Love, Wu Wei

Thought,
when not
the tool of love,
unwisely thinks
thought alone can do.

Love just does—
there is no thought behind it.

So when finding oneself caught
within the whirlpool world of thought
and all its agitations of division and identity,
default to love—
this is what the world calls Being Only.

Preface Plot Conclusion

To sail the unassailable—squirrels are monkeys waiting for harmonic convergence.  Where has all the transformation gone? “Tell all the truth but say it slant.”  This is what philosophers can't. How can anyone from my generation listen to My Generation and not destroy a planet or two?

There's that day in August when the heat wave breaks and I remember there's a world beyond the water—or so I'm schooled to think. If lilacs are like my deconstruction, purple loosestrife is my backslide. Self-awareness has no personality or else there is the trickster, raven, what a tangled web we weave, and trick-or-treat coyote!

There is no reason for what my I intends and so I must imagine one—by the way, this is actually the secret. Genuine mountains and rivers, sea and sky, again with the crickets! Self-consciousness is consciousness unable to let go although there's only Self.
 

Saving Nonduality

Neither geocentric nor heliocentric but consciousness only—universal consciousness is not a theory.  Theories rely on thought

or thoughts arranged in systems of belief—stop and smell the consciousness of That Absolute.

Like Yosemite from Glacier Point—Shaman, Light, and Holy Granite.  Like Seeing Basho 2007 Matsushima—

consciousness only, only consciousness, consciousness only.  Like Mesa Verde and its kiva-like attraction of an inner secret—

this is the grand unified truth.  Pure Awareness is Being Self-aware.

Ode to Break On Through (To No Side)

Division feeds division. Political salvation is the last refuge of conditioning, and rightfully so.

Only love sees through that monster—there is no right or wrong in the Heart of Tao. There's only Self-awareness.

The mirror needing cleaning is not the mirror, grasshopper. After lightning sounds thunder. After thunder babbles crickets.

When the fourth wall is broken through, the other three become paradoxical, poetic, and light.

It was Nixon's resignation party.  Jackie Wilson said.  This Great Intent is coursing through me.  I'm in Heaven when She Smiles.

Tonight the picture window reflects the room around me. The screens on each side are open to the night. Listen, I smell the rain!

Composition in Consciousness Only

Appearances in consciousness are both spontaneous and temporary. No matter how far down the material world one drills,

there isn't even rope, never mind some theory of string—there's no two to tie everything together.

Disproving the concept of God is the reactionary first half in any game of natural deconstruction.

Being radical is questioning one's own identity as a person in scientific self-inquiry, knowing being isn't divided into halves.

Post-modernism is literally such a reactionary deconstruction at the half. Self-inquiry sees through Zeno's Paradox. Tao is neither left nor right.

Coincidentally, after the last sunset after eight, I finally hear crickets—which in some ways sound similar to peepers, but seasoned, sharper.

Lythrum Salicaria seems to take forever to arrive but when the loosestrife finally purples—timeless!

Half-moon after August dawn—it's not about some quantum that the senses can or cannot sense, but what I know, feel, fundamentally am.

My Myth of Nonduality

If mountains are god the father and the sea is god the mother, then of course I’m god the child realizing earth is one.

In this particular myth, earth is inside what I am and the manifested universe is unmanifested, absolute.

And there's a stand of white birch trees growing where eastern white pines stood before the fire.

Thought is a tool of being. Thinking you're the tool in this equation requires deconstruction. Every picture of

a rose tells its story of a thorn. For in every antique mirror, thought is like the mercury and being is like glass.

In a true desert, there's breathtaking silence. Not merely of sound, but of silence. Call that self-awareness.

Ode

Here Comes The Sun King, The God Lugh, John Barleycorn, O Juliet and They Must Die. For It Is Lammas Eve, Looking to Lughnasadh, Beginning of The Harvest, August, A Certain Slant Of Light

O Psychological Thought is responsible for every War and every Murder and all Unspeakable Acts. If you choose a side, any side, this is what you ultimately choose. Thank god there's choiceless awareness

love is not a choice. Love is what there is before a choice. Always choose love. Render unto August the objects belonging to August but render to myself their life force. At last

a field of purple loosestrife, invasive weed, like deconstructive thoughts from Asia—August—late dawns, early sunsets—the apparent lessening of light—but these days taste concentrated as if boiled to an essence—

if July is the month of lightning bugs, August is the month of dragonflies—they don't just shine their light. They breathe fire! August 2007—I am climbing Yamadera—

the rest of my group is somewhere else around this temple being mountain—an ancient Chinese woman is translating the cicadas for me—ever since the First of August means No Crickets Yet.

Haiku Haiku Haiku

Speaking your mind is plagiarism. Speak love instead. In the world, silence is not a right. This love is silence speaking. Truest outlaw.

Now is the season of the butterfly. Its story is the nectar of the gods. Transformation is the nature of the beast.

Even science says that self-awareness is the only great intention and the fact of death is pointless and absurd.

But philosophy only thinks about it. Experiential being without thinking knows. Haiku haiku haiku.

The sun sets earlier tonight but I know it's only this and that. Space has no seasons. Contemplation is knowing a cigarette boat is

temporary. Open windows on a summer evening like the sea seen from an easternmost peak.

Evening breeze and leaves are dancing like translucent jade ninjas. Early July night. Not a sound in the valley. Not even a cricket.

An Epistle to the Person

The human body-mind is this wondrous instrument in and of consciousness developed in the process of evolutionary self-awareness.

But because of its metamorphic novelty, the body-mind misidentifies with itself, as a person, in a deficient sense of self-awareness,

and in effect usurps the absolute noumenon, which is a separate and most unnatural state, to say the least.

The resultant human condition of suffering is the natural balancing of forces in this process of self-awareness,

although to the mistaken identity of the person, it appears to be some kind of political imbalance within infinitesimal divisions,

and so it goes on and on. But “all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well” because consciousness.

2008 No Other Side

No division, no separation, no politics—there’s just purple loosestrife. If space is a metaphor for consciousness, then time is the darkest matter

of all anti-matter. A snake doesn't look like an illusion. A person lost at sea doesn't feel like self-awareness.

Li Po didn't drown in some watery reflection of the moon. He sees he is the moon and jumps right in! Look, being is not a social media—

it's more like an Emily Dickinson poem. Ten years ago, a coyote crossed the road to kill me. Somehow I still got to Santa Fe.

Georgia O'Keeffe. Ansel Adams. The Church of Saint Francis at Rancho de Taos 1929. The desert is form. Form is the desert.

At latest count, 140 bighorn sheep inhabit the alpine regions of Pikes Peak. By the time I got to Woodstock, who am I?