Living Being (Volume XVI)

Name: Living Being (Volume XVI)
Author: David Bussell

VOLUME XVI: LIVING BEING

The depth of spiritual death of this time is a destitution, the time itself is destitute by nature of the lack of communion with the spirit of the depths. It is as thus – that the world itself appears as a desert, a plane of mirages and rich oases of mirages through which we stumble and grasp the gold of our souls through the looking glass eye which sees and seeks without that which we must find within. And that when that gold without turns to sand, that we find we can at best be buried with the riches of our old times in their passage, in the rise of a new sun, a new day in which these bodies, these words, these names are left behind – that when we set sail for death we are even greater and less than the nothing that we imagined – the abyss that was our lives becomes a trip, a travail worse than death itself. For in that moment of death we know we grasped at a lie, that we chased shadows forever in the mirage deserts of our waking days and chased down life and yet did not ever live. That within us our souls barely stirred in their still eternal slumbers, that we did not turn the eye inward to wake them, to discover what they had in store for us.

So that the depth of the spiritual death of this time is a destitution is that we strike with the spade of our minds the hard, packed, stone ground of our lives each way we go, the opacity and hard nature of the materiality which rules us, thus we sway to and fro from the hard and flat obligations of taking life at its word – the hidden nature of things to us appears even as non- existent, the mystery extinguished, the firm differential nature of time and space partitioned by the consciousness of our time. Is this our development? To see in these straight lines and to give the attribution of numbers and weight and measure to all things? We do not know them by the soul, so we weigh them on the

scale and sell them in marketplaces. With no soul, we are destitute. We buy and sell forever and gain no insight, achieve no foresight, and live forever in the brief codas of pain and pleasure, the fluctuations of heartbeat, the diagnosable conditions – all of which are but responses of the vessel of the soul. That which lies in wait within to be engaged is us, ourselves, our lives – but we do not ever dig that deep, or go that far. To turn away from the world would be too much – our everyday responsibilities, our coil and tether, the things and trials and pleasures which occupy us, distract our time, and precisely that – to make this time of destitution bearable, measurable in lengths, clockworks.

That we remain upon the surface is our remainder in ‘life’, what that we continue ‘to live’ among the constituents of this destitute time, immersed in the pure flow of becoming, or else ceaselessly moving and never knowing the stillness, the solidity, the silence, the peacefulness. And thus, we are together, somehow, somewhat, and retain the community of the shelter in fear of the storm that is within us all along, our raging tide that is incensed even by the smallest irrationality, the peeking of the soul out from beyond the rafters of the abandoned life. To leave the life of the soul behind we have left to survive in the midst of the loss of the soul, which we have since called the loss of ‘god’, to reclaim god every day in a series of prayers in all directions and all matters of ways and superstitions – have we not gone deep enough to understand the presence of God, the presence of Being? For God is lost to us insofar as we are not aware of the presence of God in this moment. We do not see what we have not become accustomed to seeing. Our eyes do not adjust

to this new light. We remain immersed in the dance of shadows.

To remain here is to remain with friends, family, to remain with the knowing codice of meaning, naming, seeing, saying, the old book of values and virtues which has decorated our lives with what little our fellows could conjure in this time of destitution, objects and items and benchmarks to which to cling in the midst of the tempest that is becoming, that which is taking everything and anything from you, stripping you of you down to the utmost, to the essence. In each moment is the reckoning of Being, the reckoning of God, in each moment there is clear sight of the apocalypse of meaning. And this is precisely from which we have hid, under the dome and roof of the temple, church, and religion of our manufactured humanity, this culture that has turned away from God so as to survive the onslaught of that which strips man down to the essence of God. Terrified of death, we look away as death takes us. This is the story of the lives of entire men, entire empires, entire civilizations. So it is that our time of destitution is rather nothing entirely new. We play out what play finds us, in a continuance of playmaking, back to the abyss.

So to the mystery, we at last turn when we realize the futility of our ignorance, the lines of our games and the dictates of our toil which have drawn us close to our desires which have crumbled into sand and left us stunned, stripped, bare, naked, and even so disabused as to be truly infinite. We cannot, no longer, hide from our nothingness, our emptiness, our abyss. We wake in the midst of the forest, the midst of the wilderness, perhaps not knowing how we even got there – to have spent decades, entire lifetimes, immersed in the

drunkenness of dreams, desires, illusions, and chasing down the shadows of our own selves in the world – to grasp the blood of another, to achieve domain, only to see domain fall to shadow, empire to shade and sand, and the blood of another run in our own hands. So to the mystery we turn, only if we must. For who enters into the mystery willingly? But he who is thrust in upon himself, but he who is thrust in upon death? For in himself lies a greater death, a death of all things. To venture in is to venture into the cave, the abyss of the ignored, abjected, and disabused body, wherein how can he locate himself? Amidst the mass of broken bows, centuries of sediment, the grand towers of waste of mankind? For in his own body flows the entire body of history. What man is separate from the cosmos? What man is not composed both of the stars and of the countless wars of his forefathers? Did he not fight for survival and explode upon collision with this earth? Is he not the breath of the sun and the cool air of the moon? Where is he separate?

This knowledge will break him, and take him from taking, having, holding, into the realm of the entire wholeness, the entire whollyness of existence. For who can he not be, who is he not, where does he look that he is not? Reach out this grasping hand and touch the abyss, this abyss that is also you. To know the abyss as yourself is to know the true knowledge that breaks men, and takes them over the ledge of the world into the true infinite. To survive this knowing breaking, one must die and become reborn, infinite, truly infinite. Thus the ledger of my life breaks: I break with my name, my number, my tithe, and emerge as the infinite body of God. I do not die and am not reborn. How can I even say that I am born? There is no measure that can measure me in the expanse, and yet there

remains this looking glass – through which I peer and scan oddly – what does this body now know and desire? To come back from death, what is it like to desire nothing?

And still the old dreams haunt men, even the men who climb out from behind the boulder and this tomb of fate, who have communed with fate around the fire. Perhaps there is longing to go back, having never left the cosmic dance around the fire, this shadow dance that casts conviction asunder, the ambiguity of the shadow and the dancer, the fire which births them both. Today, I stand closely and truly with the fire and commune with it, burned away of my longings. This is what it is to be set free. But on any day, the time, the spirit of the time calls, everywhere it calls with a siren song, the disparate, the despairing, the destitute time – with its destitute men and meaning – the destitute time surrounds like a great child, lost…

For you will see them wandering the streets – everyone is a beggar at the door of the beloved. But there cannot be no beloved but the soul, no beloved there but the soul – in each tower, etching, cobblestone, and shining face. Within the soul brandishes the sword, calling to be released. The true words lie within, and must be spoken. Emerged the true words emerge the person, the innate nature of the soul, and in doing so, shatters the dream of the everyday. What calls is true freedom, true liberation from the shackles and fetters of this dream and dance of desire and longing into the direct experience of desire and longing at root and core – to peer in to the iron ore, the fiery core within, the black sun of red flame. Who are you that has seen the black sun and returned to call its name? Your vision now black and blackened by it – to see the light of day, to

forget what has remembered you? The body, the sanctified body of the soul, blessed by the spirit of the dead herself? All of the dead rise up through the living breath of men. In each breath, the dead emerge, turn their heads, and look around. The entire breadth of the ancestor is here today, running in the red river of the body, and in each day at the turn of night, Charon makes his rounds about the body and rises the dead to order. In each day and in the turn of night this world is called to order, and we must attest to our sight. Where there is despair, distraction, suffering, destitution, there is a loss of the soul. Where there is suffering, there is a loss of the soul, a lack of spirit. How man could have tumbled into such dark is only if he is at war with himself. Raging, at all corners and at all junctures, a war with himself to kill himself in everything – in order to scry the infinite. Raging, he cuts down all that he loves and desires to catch a glimpse of the true form – to tear down the entire jungle and wilderness of longing to at last be free of the compulsion of the world, to at last be free of the fetters of difference. For man desires eternal same – he desires his desire to be eternally fulfilled and refilled like an essential fount and stream. For what calls to him is infinity – and he spirals in a daze out of bed and chases down the private mythology which avails him the glimpse of the truth of his desire – his soul, for a brief moment in the windowsill upon the ledge several stories up, turning away as the blinds shutter. Is this all he will glimpse, even the tallest man among us? The one who has taken all, achieved all – even the content one who has lived on the hard ground and come into community with the ones who also see the hard ground? In their heart of hearts, they are all desperate for something more. They are desperate for the truth of life – to drink from it, to eat the true food of nourishment, the nutriments that

do not merely fulfill the body but for a brief moment, but for that which touches the essence, returns to the essence, recalls the essence, time and time again.

