I was going to say when Truth broke in

Fighting thinking is playing whack-a-mole. Seeing through thinking is consciousness dancing. You are not the mind but the mind is yours.

Thinking is not actually perpetual motion. Fighting thinking only makes it look this way. 

You can't fight city hall but you can see through we the personality. As everything appears in consciousness, 

and consciousness appears in the absolute, self-awareness is now appearing. 

Consciousness emerges from the mouth of the ouroboros, learns to focus in the body of a snake, 

and in sudden self-awareness swallows body, mind, and being. “I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree.”

For there are seven Labor Days in Labor Day Week and this is the second one. I still feel association with each one, 

as the music of ten thousand summers dies, and the conditioning of the fall beckons again, as if I'm not perennially unborn.

This is just to say that thoughts are secretly appearing in emotions. Each one is universal being filtered by belief. 

And seeing through emotion is like the black belt of personal deconstruction.

Don't get me wrong. I love the autumn. As the poet says, earth is the right place for love.

 

Rhapsody in Two

Sexual energy isn’t bad. Thinking it’s bad is unnatural. After all, the first sign of duality is one identifying with a gender.

After the root has taken hold, the priesthood of conditioning grabs you by the sacral chakra and so the heart becomes deformed.

Fighting one's conditioning is still conditioning. This is the dirty little secret of the empire’s priesthood. 

Seeing through conditioning is the only revolution. This is ultimately called turn, turn, turn. Or awakening.

Whether it's fundamental religion, scientific materialism, or new age magic, stop believing in your latest meta-paradigm.

And follow the bliss of this intentional kundalini to that enlightenment of self-awareness!

They say it's the end of August and time to put away all childish things. But Lord, I was never born. 

The leaves will drop but trees remain. An oak will fall in the forest but the planet abides. 

The earth is ground away but the sun still shines. A star collapses in an absolute black hole and I am that.

 

Original Math

Division can't be solved with more division. Any number divided by itself is one; any number divided by one is itself. Any number divided by zero is undefined. Any number divided by any other number is another number. 

This is not new math. This is original math. Disidentifying with universal consciousness, and identifying with a separate thought or set of thoughts or meta-paradigm of belief, is the original glitch.

There is no fundamental sin; there is no error—self-awareness requires an appearance in the mirror. The definition of religion is a point of view no longer seeing through itself. 

This explains why scientific materialism is the empire's new religion. My projection takes all seven billion paroxysms. Every paradox involves a god and goddess. If loving two is wrong, I don't want to be one.

 

Dreaming 2020

Conditioning is like pinball. This the pinball wizard knows. Projection is the pinball wizard's game. By calling out the next move, you're blinded when it happens.

Listen closely, algorithms are a thing of the past. Projection is the future. The only limitation is the cloud cover.

As consciousness is the expression of pure awareness, imagination is the expression of pure consciousness. Conditioned consciousness is conditioned imagination. Imagination is its own frontier.

Personal deconstruction frees imagination. Imagination is naturally compassionate, despite what priests of conditioned imagination are saying.

One is imagining the world already in a lazy kind of way while depending on one’s conditioning to do the work. Between conditioned dreaming and lucid dreaming is the entropy of dreaming. Call this dreaming dreaming, like 2020 dreaming.

Lie and conquer is like divide and conquer in the virtual world. Warning Will Rogers! Compassion doesn't take a side. Compassion is like evolution; it naturally intends. Call this unconditional love.

Christian science is a primitive form of true deconstruction as post-modernism is a late form of science. This will be on the test. The postmodern science of deconstructing science is better than nothing.

Let's speak about the unspeakable. Call this self-inquiry. Without it, poetry is just another business. What begins in Samsara and ends in Nirvana stays in Nirvana. I'm Nirvana, who are you?

This Unbelievable Formula

Belief makes the person. In the world of unnatural separation, belief is like security. You can never have too much.

When belief is threatened, a stronger belief is required. Belief is like gambling on the unknown. When your horse loses, you double down.

If one’s not willing to die for belief, it’s not belief. It’s a whimsy. Believe me, it’s a whimsy. Separation is original imagination.

Consciousness is like the force. The mind is like a resistor. Self-awareness is the amplification of awareness reflected in consciousness.

Focusing the force is called samsara. Compassion is the practice. Meditation or contemplation is the living.

footnotes:

1. money can’t buy me love. money buys unconditional belief.

2. gambling is an addiction to belief. war is its symptom.

3. paradise is universal consciousness; call this love. hell is identifying with the mind; call this belief.

4. universal force. the personal transistor. song of self-awareness.

5. if the product of deconstruction is not compassion, it’s not deconstruction. it’s just more mind games.

afterword:

Without compassion, meditation is still personal. Only bodhicitta is enlightened. One not crying is either the one in samadhi or the one in politics. Enlightenment is sudden. Compassion takes a lifetime. Bodhicitta is enlightened mind. Teaching your children compassion is teaching your children well. The rest is the latest math.

This week’s sermon is compassion. Last week’s sermon was taking sides. Postmodern deconstruction equals primordial compassion. Compassion can’t be taught; it’s lived. An old dog knows all the tricks. You haven’t lived until compassion. Without compassion, one is born. With compassion, one is unborn. Compassify, compassify.

My Rumi 10 (lament and the law)

I’m never full of you. That is my only crime. Please do not finish loving me, my haven of both worlds.

But his cup grows tired of me. There is no carrier, no receptacle. And every moment this fish out of water grows thirsty.

Break the pitcher and tear that waterskin for I am heading for the sea. Make clear my way!

How long will the earth be swamped in my tears? How long will the sky be darkened by the smoke and ashes of my grief?

How long will my heart lament my heart, my desolate heart? How long will I howl before the specter of my sovereign?

