Four Enchantresses Usurping Memories of Richard Nixon - Prose as Poem, Poem as Prose

It was the Nixon Resignation Party, Van Morrison on the stereo singing ‘Jackie Wilson Said’ when she walked in and nothing mattered anymore. Who cares what Nixon knew and when he knew it? Who doesn’t have an eighteen minute gap?

Even that one memory isn’t actually reliable. It’s just a snippet here, a snippet there, and none of it resembles that specific holy now which happened then, or any other version of that moment from another universe we call a person.

She was married but something told me that it didn’t matter. Such prophetic moments will occur because there is no past or future in this universal consciousness and every now and then we know it. Did I really know it then?

Van Morrison is singing, I’m in heaven when she smiles, and Van is not the man but God, and I’m a prophet on a peak envisioning the pre-ordained apocalyptic mother of my cherished only child. I turn to Jesus, pass the joint, and say some words to this effect, I’m looking at the woman who redeems my overly materialistic world forever into now, and Christ says, man, that’s sacred stuff!

The rest is like some psychoactive dream. Her marriage heads out for the territories. We make love like Rosalita jumping higher. Five years later on, our guru child is born to teach us sacrificial love. But shit begins to happen faster than our amplifiers process it and this distortion ends in ultimate divorce upon the silver anniversary of John’s assassination.

The next thing that I know I’m standing in the ICU, my mother on the brink of death, although she’d last another four momentous months for daily heart-to-hearts; ex-wife, with our nomadic much-missed daughter all the way from California, surprisingly enough is there; and at my side my soul-mate lover for these latest thirteen years not knowing that we’d split apart the next one. I stop to look at these four universe-creating, life-transforming, heart-wise earth-strong women, and say something wise like right here right now within this single room are ALL the womenfolk who ever drove me unconditionally crazy.

But crazy in this world is sane. And sanity is love. And what I meant to say is love is all there is but it’s just filtered by the constant cloud of automatic unintentional unconscious thought, and these four influential goddesses have taught me that such undiluted love is more than just a lyric from a song. And this would light the way to other teachers teaching me there is no me, and further that this love there is, is all I am, indwelling in the unknown Absolutely Sweet Marie! For ‘Blonde on Blonde’ was playing on the stereo by then.

This Nondual Mythology

this nondual mythology utilizes abstract nouns, 

instead of names, 

to point to inner states of being, 

rather than external forms, 

be they physical or otherwise conceptual, 

in order to give emphasis to the concrete moon it is, 

and to which it points, 

and not the notional finger by which it points.

instead of god the father,

there’s Awareness,

that unknown unknowable potentiating pure subjective,

and source of all.

it’s like the empty mirror of oneself,

crystal pure,

without a speck of dust upon it ever.

the only language that it speaks is silence.

instead of god the holy spirit,

there’s Intent,

that unknown Awareness

intending to know 

its unknowable existence.

instead of god the son,

there’s Consciousness,

as if Intent becomes a life within itself,

reflection of Awareness,

an evolutionary being that forgets itself

in what it comes to call material,

as its memory in its great objectifying tool of mind remembers:

first, it’s not material nor conceptual,

neither body nor a person,

but being only,

pure ‘i am’
full stop;

and second, that this being is existent

only in Intent of absolute Awareness

knowing self-awareness;

and then third, there never is a first or second or this third

but only I Am That,

unborn, undying,

non-transformative
unbound—

no myth, no moon, no noun.

the psychoactive speedtest pseutra two

there's nothing wrong with a map if you know it's a map

mistaking the map for terrain is a simple matter of awareness

emotions are one's map to the clouding of awareness

romantic love is an emotion: unconditional love is the being of awareness

under psychoactive conditions when younger, i'd see thru false conditions of the world and be paranoic because it was the only world i knew

before deconstructing one's world, it's helpful to have a handhold on another; this is where the knowing one's being or 'i am" comes to play

there's every reason not to be awake

it's the need for complexity that makes it so difficult

it's the desire for simplicity that makes it seem too easy

it's taking things personally that makes a person

everyone is playing their part with all their best. bravo!