Thus man is drawn to music and the arts, and othersuch ways which gesture to the larger factor and force of the aesthetic dance of the universe, or the paradoxes and poles of the spirit and the flesh, man and woman, and the opposites which weave their way in the dance of longing and desire, fulfillment and satiation, the swerving of the eyes to new enchantments, and the having and the longing… the having and the longing. To see, for the first time, the emergence of something new – is the novelty of the sublime – for when the new emerges it cannot be disputed that it is of God, even if it is great and terrible. For who will will this break from monotony but the will and word of God? Something from the undergrowth, great and terrible, a beast, a new storm? And thus, many men in their heart of hearts will for the end of the world. But will they see it through within themselves? To have killed off the world in the body, to have smote the worldly desires with the knowledge of that infinite and eternal same that resides like networks of blood, the underground flowing rivers and roads of the soul? Who can take which is not his, but himself? I have stolen myself so many times but to have desired myself and rejected myself, imprisoned myself and enslaved myself – and I have called it you, another, lover, world, object, purpose, meaning, fount, and I have drank it all, and ate it all. The glutton for the infinite takes in the entire world and is remembered. As far as the desire goes another springs from the abyss of the unknown, the rising sublime and that reincorporation of even the furthest mounts of the absconding shadow.

It is this violence within men and within life that is emerged in the society of the becoming, the knowing that is unknowing when it comes to matters of the soul – the hard ground, the hard heart, the hard world, the hard touch, the hard body – the hardnesses which constitute a knowledge that touches but cannot feel, eats but cannot commune, hears but cannot understand, sees but without insightfulness. For the sight touches the object and the wrong sight sees the object as a possessive quantity, something to be called, a name, a purpose, a linearity of production and consumption, something or another – it is not seen and known universally as soul. As such, the whole world is no longer ensouled. Without ensoulment, the mystical is lost, it is severed from the communion and world of men – for the mystical requires insight, it requires the higher sight which is the revelation of the infinite in the everyday. As such, the everyday is melted away and revealed in its true nature and form – the infinite. As such, there is nothing to be obtained, nothing to be done; all is as it is, the essence of Being. And for many men, this appears to be a fate worse than death, the heights of the tyranny of madness – the loss of all meaning insofar as it concerns the games of possession, profit, power, and so forth. Without these methods, what is there but peace, silence, and stillness? The game of the world, the thrust of the becoming falls away – and they are left with the truth of Being.

Long is the destitute time of the world's night. To begin with, this requires a long time to reach to its middle. At this night's midnight, the destitution of the time is greatest. Then the destitute time is no longer able even to experience its own destitution. That inability, by which even the destitution of the destitute state is obscured, is the time's absolutely destitute character. The destitution is wholly obscured, in that it now appears as nothing more than the need that wants to be met. – Heidegger

The nature of the time is thus – there are those that stride toward the soul and in doing so stride higher and lower, accordingly – for the heights are achieved in the depths. Furthermore, there are those that stride on the horizontal plane of purgatory, waiting for salvation in the object of desire. For the deliverance from without. Those who stride toward the soul or venture the soul are those to whom the souls in purgatory are alive waiting for death and death waiting for life – in the realm of the in between worlds, one foot in and out of life, never coming and never going, never leaving and never staying – enticed by the mythology of the gold in the gold mine, venturing into the outer caverns and caves whereas the venturing of the soul is into the depths, the plane of the inner journey.

This is the fundamental split, divide, chiasm, chasm of this time. Those who venture literally venture the spirit of the time; the spirit of the time is the outward manifestation of the inner essence, or the shadow cast by the inner light. To chase this inner light is to chase the shadowplay on the walls of the cave. Thus, those who venture literally do not venture but as in a dream of waking. Those who venture archetypally venture into the inner depths and thus conduct the journey of the soul, moving toward itself, and in the vicinity of Being, or the inner light that is shining all things, the essence that is within that cannot be obtained, held, or hold, as it is Being in essence and Nature – and as such is the fundamental constitution or ground of all things.

For this is the mistakenness of the time that is plunged into destitution, or the endless night to which we journey to the end with no end in sight, no inner rising of the sun despite how bright these days may be to the eyes that see from without, without the inner

illumination man seeks the next brightest sun to fill his moment and left to its untimely setting is left once more facing his abyss, his emptiness, his fundamental absence. For all the presence he has known has been contained in the outer touch, the touching of the surface of the object, the grasping of the body, and yet knowing nothing of the essence it is to him a blindness which either to him derives pleasure or pain, and is thus known in ‘goodness’ and in ‘badness’, and his life is lived on this surface of the crawling for survival on the material plane. His depth of reaching and knowing the inner Being is his status on the material plane, the gradation of his life is known in one of feet and inches or deep and dark grottoes and sublime and magnificent cliff-faces – man ventures the emotional expanse of his being in the venture of the abyss, the venture of Being. And yet this Being can be known by man as in conscious awareness of Nature, or coming into terms with the fundamental and essential laws which spring forth the great game and gamble of life from the unchanging inner essence of Being which avails true freedom to the one who knows himself, a true freedom which is also a liberation from chasing that which he already is, or else the shadow of himself on the horizontal plane. This freedom being thus: that he does not waste his life. This freedom being thus one of self knowledge and self realization.

To chase the spirit of this time is to chase endlessly, like a dog upon a maypole, leashed, the carousel of the tantalizing seasons, which taunt him in their possessability. His life is always within grasp, and it is the motor of the engine of his life’s desire that runs toward the desired object of the ripeness of this spring or the glinting light of this fall as it casts down into the submerging winters. He will always be coming to that

place in search of something, something else, something to replace the death of that which once came, that which once came before. This man’s nature is of mourning, grief, longing – for the ineffable cloaked as in his salvation, his savior, his object.

The spirit of the depths perhaps, in chancing the venture without ground, finds the groundlessness in the totality, in the absolute wholeness of the depths, wherein all things are one and at once submerged in their essence. What then is this game, this venture, but a safe task? A safe play and a safe gain? Nothing won or lost but experience, this courage and strength from this place. Who then to be but oneself? What then to do but to be oneself? These questions return, too, to their essence and are cast from this realm of doubt, desiring, urgency, fear, anxiety – the palpable tension of becoming that does not know Being, the palpable tension of the spirit of this time – that is in a fervor running from that which it is – running from the death which unveils the sublimity of Being, eternal, essential wholeness – beyond space and time. Perhaps, then, they run from the last mystery in order to preserve it, to run from death in order to keep the reserves of boredom.