Go to the sea where my wave of joy approaches. Watch my house and sanctuary as they drown within its breakers.

Last night the holy water of life overflowed my courtyard. The moon tumbled into the well like Joseph cast into the pit.

The rising waters flooded my harvest. Smoke rose from the heart of my home. Both grain and chaff were devoured.

My crop is gone but I shall not grieve. Why grieve? Just that halo of light around the moon is more than enough for me.

He pierced my heart. His likeness was that of fire. Its flames engulfed my skull. Even my prayer cap was consumed.

Do our ceremonies diminish dignity and ruin our respect? Who cares about my dignity. His love is my respect.

I thirst for neither intellect nor wisdom. His knowledge is enough for me. His faint face at midnight is the light of my dawn.

The forces of sorrow are gathering but I do not fear them, for our cavalry, legion on legion, has captured eternity.

But at the end of every ode, my heart laments the coming discourse. The law of God is summoning my heart again.

~transcreated from an Arberry translation (A-225) of a Rumi ghazal (F-1823)

After Transcreating My Ninth Rumi

After nine Rumi transcreations, one of the things I’ve newly noticed: each stanza (couplet, verse, whatever) is locked into another. I’ve read there is a question as to the unity of a Rumi ghazal, and this is one of the reasons why Coleman Barks edits the ghazal in his versions. 

I’ve found the opposite to be true. In fact, I find that a subsequent verse will send me back to a previous one to revise, after seeing the poem was going somewhere I hadn’t imagined. Like building a bridge one slat at a time, and returning to a previous one to correct the slack. 

In my Rumi 9 transcreation, the first 8 verses contain paradox after paradox about fish and the sea but slowly builds into something like a portrait of an enlightened fish. But verse 9, to me, is the key of the entire poem. 

Barks speaks of Walt Whitman when talking of changing Rumi into free verse, and verse 9 reminds me of Whitman’s sudden stop in Song of Myself, when after a litany of Whitmanic desription, he says: ”Enough! Enough! Enough! / Somehow I have been stunn’d. Stand back!” 

After all the paradox, Rumi says something like this: “How long shall you speak in riddles? Paradox bewilders the mind. Now speak clearly so the heart may hear.” In other words, he has successfully confounded the mind, put it out of the way, and now is free to speak to the heart. 

And the next verse is the clear heartfelt expression of his love for his ‘guru’ Shams Tabriz: “The venerable Shams is both my Lord and Master. By his grace, the land of Tabriz is perfume and ambergris.” And this is basically the climax of this love poem. 

In his version, Barks does refer to this in a way: “How / Long will I keep talking in riddles? Shams is the master who turns the earth.” But it’s too much of a gloss for my taste. It doesn’t present the power of this heretical statement. The next 2 verses are, of course important, and not completely anti-climactic. 

The last verse describes the effect Shams has had on Rumi, if there were still the soul of Rumi to describe. It goes something like this: “May I never have my soul again. For after tasting his wine and being drunk on his beauty, I am one in self-awareness.” What a poem! 

My Rumi 9 (fish and sea)

The sea will always offer up more fish, for fish are lesser than the sea.

You shall see the sea is the soul of a fish, for the sea is the fish of God’s own ocean.

The sea is like a nursemaid. And fish are like its feeding children. The woeful child is always looking for its milk.

The sea appears to be indifferent but its compassion for all fish is an infinite grace.

A fish that knows the sea is always caring no longer moves with pride but is ascending through the air.

For that singular fish, the sea is now its counsellor and no task is done without its consultation.

One could say this favored fish is like an emperor and the sea its prime minister.

If anyone were to call this fish a fish, every drop in the wrathful sea would be an arrow.

How long shall you speak in riddles? Paradox bewilders the mind. Now speak clearly so the heart may hear.

The venerable Shams is both my Lord and Master. By his grace, the land of Tabriz is perfume and ambergris.

If this world of thorns were to know his grace, all people would be soft and delicate like silk.

May I never have my soul again. For after tasting his wine and being drunk on his beauty, I am one in self-awareness.

~transcreated from an Arberry translation (A-108) of a Rumi ghazal (F-853)

Survival Manual

Taking sides is medieval. It's not about the sides of one's conditioning but surviving separation. Don't go living in the forest for some new age fantasy. It will eat you alive.

The more you know another person, the more you see through any differences. Knowing isn't an exchange of thought. Knowing is being—together. This is why social media is really antisocial.

This is why direct transmission. Friends or loving family members will do as a start. One is nothing but being the unknown. Pass it on. On the other hand, taking sides is thinking 

anything is ever known. Taking sides is why there's no more garden, people. The definition of a person is one taking sides. Taking sides is the magic behind the illusion.

In the natural state of universal consciousness, there is no death. There is no separate birth. Survival is the stuff of fiction and nonfiction. It's what breakfast is all about.

My Rumi 8 (the harp and the pearl)

Did you destroy my harp, your eminence? There are ten thousand harps still around here.

Since we have fallen into the hands of love, does it really matter if we lose a harp or flute here and there?

If every lyre or harp in the world is confiscated, who cares? There’s many a hidden harp, my friend.

Their pluck and vibration is reaching to the sky, even if it's falling on deaf ears.

Don't cry if every lamp or candle burns out. There’s still the spark of flint and steel.

Songs are the waves on the face of the sea. But no pearl goes floating on the surface of the ocean.

Know that the grace of every wave is a manifestation of the pearl. The reflection of the reflection is glowing within us.

Yes, songs are the branch that yearns for union. But the branch and the root are not equivalent.

Close your mouth and open that aperture of the heart. This is the way to be played by the absolute spirit.

~transcreated from an Arberry translation (A-13) of a Rumi ghazal (F-110)