Diary of a Sunset. May 3, 2018. Pleasant Valley.

The nucleotide is high tonight. In the gray woods, black bark forms a double helix. Between noon and midnight—the screech owl of Pleasant Valley is awake and ready for its night shift.

Peepers begin their ninth with an ode to joy. The purring of this screech owl is amplified by the hollow of an oak tree. Awakened wood frogs supply their synthesized harmony in intervals of three.

Sunset minus fifteen minutes of daytime fame—now the peepers are literally dominating the conversation. Every now and then a single unidentified bird is laughing.

A mockingbird makes an amazing technicolor dream appearance. We have sunset. Only peepers. Some sharp sound appears right after sunset, between bird and animal, angel and devil.

I wonder where the fox and coyote are tonight? And the dogs begin to bark like western coyotes. S/he not being love is busy being sad. The wind may have shifted to the southeast. I think I hear a train.

Southwest is the silent wind around here. Sky City. Civil twilight—highway noise and peepers. "After nautical dusk, sailors cannot navigate via the horizon at sea."

Star rise. Night time is the light time to be. Deconstruction leads to being. It's never nihilistic. The train of absolution is arriving at the station as I stop.

Not an Epitaph

Whether being is existent or non-existent is not the question. Begin at the beginning,

which is consciousness, because consciousness is everything. Like I love this being

oh so much I make this world to make this last forever and in doing so forget

I am this being with intent to know I'm that beyond all time. In other words,

I make a mortal world by my attempt to be immortal

in the process of this self-awareness

I am that beyond

the words,

mortality and immortality.

From chapter one, the white rabbit is the rabbit hole: I shall be too late. The point is

thus all communication is in love. Words only repeat themselves. We three gods.

Unknown. The known. Unknowing. Death is to life as suffering is to separation or some such logic.

My calendar of spring is ice out, red-winged blackbirds, purple crocus, vernal equinox,

peepers, forsythia, orioles, cherry blossoms, lilacs, docks then boats, and a rare day in June.

I would have been a priest but for war. I would have been a person but for love.

I would have been a poet but for truth. Ah, that's the strong stuff. Please don’t take it personally.

footnotes to pseudacris crucifer

0. to my deconstruction warrior projections.

1. exhibitionists of the world, surrender. all my doing is non-doing.

2. love is the way to way.

3. every illusion tells a story.

4. forgiving is not forgetting but seeing through.

5. the universe is infinite like i am.

6. transformation is my middle name.

a. so samadhi is like spontaneous combustion. meanwhile, feel free to burn yourself away in love.

b. deconstruction without compassion is like world war. been there. done that.

c.
seeing through
is forgiving who
i like to think i am

1). love my universal being, have compassion for my unaware projecting, and forgive me all believing

a,) in the name of the child, the parent, and the supernatural

Merrimack Renga for Pseudacris Crucifer

You cannot jump into the void but one can be. Consciousness is not a product of the body but the world is of consciousness.

Loving is the only knowing and all else is only known. Every April is spontaneous despite the memory of desire.

A flower isn't late nor early and so is dreaming neither right nor wrong but the latest phase of self-awareness.

Wild daffodils bloom on the northern riverbank after escaping the next-door neighbor's flower bed.

Nothing is not nothing. Look out. Every concept is infinitesimal! Only love of being attracts the sting of absolution.

Beyond the known is the unknown and only knowing knows this. Spring like mizu no oto. Hiraizumi. Yamadera. Matsushima!

eight footnotes to my peepers

so much depends on spring peepers

into this stream of consciousness sounds basho

neti neti never ends

as you were soldier as it is peace

magical reality is bound to be the very next phase

myth is to religion as deconstruction is to postmodernism

talking trinity understanding seven

one is never deconstructed and tao is never told

Epistle to My Peepers

Spring peepers sounding in the wetlands like a chorus to the changing seasons singing great intent is steadfast in the valley spirit—

one jumps into the unknown depths of being. The splash of transformation is a feature, not a void.

It's a little tantric rule I learn while hiking in the Whites. One doesn't throw out consciousness with the deconstruction of conditioning—

there's nothing right or wrong about the world. It's just a passing shadow, sunshine.

Imagination is the greatest tool devised by evolutionary intent but at times, the myth runs away with the moon—

it's neither the varieties of western materialism nor an eastern void. Myth and deconstruction is the revelation of being the unknown.

If being is the immaculate conception and self-awareness is its absolute revelation, then the world is the turning point this being sees through—

I am quantum-dreaming an unbelievable dream and your light years may vary. Such is absolute uncertainty.

footnotes auto jesus me

1. something so inspired—it’s a revelation.

2. fox medicine. pharmaceutical coyote.

3. the moon has been overanalyzed of late.

4. nevertheless there’s a waxing crescent moon shining quicksilvery in the picture window as i write this.

5. like white lightning etched on the crimson sandstone walls of deep blue canyons.

a. whatever. i wax poetic.

b. i wonder why the moon is only half.

c. this sudden observing of observer and observed is called seeing through.

d.

science deconstructs religion

dreaming creates meaning

belief divides being

f. rock crushes scissors. paper covers rock. scissors cut paper.

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!