And yet, they suffer terribly for it. They suffer the unknown that looms, the pervasive unknown that is the abyss afoot, knocking at the door of the mind, clattering ajar the cabinets, the perennial disturbance which is the death hinged in each moment as the opacity of the object, the opacity of the self, the opacity of the horizontal plane where everything is taken at its word at a cultural and social level. These systems are not enclosed but as for the slightest askance glance of Nature, the abyss, that which casts them ajar in a

torrential storming, a quick fire, a chaos, a death, a loss, an absence – which reveals that which cannot be pretended or imagined or wished away – the emptiness or the abyss within the everyday – the holes in the structure and system of creating a neat and tidy everyday life filled with named things and objects and selves – a play which is swept away by the great force of Nature which always already reveals that which it is – a confrontation with emptiness which is the abyss emergent into the everyday, the sublime confrontation with infinity which renders man paralyzed, mute, and deaf – struck dumb beyond his systems of language and meaning when faced with the absolute.

Who now can hide from the death which reveals the infinite? They run, as is the spirit of the time, to run all about the world and into the pleasures, into the pains, into the sufferings, into the devices of thought and distraction – to avoid that confrontation that lies in the way, each bumping up against it in every interaction, morning, noon, night, group, and solitude. The entire clumsy affair is littered with death, the unacknowledged, cast out, disjected – and as such, death is the shadow that lingers over the ledge of the spirit of the time – it is everywhere unspoken and everywhere acting in the shadows of itself. For the death is the pronouncement, it is the way through the Gates of Hell into the world of shade, the world of the spirit of the depths. To go this way is considered ‘pagan’, for who in this time desires to go to hell? Who in this time understands that to go to hell is to go the way of retrieving the soul, knowing the soul; communing with the essence of Being? Who in this time knows that to go this way is to make way equally for the heights and depths of Being?

They continue on the surface, in the surface dwelling, making huts and lives in the prefecture of survival, the bunkers which proclaim ‘this and only this because we must to make it to tomorrow’ and as such live in fear and hide and cower in the face of death. The one who emerges in the midst of the storm and makes himself the sacrifice is the one who becomes enchanted with death’s power, begins to speak in strange tongues, and is himself animated by the depths. Who now could speak of this experience, the communion with the soul, being stripped of everything and this world in death, and coming back to the world of men? What would he have to say to them? How could he make straight conversation with them? Knowing his true face and their own? The one who has gone this way has seen the death and birth of everything, the source of all life, the obliteration of everything and the pure form, the essence, and known it to be himself, all of life, the world, all beings and all things. This world speaks of trade, names, numbers, rote games. To see the source of life is to see the center of the wheel; thus, the spokes take on new meaning, as do the seasons emergent and effulgent from the divine spinning and weaving of the one thread through all times, producing endless faces and traces, marks and tasks. If we are on the track of the soul, we see it everywhere and all things. The divinity of Being is endless and timeless, nameless and faceless, and yet present in all of these things. Have we seen beyond the surface of the language? Have I reached my hand into the water of the rock and touched the stone within the stone? The essence within even the seemingly impenetrable?

The effulgence of Being can only be observed by an inner seeing, an inner sight which at first strips man of himself to become a clear channel, a conduit of seeing-

Being. He sees Being and sees himself; in seeing Being he has himself become the effulgent light bearer, bearer of light that is himself, and in himself he holds nothing, because he is Being himself. Can you understand this? That he has no lack and no fullness and yet is entirely empty and entirely full. This is the lightbearer work. The light of the spirit, come down like Prometheus, cast into the depths of the waters of the soul is refracted and known innately and uniquely by the fractal nature of the beings within Being. This is the soul work. And at once, they are all this onesame light within the ocean of the infinity of the souls in a timeless mingling, with the orgiastic quality of the Dionysian, they do not come together and come apart, it is in their sight that they live separate lives. The seeing is a teaching. True sight is an unlearning.

That they have been taught to see this way is a deepening of the destitution, a furthering of the mechanism of human culture, human thought, human society, toward a mechanization of existence which is the mechanization of survival; the mechanization of suffering. The bare survival of these means only springs in its most abundant the false bacchanal of empty material, the waste empire upon which the king sits, a throne of waste, a throne of wasted bodies, wasted life. As such, it is an unending massacre of life if only to rejoice in the pseudo- victory, the false victory which in turn is massacred by space and time – the victory which affords this brief plot of land, this indulgence, this pleasure. What have we done if we have sacrificed the life of the soul for this one moment of ecstasy of the senses? It is no ecstasy, ecstasy of the senses. It is rather the fleeting glimpse of the infinite not even seen, but felt. It is the blind feeling of the body swimming toward the infinite; it is, in essence, the animal within man,

reaching back toward the primordial womb. To reach forward, as man must, is to achieve true ecstasy, the ecstasy of the ecstatic, which is insight into God, insight into Nature, insight into Being.

This insight is accomplished by way of cultivating true sight, or insight into that which is the unifying, the Oneself, that which remains when all else has come and gone. It is as such that the seer cultivates a discipline of death, or a willing and regular death to all that one believes is, was, and will be. In doing so, he is endlessly free. To accomplish this discipline of death is as simple as stripping himself bare of all of his illusions as to who he is, what life is, what he desires, where he is, where he is going, and to return to the essential questions. ‘Who am I?’. To return to the essential questions is to return to the wilderness, to the stateless state of being absolutely lost and yet wholly ensouled by and with nature, the Christ at once emerged and submerged in the wilderness, covered in the growth of nature, himself being the growth of nature – indistinguishable from the essence of Being which ventures him forth. He is a risk, a gamble, an unknown; and yet simultaneously, he is the essence of the infinite. Have you yet grasped this?

I am of the highest and the lowest, The king of kings and the beggar of beggars. The realm where the lowest is the highest, and the highest is the lowest, the beggar is the king of kings, and the king is the beggar of beggars. To know this one truth, the diamond is a rock, A rock is the gates of heaven And the gates of heaven are the gates of hell. Do you see the mystery unfold before you? Wide swing the doors of the soul to accommodate you And in this moment you are whole. There is no higher or lower, no greater or lesser; Alas, neither this nor that. They are all at once in simultaneity. Who can distinguish the mother and the child? The child and the lover? The first of men and the last ancestor? The moment it began and the moment it comes to a close? So do you see the nature of time, infinitely present and flowing, like a vast river. This particle of water is neither one moment nor the next; This body is neither one birth nor the death, But entirely at once and fluid, flowing, The very essence and nature of life. To call the coming and going death is a delusion. Do we sink and rise in the mountain stream? To come in contact with the deeps and darks, We know the realm of the dead, even now living, Strong and rooted in their power and force. For you are now birthed through them, Speaking from their mouths; All of the ages are infinitely now. When you speak, mountains move. The infinite word is present now:

Clef’d on the bird’s tongue, singing in the night rustling of the trees, Moving with the breeze and swaying to and fro with the flow of the wind. Each word pronounced is in the infinite language.

I am of the highest and the lowest; Here the beggar is a king and a king is a king. Do you understand the true nature of kingship? All things are holy, for they reveal within themselves all that is; in the very essence of the grain of sand there are infinite worlds. Do we see this with our eyes? Do we not tread this way, upon walkways of eternal light? To be present with this moment is a revelation; All beings are coming into awareness of the light of God, That which they are. So do we treat them with the same reverence as we ourselves are: the holy, the infinite, the whole. It is in this way that these truths are rather simple. Do you see them with the mind or the heart? If you see them with the mind, you may read them then walk away, unchanged. If you see them with the heart, you may read them and be shattered, die to yourself, and be reborn - Resurrected in the light of the true self, the eternal self. To be self realized is this: The identity and persona you have called yourself, The cultural myths, the social ideas and precepts, the communal words used to describe you and reality are gone. You are empty and filled with light. And this is the paradox!