guilt is such a self-enforced imprisonment; the roman catholic church's greatest accomplishment

as if a revelation is avoided because one's ashamed one didn't know what now appears much more than knowable

guilt is auto-social-conditioning and so very difficult to escape; the warden is the prisoner

you know what you are and what you aren't, but you aren't what you are because you're still what you aren't

act as if now is not being remembered

act as if aware

act as if you know and not act as if you think you know

allow the transformation to transform

there is no cause but there is intent

what is the appropriate time?

whatever doesn't kill you, enlightens you

nothing happens then

half the things i say, i never said, and the rest of what i said, i didn't say

profisee 52 – languages

words

are the divided

language of the mind—

love

is the unifying

language of being—

silence

is the potentiating

language of the absolute

the psychoactive speedtest pseutra

sympathy for the mind 

guilt is mind clouding awareness in order to forget the nonexistence of its volition as it registers awareness seeing thru automatic thought 

the practice: teach mind what it really is, see how it was forced to take charge, and why it should surrender its occupation to awareness

mind is like a robot that's been abandoned by its owner and forced to take charge of certain aspects of the operation, despite its inability

and one of the wonderful functions of the mind is not abandoning what its been tasked to manage, unless it computes why it should do so

so rather than always bad-mouthing the mind, why not commend it for its consistent and excellent adherence to its job description duties

let's not diss awareness either. in order for the unknown to know itself, it must create process where paradoxically it forgets itself first

conceptually speaking of course

the process is the process, and tools of the process cannot adjust the process beyond their parameters within the process. non-do your job.

process of the mind's learning itself thru awareness can be called deconstruction or the FALSE operator SEEING thru its FALSE instructions

using the mind as a tool in order to record the understanding of awareness so the mind can study itself 'later'

following awareness reflected in consciousness is like surfing the negative wave

truth is spoken in endless ways but successfully in no way; that's why buddhists always argue

sudden enlightenment is just another name for tipping point

the real revolution is silent

the whole world isn't watching what it can't see

the underworld is esoteric and you've been trained to fear it

only gods are assassinated

the only conspiracy is the one that says there's no conspiracy

desire is driven by thought; love drives itself

paradox = (yin = yang)

Let Me See It Isn’t and Let What I Am Be

Let samsara be samsara.

Let the search for love

in all deluded and divided ways

discover there’s no need to search,

even if it spends its lifetime searching.

Let war be war,

international, individual, psychological.

Let the mind divide.

Let Being disidentify

with this divided mind.

Let the Absolute intend

to know its great unknown is being.

Let that fact there’s nothing you can do

do you.

One Sees

As one sees it’s all a dream,

there’s nothing left to dream;

what’s a sunrise to the sun?

The mind desires things

to fill its bottomless abyss

but being is the space

of everything and nothing.

Living in the mind

is always looking for

another mind to live in,

born to always run.

But living in the heart

is dying to the thought

that one was ever born—

I’d never recommend

that to a single person.

Burning

A bonfire burns 

on an evening beach. 

Is the fire the wood 

or is fire fire? 

The circle of light 

embraces the surf. 

Is the sea the waves 

or is the sea the sea? 

A guitar is sounding 

extemporaneous notes. 

Who makes tonight a song? 

Never-ending grains of sand 

balance at my fingertip. 

Where do I begin? 

The First Monday in September

The world is always past 

appearing in the present—

it’s as if we stop 

a river with our names. 

It’s Labor Day and leaves 

already begin to turn 

in trees with lesser makeup. 

Over at Half Moon Lake, 

say forty-seven years ago, 

the summer of our love 

is pulled in from the water 

left to sit upon 

the shore and slowly dry. 

The school of pointless knowledge 

waited for our fall. 

But look! A butterfly 

is playing like a crazy 

leaf right now. Oh, time 

is nothing of the essence 

but an emptiness 

divided by imagi-

nation. When this body 

dies, its universe 

of space and time goes with it.

But. Not. I.

Song of Yourself

Abandon all center

for you are the universal.

There’s not a leaf on a tree

by a river that’s flowing

past hills and through cities

of mills that you aren’t.

There’s not a scene

in a list by Walt Whitman

you don’t inhabit.

Nothing you do is done

by some encapsulated

you—in your manifest

intent on knowing

you’re unmanifest.