being is conceptual, the world is my myth.
talk softly but carry a great notion.

virtual reality of virtual realities. all is virtual.
and self-awareness is the only virtue.
it’s my party and i’ll i if i want to.

First Epistle to Pleasant Valley. Spring 2018.

As if the dream state is an evolutionary stage in absolute self-awareness and not some great mistake.

If consciousness is primarily conceptual, and the only known is consciousness, then to know the great unknown is

obviously conceptual. Thus imagination isn't wrong but the myth imagined may be wrongful.


I see the first forsythia, spaced-out yellow flowers projecting the inside knowledge of the sun. Lucid dreaming is embodying the universal.

I hear an oriole the other day but call it the golden-throated. It's song is loud and crystal-clear. Obviously one being.

And then there is the early crocus appearing purple in a patch of green. For self-awareness is an evolutionary metamorphosis—


my magical reality. Something happens out of nowhere like a wild imagination.

Oh my secondary characters, my beautiful projections, listen to my story of awareness being self-aware, now playing.

As every eastern poem loves to end in cherry blossoms, body calls for food, and mind, myth. Who holds the flowering imagination?

ps1 footnotes (after consciousness, the deluge)

Pure awareness is reflected in this consciousness. Postneoadvaita koan—in binary terms, the manifest is three.

Cynthia forsythia on the roadside with the sun! Empires fall. Knowledge rises like a phoenix.

Tripping on deoxyribonucleic acid over the square root of metaparadigm. In middle America, it’s either Emily or the white whale.

Evolution depends on my suspension of belief. Dreaming is the background music for this consciousness.

Dreaming that enlightenment is in the mind is what enlightenment is. This is the latest science. Don’t overthink it. This is penultimate.

In the name of the revelation of divine imagination in the manifestation of self-awarenesss. Inheal, exheal.

Postneoadvaita Sonnet 1

Material reflects. Being projects.
Choose one or three but not two.
The moon allows the wolves to howl until they get the point.
Black is the new wisdom. White is the new love.
The world is DNA divided by conditioning.
Go figure. It’s either ten thousand somethings or one big nothing.
Everything is as it is, no matter what I may believe.
My lucid dream is what I love but minus all belief.
Being is true knowledge, the immaculate conception.
Consciousness is intentional transformation. Do the math.
Her sweet transmission is to love as her almighty engine is to words.
What if this were line twelve of a spontaneously self-aware sonnet?
That there is no thirteenth floor is just the way of magical reality.
Dreaming is the time for love and disbelieving is the space.

footnotes to 2009

remember correctly baizhang!

every closing moment of this deconstruction is like the opening of silence.

as the mind deconstructs itself, there is being. and only being is known by the great unknown.

this is basic magic. one must know oneself as the only known before the great unknown shall know oneself.

Like 2009

No cat jumping, no cradle on the edge. Leave those action verbs behind. Better to be dropping, seeing through, unknowing. At best, being.

For example, Dogen doesn't say, as to body-mind, vault into the void, but merely, drop.

The former is disassociation and the latter, surrender. The former is a mental state and the latter, being.

The former is doing and the latter, non-doing. Woo-woo or Wu Wei. Thorn in, thorns out.

Nothing. Everything. Nothing. Everything. Nothing. Everything. My so-called life.

Footnote form. Endnote emptiness. Sitting on the dock of the Tao. It takes a thought to see through a thought.

This seeing through is called the game of thorns. Sidebar being. Is the immaculate conception.

Ride the tiger like an ensō, sweetheart. Consciousness is all about the quantum uncertainty.

Sitting in the heart of the Tao, watching the tide roll in and roll away, this koan is pointing to the moon.

Three Footnotes to The Autobiography

One footnote. I think it's significant that Nisargadatta says the mystical is most practical and not vice versa.

Second footnote. I first saw her on the night of the Nixon resignation party as she floated across the room while Van Morrison is singing Jackie Wilson Said I'm in heaven when you smile over the stereo. Look, I am not responsible for fate.

Footnote three. Third outbreak after California 1991 and I'm advised to take the harder stuff. For the next fifteen years or so I'm a mountain hiking fool.