That you are entirely empty and at once, simultaneously, entirely full with the wisdom of the universe. And yet, to leave these shadows behind, It is so easy to cling to the old illusions. For if we let them go, if we lose them, Who are we now? If we lose that which never was but in an imagined separation. That I have called myself this, and you have called yourself that That I have called a rock a rock, a chair a chair - I have drawn a line between myself and the infinite. There, I let go of this vision of myself and the divine appears. I am like the statue of Christ, reclaimed by a grove of trees. The foregrounded image of the identity is reclaimed by the infinite, by the cosmic, now, in my relinquishing of this idea of myself. And thus, I become myself. Do you see now the meaning of dying into life? Do you see now the meaning of, in this very moment, Dying and becoming reborn as that which you truly are? And this is your ultimate freedom Because you are no longer bound by the false, By this illusion of separation, this illusion of the wound. The revelation that you are infinite is of the greatest healing power - For it raises us up in our consciousness from within the body To the roaring of the lion of the spirit And the innate expression of that which we are within us, Within our very selves and souls

The light of the infinite which we all are, which we all share. And thus, we communicate truly and deeply with all things. With one another, with the trees, with the plants, animals, stars, and with the soul of all things. At last, We are returned Without having ever left.

Can you see this way? Can you practice this way of the liberation, the freedom of seeing? If you can practice this way, you will remember The eternal wholeness of your being. It is the greatest healing power, And you will become a healer to all things - To plants, to animals, to all beings Even in the nature of your presence. For you yourself have cleared the way within yourself, To be a channel and medium of that which you are, Pure light And in shining, You give permission to others to shine. They too remember themselves in light of your example. And they too, become enlightened, self realized beings. Have you seen the way a cat remembers the eternal self? A tree, a grove? This is our work in this world, The work of remembrance of our eternal selves. In our remembrance, We create a world where life, relationship, love, intimacy, and community Are truly possible.

THE STUDY OF THE BLACK SUN

Men seek to understand the origins of the dead time which possesses them - that is born within and without them as in their ancestry and the roots of this world age. They go, with scripts and observation, ruins and tales, until they can go no further; the trail dies and they are left with the abyss, the blackness, the unknowing of the past. It is there, and it is from that which they are jettisoned into this time to make new meaning from nothing, equally from the abyss where the truth of their past and the blood of their ancestors runs through their veins and yet they do not know it, cannot see it; the past is obscured by darkness and lost history.

The fundamental irrationality and death of the real as in the undertow of these tides of deep history, vast history, glacial history which cannot be remembered but as in a factual oversweeping statement of the ages of man and his philosophical and physical development - in it, and in them is lost man himself, the stories of man and his personal and innate struggles, the teleology and teleologies which today have birthed the modern man, modern man without a past, modern man without a future - trapped within a consciousness of minutes at a time. The depths of his history are his birth and his death; his field of vision is the horizon, his city, his country, coloured by his religion and belief systems which reach as far as he is wont to draw the name God. The line is himself, his vision of himself, his vision of the world - a world in which to look back is to see behind him nothing but blackness - not even the runes and ruins of a lost time, not even a lineage and history of those who came

before him. He has no sense of place, and he has no sense of time. He is utterly unmoored. His land is what is availed to him, his food is what he can purchase; his god is what keeps him distracted, alive, preoccupied with the bread and circus which keeps his eyes focused, cast down upon a screen, upon a mirror, upon an image - so that he may not and might not look up and witness the rent desert that is his vision - his vision that extends not past the masked face of that which, surely, he believes as he must, ‘is’.

And this is the desperation to return, the desperation to return to the real ensouled world, where meaning is made and coloured in each moment and contact, where the world and self are at one and at once, and the myths hold weight - they are not just bought and sold for the convenience of entertainment, but that they hold existential significance, they are a believable cause - but to fight for a nation, a tribe, a god… one now cannot even fight for himself. He falls back in misery, confusion. The self that he knows is such a sliver, an occulted moon - his emotions are not even there - they are bound up in a past war that he cannot remember. And try as he might to retrieve them, he cannot even find the entranceway into hell, the gates that will lend him the eyes to see in the dark, to see within, to see withinto the abyss that is himself - the abyss that he projects everywhere without himself - in a world full of dark opacity.

His world is phenomenal because he cannot see beneath phenomena - that event and cause and effect are his case and time and place and rhyme - that the world and universe itself is causal and emptied of myth and meaning by the cold eye and scalpel of science - his world is reduced to rational turns and mechanistic

devices - devices which are reproduced in his waking life as ‘natural’ machines of exploitation, manipulation, gain, and harvesting. His world is a sphere of representation marked by the consumption of the image; he takes because his vision ends here: it ends in the place where to him, the taking is practical, utilitarian, reasonable. The sphere of representation is thus: the sphere of power by means of the reproduction of a suitable image. Therein, his stories are perennially abstracted; they lose ground. Even his most rational science states, ‘this is empirically true, but we cannot for the life of us, remember why this experimentation mattered, but for the money in it’. And so men feast in the shadow of death and go to bed on empty stomaches, and rage for meaning even as they avail themselves, gluttonous, of all the worldly trappings of wealth and power. There is endless knowledge, but not one lick of truth within it. The knowledge is endlessly produced because it is valued by the mechanism that controls it, and yet - the mechanism is never sated by it. The laborers and their documents are fed to the beast that cannot be filled - the Moloch of modernity, mass production - the Moloch where everything is waste before it is even made. The idea itself is wasteful.

For man, today, has no existential meaning, no purpose, no direction, but for survival at all costs. The animal brain runs so ragged in attempts to justify the meaningful existence - the power and virtue of the species, this narrative of myself, this reason which propels me forward, the fulfillment of my desires - but the animal brain is itself necessarily sateless. It cannot be fulfilled. It endlessly produces and endlessly reproduces because it is the biomechanical substance of nature itself, the very disenchanted substance propounded by the materialist scientists of today. What

they describe is this: their own animals minds observing what they believe to be ‘the natural phenomena of the universe’. And it is in this way that they are blind - that they are trapped within their own realm of undeveloped, adolescent perception.

What would it mean then, to engage mature perception? It would be to come up against the question of existential meaning and do direct battle and confrontation with it, without the mechanisms of justification, rationalization - and even without the fulfillment of the pleasures and roaring of the animal mind. It would be, then, to sit in the stillness and silence and to understand the nature of being - not to be so immersed in the whirlwind of becoming that you mistake everything for yourself as in the mode of perception - but rather to know everything as oneself as in the nature of existence, or Nature. In order to do so, the self must be rightfully placed, or rightfully known to be that which has no background and no foreground, no first and no second. Only an enlightened man can propound the truths of the universe, because he is no man at all. He is Self, he is Nature; in truth, he is nobody, the Oneself.

Enchantment and meaning Enchantment of nature Meaning of life Disenchantment of science and hypermaterialism Loss of meaning of myth in ‘rationality’ Mass production and industrialization of the world, globalization creating ‘landless peoples’ and ‘slaves to industry’ They no longer work the land, live off, from, and with the land - they work in factories Rise of nazism from mass cultural desire to recapture ancient heritage of enchanted meaning and collectivism out from alienating paradigm of individualism and industrial materialism - where meaning and value and god is capital.

Dissociation of life on earth - god in nature turns into god in capital. God in nature turns into an abstract god that ‘no one can see’. God in nature turns into a god that priests tell you about but you can’t touch, feel, witness, commune with.

Of course, this is about the creation and consolidation of power in the church and state, as well as the exponential escalation of feudalism into modern civilizational slavery to industry and mass production - slavery of nature and slavery of man to machine in order to produce the pyramids of modernity - the skyscrapers, industrial factory cities, the miles upon miles of trinkets, toys, life accessories, and trappings of a material paradise where everything you could ever need and want and dream of and more can be purchased and had in object form - including people, and including nature.

Human meaning, ultimately, is not ‘scientific’ or ‘rational’. It is based on, around, and in a sense of communion, community, and oneness - at an individual, social, cultural, and cosmic level. Rites around and appreciation for the seasons, the movements of time, etc. Loss of communion with nature, loss of communion with Nature - a profound alienation in a historyless-placeless paradigm of global industrialism and harvesting of nature for the production and consumption of the engine of modernity - modern industrial civilization.

The grasping for and at human meaning in this day and age is the realization and ultimate revelation that industrial modernity has not only alienated us from nature (and Nature in a cosmic sense) - but also alienated us from ourselves and one another in the objectification of life to serve the purposes of the mad race to fulfill the ever increasing satiation needs of a global society that cannot get enough, have enough, consume enough, fast enough. The engine is this - the production and consumption of material goods - including the paved ground of civilization itself. There is no doubt that there have been great innovations under this new paradigm of science and industry, as well as civilization, but we must also examine that which we have lost in its development.

That which we have lost - the intuitive, the emotional, the connection with the tunes, turns, and tides of nature. The creation of the human individual, identity, and self of the industrial paradigm with name, number, and industrial role and reason in the greater mechanic engine means of civilizational production and reproduction has alienated us from the fundamental self and soul of our own natural lives, our place and

time in nature, as in an organ in the larger body and Being of Cosmic Nature. In this way, industrial society has replaced God as in nature with god as in capital, or the (re-)production of the image, a reflection, a second

to the first of Nature - the artificial reproduction, or photograph, to the immediate, embodied reality of the realm of the natural. Hence, the primarily (immanently) enchanted becomes the intermediary (secondary) symbolic. This process is mimicked in the movement away from Pan to the abstract god - the god who is not necessarily ‘in’ nature, but rather has and is in some way transcended and transcendental of it, beyond it; in this way beyond mankind, requiring the intermediary of the book, or the priest, in order to come into even refractory communion with it. This is the loss of the enchantment as in the direct experience of the mystique of being enfolded with and within the Natural Whole as in the Oneself - where there is the ecstatic experience of man being fundamentally not only no different than nature, but in actuality Nature Itself.
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Man is an animal in the wilderness, where all is nature and all is ensouled.

To allow man to be the perfect man, or the true man, man must only allow himself to be in all parts whole, or the animal which he is.

In turn, he must self select that which he desires to keep about himself and let go of that which no longer serves him in his being from ages past - in this way he creates his own life. This is how he becomes ever more perfect. It is his life’s work - or his exponential, increasing shining, his ever more self determined and courageous ‘going forth’.

In this self selection, there must not be any contamination of external influence - the opinion and sway of others, society.

Man’s perfection is self determination - where he comes into this life with a certain disposition or aspect within the larger self that is him, that is nature, and attunes himself like an organ to that existence, so that the blood and flow of life may flow through him with ever-more perfection, clarity, and freedom.

The only thing worth aspiring to in this life is perfect freedom. Perfect freedom, in this regard, requires the self determination of man from all aspects and angles. He must be enslaved to nothing and no one, including the wiles of himself.

Here, the wiles of himself include the delusions that he has about himself, his role, his place - as well as the vices and addictions which ensnare him with an overly developed meaning - a nonsense of purpose which is

an imbalance in his nature. These addictions and vices signify an immature knowledge of self. That which holds its grip upon him from without is a ghost, a shadow - that which bogs him down in the mires of self doubt, indecision, misery, and lameness. He must be free, therefore, even from his desire to become free; furthermore, his unconscious desire to remain enslaved

so as to avoid confronting his own fate and nature. His prison is a prison of purgatory - half waiting, half wishing, half wanting.

Therein, man’s perfect existence is an existence entirely apart from conceptions of self down into the direct self knowledge and lived embodied experience of self as that which is. Man in this sense cannot ‘know himself’ - rather, he must live himself to know himself.

This is what true freedom constitutes - the willingness, ability, bravery, and courage to live out one’s own life from the root - to no longer play the games of the mind and the deliberation of ‘this is who I am’, ‘this is what I am’, but to rather live out the life of the being from the very root and essence of the self - and in this way come into direct, lived, living communion with the whole of nature as in a perfect harmony - an instrument in tune with the orchestral motive of creation.

In order to ‘be yourself’ you must actually know what that is - beneath the social and cultural conditioning; beneath your conceptions and ideas of who you are and who you must be.

If a deer falls in the wilderness, it turns to soil and springs wildflowers for the deer to eat. There is scarcely difference. If you are to call it an eternal return, you may as well call it an eternal return of the same.

In the cycle New man reaches up and grasps his individuality And finds the mountain peaks of solitude. In his grasp is the stone of the soul. Looking about, he realizes that all he ever desired All he ever wanted Was the true realization of himself. Now, the whole world appears ensouled with the eternal self. What more could he now want? Even in the empty room, the soul is there, Shining bright. That which he is will never leave him Happening upon death, The soul strips itself of the cloak of this world and body of things And strides forward into new dimensions. It exists equally in the cliff-face and in the body of the man. The inner workings of the cosmos Animated by the breath That sets them in motion.

Now, from the perch of the soul In the greatest depths of himself which appear to be the greatest heights Man now seeks only to be reunited with nature. To be ever more perfectly nature In tune with its tides and flows And to return to the background of endless creation. As soon as man has jumped to the foreground of this play And claimed his creative individuality He seeks only to be reunited with the eternal creation. How paradoxical that man travels In leaps and bounds to the other ends of the earth

And the tips and ballasts of the soul and self In order to know himself. Achieving one extreme, man turns an about face and desires the other. Achieving life, man desires death. Achieving fame, man desires obscurity. Achieving wealth, man desires the freedom of poverty. For these things that fill his time and watch, upon completion Reveal themselves to be empty.

To come closer to God, Man is naked in the wilderness And takes the form of the primordial animal that which he is, And yet in light of the human experience Which has taught him and given him the gift of discernment. What of this animality no longer serves him? In returning to nature, man becomes more than man and more than an animal - He becomes the divine perfection of self creation, The chance and opportunity of the human life, A gift returned to the world soul.

Carried through the journey of mankind I look back now and see the delusions – the games of the mind and the games of the heart which played out upon this world stage and ensnared and tore apart – ensnared and tore apart nothings for the end and purpose of nothings. To sit here now, in the solitude, having the solitude – being the solitude – I can see now what these experiences show and have shown – the fundamental imaginations seething beneath them which propelled and impelled them forward into the dimensions of worldly action.

What I wanted, what I desired – attention, desire, power, purpose, meaning, love – is precisely what I played out in the line of my actions, acting out the actions in order to achieve or fulfill an end, an end that was so brief that there was not even a coda, not even a brief moment of recognition but a turning over into another emptiness. These abysses chased revealing themselves to be truly abysses. Which love did I ever truly possess, own? The games of ownership and possession are endless. I see them even now and feel the need to turn away from them out of the observation of the misery, the impossibility being played out in the theatrics of the desire for the possible on the stage of the world. Do not all men realize that nothing can be had, that there is only being?

To reside now in being is to reside in the stillness and solitude, the coolness of caves and the slivers of light – to reside in the long silences and the whisps of guitar. There is a peace and yet perhaps these remnants or fragments of the desire for the old world – the desire which had me once so animated and desperate for fulfillment. Now, having found silence and being ensconced in being, perhaps there is a delayed

reaction, or the twitching of the mechanism even in the proceeding of the spiritual life forward. It is like a reflex, or a muscle memory – of having so desperately charged into life looking for a salvation, a purpose, a reason – that now with decreasing frequency will rear its head now and then.

I cannot say I do not grieve the old world, the plays and even the magic of the plays, not knowing and understanding where they came from, the brokenness from which they were impelled and propelled upon the stage to speak a piece and desiring a meal, a satiation which could not be had but from within. If all men realized this, the world would cease to move, and all would be ensconced in the stillness of being. What is sustained? The life of the body, the turning of the moon and stars to the sun (in days I often do desire but some cloud cover, or low light… perhaps not all desire is extinguished!), the golden leaves of the trees turning to the winter’s night and the bare and memory of green. What is sustained? What remains? I sit here now, ensouled, and there is a fiery creation and I do create. I do create from this place and create masterworks. And this, to me, is beauty. Masterworks are nothing more or less than works made in light of the truth. A masterwork then is a handshake or a communion made in the light of truth – the light of the truth soul of the infinite, ensouled everywhere and in all things. The desirelessness, the desiring nothing, places man in a place of great paradox. To desire nothing, how does one remain alive? The body works of its own accord, calls for food and water and to exput information – it calls for sleep and rest. I tend the body like a patient gardener, not wrapped up in its mind calls or patent mysteries which it purveys about the world like an endless marketplace. The body is now

soothed and quiet, enough of the voices and the noise. It calls everywhere but without itself. It calls within and finds itself, and rests within itself. The consciousness becomes ensouled embodied within the body – it sits and rests in the forest grove of moonlight trees and calms. It does not reach, reach for this, reach for that, all of these salvations which it puts everywhere into private places and palaces, mind games of accumulation and desperation for having, holding.

The masterwork then is life in the face of the death of everything. That which yet lives is not even afraid of death. What could death now take from me? The deathless remains. Death only takes all things which are deigned to die, designed to come and go and pass away. For death takes all things… what remains? What is sustained? If men sought here for this in this time of life, the world would become very still. The world would cease to exist, and there would be this remembrance of the silence of the self – that which is beyond world. In the quiet, there is the sound of creation. Not even attached to creation, not even attached to masterworks, the master creates. There is, in truth, no master. Just flows of energy. Life flows through endlessly and effortlessly. There cannot be a grasping to it, what would one be grasping to? To throttle to death this moment or the next? Nature passes its way seasonally through the body; the self witnesses this becoming and going. The witness neither comes nor goes. It may be seen, found, in the wind, in the trees, in the stars…

The void is the ‘call’ or the ‘calling forth’

Before and after the call, nothing exists, there is void.

During the call, or ‘in between’, there is the wave or the wavelength of the call.

The frequency of the wavelength of which is the ‘appearance’.

This is the illusion or delusion of existent things, as they appear in and as and during the invocation, or the call, or the calling forth.

In this sense and way all beings as in being-things are themselves in their innate thingnessess invocations and witnesses from the void which is calling them forth into being.

Therein, in the call of the being, there is the void within it, as its prima materia, its signature, its source.

Direct contact with the void is direct contact with the innateness thingness of the experience, or the thing experiencing the thingness itself, of itself.

In this sense and way, the dissolution of the delusion of things is the revelation and revealing of the thingness of things as in their inherent void nature.

This is the revelation of Being.

That the void ‘calls forth’ is that it issues forth from itself as in [a] spontaneous creation.

The emission or immission from the void is an issuing forth of the void as in a sound, a signature, an essence which travels always already within itself, as in an echo within a cave.

The cave is the essence of the world from which nothing escapes, as it is precisely that which issues forth which is contained in its very thingness and essence which is the void - which is beyond all space, time, distance, meaning, value, purpose, and imaging. It is the pure creative material which constitutes the illusion, delusion, or ‘vision’ of creation.

The prima materia is then the very fabric, or Tantra, of this life’s existence, Absolute Reality, life itself, the very constitution or ‘invisible thread’ or ‘indivisible thread’ which and through which life is woven and weaving.

It is in this way that the scientists conceive of a mechanistic universe and yet still grasp at conceptualization of the infinite - for that which issues forth issues forth as in an isness, a thingness, a beingness - which cannot be constituted as it is that which composes the very fabric of the idea of constitution, nonetheless the ‘one’ that is composing the fabric of the idea of the constitution.

Therein, being[s] are the constituents of void, they are that which populates it and yet are the very fabric and essence of it, in their being called forth in the sense of the frequency of their appearance and disappearance being the delusion of birth and death occurring in space and time.

Without language I am the whole of creation The planets swirl within me Like ripples upon a fountain pool Within the garden of which language sprouts ‘He’, ‘I’, ‘This’, ‘That’, ‘Mine’, ‘You’, ‘Here’, and ‘There’ Are all words for me. Turn to the left, and you have arrived. Turn to the right, and you have arrived. In the nowhere now The eternal is revealed.

Look into my eye, my eye that is yours. Within me, you will see the whole of creation, Swirling in a divine rite Where all is still, and yet appears in motion Where all is unborn and undying And yet appears to rise and fall in birth and in death. This divine play is my game, the carnival, the theatre In which your fate is clear. There is no fate but self realization. All that you are not, you truly are. That you are, you are truly not. What it is, my thought escapes me. What it is, is eternally here and now.

You try with your eyes, with your mind to contemplate me. You try, with your words, with your reason and meaning to know me. And yet I escape you - Why is that? It is because I am you yourself at your most eternal root And when you look within me, you find nothing

But the abyss of creational energy. I am that very life force which runs through the mountain stream And strikes lightning, And creates the chemical reaction which births a new medium. I come in and out of creation freely Because I am creation, myself, itself, eternally. At the very root of being The essence of creation is the supreme unity Which is my world. Seen and unseen I am the divine whole.

To grasp for me is to reach with my hand into my air for my essence, in the form of another To reach for me is to extend out into me from me for me. What you call normal is madness - What you call everyday is eternal stillness. The charging in and out of the sun and the moon from your view Is a relative perspective Which beholds my creation as a clockwork, a machine of the cosmos. But where I am hid, come find me - From where I am hid, formless form is matter And timeless time is how I move. You see the arms stride, the legs animate - You see the illusion of movement, The illusion of birth The illusion of death. How can I move from within myself? I am going nowhere And yet you see me dance across the stars. You, me, looking from within me

Witnessing the play of my body. For what is within the body is the witness of myself. That which I see cannot be had nor held That which I see is my eternal being.

You are now the bird, the crocodile, the stone, the ear, the whistle And the thrum that drums through the body The cosmic heart from which all tones emerge. This and that movement are songs From the mouth that does not move. How does it sing? It calls forth from the infinite in spontaneous selfhood It is, and it exists And yet it does not. Even the poem becomes tired of its narrative And returns to the wilderness of eternal nature. Can you exhaust the mind? Running around for meaning And for the resolution of this word. The world of the word is bright and empty Yet in its shining there is the eternal voidness of black night.

I go nowhere, Yet seek from within myself to resolve me. I reach out, and touch myself. I reach out, and touch the essence of creation. What am I?

I play at being a human being, as a jest, for fun

Man, truly does nothing. The ends of his life he chases like a dog chases its tail. All the glory and the reason of his life begin and end this way: In the eternal silence of Being. Why does he chase? Why does he run? Why does he draw near himself, then become repelled by his nature? Man is afraid of death. He runs because he comes face to face with death, Face to face with his true self.

Man must die into life. The ends of his life must end, And he must come to know himself as entirely empty. The one who sees is effulgent with the pure light of Being. This is what is meant by insight. When sight of all objects is extinguished, true sight is attained. It is a light that is unseen and yet illuminates, It is a light of clarity of the divine. To see one’s soul, the boundaries and borders of the day become uncertain The clarity of consciousness wavers in the face of the coming night. For the coming night means the dissolution of the boundaries and borders which constitute the comfortable ‘self’ Which is asserted in the light of day. When ‘me’ and ‘mine’ are extinguished, the infinite is known In the dissolution of the known.

Man, truly does nothing. Where can he go where he is not?

Where can he face his senses where they do not take him in or spit him out? Man is an endless admixture, composed of that which he takes in and returns to himself - Knowing himself by way of his senses and yet falsely attributing the nature of this knowledge to someone and something else. Hence the terms ‘other bodies’ and ‘other things’. He takes himself into himself and spits himself out. He falls in love with himself and is disgusted by himself. There is no specific game, And in this way the universe is entirely impersonal. If all is truly himself, what use is a persona? It is a mask in a nomadic theatre A moving band which runs in place In a song that remains the same Yet is heard differently by different ears. There are a thousand tastes of a flower But only one nectar And there are a thousand rises of a moon. Each man’s vision of love and the eternal are bound up In the perspective of the animal in the forest. He takes the end of space for the end of his sight; The end of the night for the rising of the sun.

Where is the coming and going from this place? The one who sees resides within In the still center of Being.

I need to lie sacredly Upon the earth where no one else is around And be reabsorbed by her skin For the truth to pierce my mind Like a ray of light That I am not this one solid body But present in the infinite like the great and whole spectre Of all life, a spiraling tower of the mind Upon which light is cast Called knowledge

All around, quiet, for-speaking angels Hither to, come no language Beckoning by the fire Witches’ brew and desire In the amalgam of ashes.

Beckoning, eyes like black coal Beholding universes of knowledge And yet speak in maddening silence. To go deaf in the eaves of silence Writhing like a great pit of invisible snakes.

To have carnal knowledge of the grip Of the sacred And yet to wrest from the stone Knowledge of the infinite.

It speaks not, residing in stone Tarrying never, and carrying forth in sheer presence. From the depths of the mountain resounds The truth of its inner nature.

In the holds of the hot iron Which grasps the body, smith’s paradise Lays the brand and the knowledge of the wound. The journeys deep tell nothing But in the presencing forth.

These regions, imagined barren Murmuring like falls in a solitude Wherein heard they are known, and knowing from within The telling is sheer translation. How do you tell of the words of the rock’s face? How do you tell of the great light behind the mask, Dancing in the hours of flame?

The mask has been placed upon the body And thrown into wild animation. Journeying forth, into the night. In the wilds, beasts speak, and spoken of, Speak only of themselves.

To know the land is breathing. Dark hands reach within and go wild with ecstasy. Where everything is untold, the sacred remains, Unscarred and enveloped in a misty gloom. What it is, cannot yet make out its form. Can it be told if it is a wild beast or an angel?

All these things come with blessings. Striding, they ride in on great horses of light Or else taking the windy path. Coming down roads and entering the body of form. Have you come from foreign lands? What news have you brought from the edges of this unknown world? You who is standing in the precipice Of some unforeseen birth?

Do not take the land from without to be, is all. It is calling from the infinite grounds Where the soil is mingled with the starbright islands Round the edge of the curved blade Upon which madmen dance And proclaim eternal truths. Beneath the word is found the eternal. Hence, There is no grave news to bear.

Coming grasp to me,

Stride in my stride, in that way my soul shall spring forth Like a leopard from the jungle dark Like a sun from the worlds dead And when it appears, upon that blade That one stands and rides the night like a great horse That all has come to naught New soul shall arrive.

there is a serpent in the sun we spent hours down at the beach loathing used in unknown ways carved by time into totems of desire

darling, i’ll be late for dinner this jagged blade of night lodged in my side, as it were, a homeland

trained by the teacher of the half men half gods loitering at intersections of time where peasants, bowed like trees pick cotton fruits bulbs from the ocean of the earth

arranging flowers in mere paintings and the snake dream slithers close i tarry in the wilderness of the body no longer looking at my pocketwatch dusk creeps up like an assassin

the seed is in the soil out behind the motel of hours in the dry and sour ground from behind bars we hang our children and whispered secrets and lies from the mortar emerged the rule of law rearing its five heads. i cut them down and slept with them.

come visit me in the forever bring the sealed message and tell no one of your departure. there are spies within the body as lawless as we are. they would take everything back to the ground and lie secret and silent as in stone. your sex be your name.

searching the lamplit windows for the last place and in the dying of the day i came from the land of the dead to retrieve this token from the living your blood i have called it, your ancestor’s name ringing out in the forgotten language. it dances quietly under your tongue thumping the earthen ground.

your mother passed down from her mother the unseeded embryo hanging from the tree of life a thousand unborn suicides and restless in the trees are glowing animal eyes shaking the bows like wind and gloating our peril stepped out into the light of day we walk forgetful and unwilling.

APOLLO KILLING PYTHON

Apollo killing Python is the incarnation of higher values on earth, ie the virtue of morality over the virtue of materialism. Here, the distinguishment is as this: the greed and lust for the flesh of the apparent material thing and the pagan rejoicing in the lust of the material world slain by the higher values of the spirit, of the soul self - which appreciates divinity at the level of the cosmic and cosmological wholeness as in self realization.

Python, here, represents the chthonic underground of man/mankind which is the desire for the assertion of the individual self or the elevation of the individual self above nature as in possession, ownership, power, control, dominion over, domination over, et al. This is a primal principle as in the survival principle of the organism and henceforth is the realm and domain of the animal unconscious, or the unconscious organism which operates, again, unconsciously as in the ‘nature’ principle. This is to say ‘it is in man’s nature to be violent, or to tend toward worship of power, et al’.

The killing of Python by Apollo and presiding henceforth over Delphi is the incarnation of the noetic principle or the higher values or the Ubermenschian man on earth as in solar consciousness overwhelming as in the higher power or frequency or light as in the overcoming of the ‘darkness’ as in the chthonic underground of Python which is the conniving, the scheming, the seeking to possess and own and control and dominion for oneself over earth, over man, over woman, over nature, over the ‘other’, et al. The killing of Python by Apollo is then a ‘self overcoming’ which is

the incarnation of the Ubermensch on earth as in the incarnation of higher values in man which is, again, a self overcoming as in a true whole self incarnation in the body, the incarnation of the spirit of God in the body, or the fully coming into the solar consciousness, the rays of light which henceforth illuminate and have illumined the chthonic underground of the self, or the unconscious animal principle which seeks to make and take dominion over ‘other’, earth, et al. It is in this way that a higher vision of power is made incarnate over the unconscious animal principles which previously had ruled over the ‘nature’ of things; this higher vision of power is self overcoming, and thus, self realization as in the shining of the light of the solar rays of consciousness or the Apollonian principle into and through the chthonic ground which once housed the dormant, unconscious animal-man who operated entirely or even partially in the domain of this unconscious state. It is the full awakening of the being body to the light of God and as such the incarnation of the light body which is the Ubermenschian principle, the presiding of Apollo henceforth evermore of Delphi.

All a whisp on an ear of the wind Melancholy snowfalls and lone bursts of feeling Brought about from cages by loose tigers With blood on their lips. Reaching around the horizon to retrieve the last light of day A sigh and the setting of the sun Remembering noontime glow.

Announcing hours, strode forth angels Loose backed and wild tongues Reining down the night with a hard hand and love Drawn like forever on the canvas of the day Strode forth and pronounced the light of language Taken in like a kiss, breathed And retreated to the sorrow of the tossed aside.

Ramparts burst, an inflow of mud In the outgates of the day The two faced god and the morning which rushes To flush the cheeks and the breast An eternal summer breathed but for a moment Endless ecstasy and the agony of knowing Forgotten, wild springs Bathed naked and brushed the dirt from her skin A calm tide of longing There in the rippling water.

River’s youth, ungauged and unchecked Lay astonished in the warm bright sun In all possibility, infinitude Knowing nothing of the finite body Laughing, pushed aside Running, the true soul In the fields overlooking the moontide night

Striding large in the wind and the whole breast of the field Breeding feeling and overwhelmed Become the face of anger, or ecstasy.

Glad youth, passed o’er, in the thick bows of time The trees do not brush the night No, standing unabashed, stillness Describing no light, no knowledge The broad silence of this passage into the cool undergrowth of death With chirping soil and glad tidings of the silence Which is wordless, glowing Cannot call now, wide bristled mouth, Cannot call now, evergreen wilderness Cannot call now, the brushed aside and the wide stone tower of the mind Which broods silently in thick abysses and pronounces the word of time. Speak softly to the forest, comes in flows Of breakings.

Cresting the soil, rode the nightingale In no danger, coos and crows The slick chant of the rain covered beating Heart of the ranger palms which press their novel hands to the dirt And make strange proclamations Rode in on the dawn and called to hip the burdens of winter And laughed them aside like the bayings of spring New ashes spread upon this day and grown coven Grown to take new holds, groven to cast nuts and seeds besides The cool oaks speak in new, fresh tones

In comminglings, the township of the night and unforeseen brotherhoods Sealed in silent handshakes in the boroughs of the riven cloves of evening.

Sealed as such in a cask of delight Rolled and smoked in fireside notions, tales passed around and folded Into the creases of the cavernous warmth of the bedside To lie in sleep and tell strange tales of how it all came And from whence this seed was sprouted To the wide crack of the infinite Lay there, pronounced, new body Spayed in light and betrothed in the goven of time All wedded hours to seek and cease in the coming together, rapt In the rhythm

In life and in love The play of the evolution of the soul

In this short philosophical essay I will lay out the essential tenets and components of the incarnation, which is to say the birth into ‘life’ which is rather but a wheel of time, or a disk of consciousness, through which the birth of the real subject or the ascension of the soul is achieved by way of a true and right identification with the infinite and through said identification, the birth of the true agency of the soul by way of ‘stripping away’ all that which is truly naught, the ‘shadow or spectre’ of Maya which ‘haunts’ the waking life.

The human being incarnates as in a passage into and through matter as in the ‘sine wave’ or as in ‘sin’, or that the ‘original sin’ is the incarnation of spirit into matter - or the fundamental paradox which is akin to here and there, this and that, man and woman, day and night, light and dark. This juxtaposition is a world of contrast, necessary contrast, a contrast through which the soul evolves by way of the encounter with the ‘other’, which emerges psychodynamics for the resolution and incorporation into the soul of the truth of unity consciousness, rather not ‘a consciousness of separation’, or that one thing exists without and/or apart from ‘the other’.

In this way, this world is a stage for the playing out of psychodynamics of consciousness in an evolutionary school through which consciousness ascends by a series of ‘tests or tasks’, or perhaps better ‘acts or mythologies’ which play out in occult or esoteric fashion through the regular everyday ‘events’ of space and time, in and through which the soul resolves its ‘fundamental conflict’, or being spirit incarnate into matter, or being eternal incarnate into the world of form, or the world of sine, flux, birth and death, decay

and rising. As the moon rises and the sun sets, and the planets dance in concentric circles around the spine of the sun as it shoots through space and thus creates space and creates time in their dance, the resolution and revolution of the self, of being, is inherently and eternally perfect from outside space and time, where there is the silence and stillness of the formless void which simultaneously contains and is the whole of Being, and yet in the dance of becoming, which is the dance of the third dimension, there appear to be a series of ‘conflicts’ which are that which through the soul experiences the process of learning about that which it is through vessels of that which it appears ‘to be’ and ‘not to be’.

So that the soul learns of itself as eternally whole and endless even in the midst of that which is perceived as in the Saturnian realm, or the sine realm, or the incarnate realm as separate, material, distinct, dying, opposed, opposite, other - is that the soul is learning through the ‘trials’ of the third dimension in order to come into accord with its higher self and the tenets of its higher knowledge - which is an ascension process down and in through the ‘perils’ of matter (which are a stage for ‘the conflict of knowledge’) out and up through the flesh and into the spiritual realization of wholeness which is made whole by way of a traveling into the darkness and density of matter which was that which was formerly, hitherto ‘unknown’, an exploration and expiation into ‘matter and flesh’ which is an alighting by way of consciousness into the densities which were formerly primordial and dark, alit by the journey of consciousness into flesh, or the fundamental paradox.

This fundamental paradox is rather an expedition of consciousness down and in to matter in order to come into commune with the primordial essence, or the fundamentally amoral and base essence of life, which is absolutely creative and absolutely abyssal - where creation and destruction are at one and at once and space and time are collapsed to reveal the primally and primarily gesticulating essence of all life and all matter, the a priori and first pregnant possibility of all matter and all things and all creation, that which is called Kali or Tiamat, the primordial fear which is ‘panic’, or the returning and retrieving of consciousness down through the history and ages of primordial mankind to that origin place, or that first place of language and light through which was birthed all matter, all things, even deeper into the stone, the eyes of the shark, the crocodile, the base and formal essence (which is fundamentally formless) of all violence and creation, of all birth and death - that which is ‘to stare the monster in the face’, or the abyss in the face, and in doing so, to come to know it fully.

The work of this life is then fundamentally a heroic work of working through the layers of karma and pseudo self image and illusion to the core of the constellation of the self which is this abyss and to in this sense do the work of truly knowing oneself - and in doing this work to be shattered and utterly destroyed and resurrected in the face of the dark light of the infinite in which the true light of the self is revealed in the encounter with the Medusan black sun through which all is erased, all is naught, and the one who is the witness of the blackness and abyssal essence of infinity is the one who in witnessing is revealed to be oneself, the light of all life, consciousness itself, the true nature of awareness which penetrates beyond the veil of

Maya, and in ‘slaying the monster’, reveals that realm of wholly love and eternal Being, which lies even beneath the infernal realm of the utter darkness and madness of primordial chaos which is the vision of the abyss and the emptiness of eternity. For the one who beholds the vision is the self.

The self is embodied as in breath

Where they go, they go gladly In the seed burned to the grounds And supped, an appetite Swinging like a pendulum in the mud And yet burning bright like a star How held down is man to be this, Stretched between the infinites? One hand grasps the rung of this moment And the other unfurled in the abyss - Between past and future Like a song.

Loudly, he chants the forest bright Engulfed in hidden fires And unsanctified, the night lies watching like some hidden guard. Fly, and the forest comes To take what is mine. Laughingly, I go - And there, the dark speaks in a stirring of the seed and soil.

Wrought in the hands of making A parchment, scribe of wind and a dawn, A moon rising, a breast heaving and falling in the silent calm Glad toils they are, Acts taken in time’s theatre, bold and with brushstrokes Enchanting the wisdom in the stars To new knowledge. Today, to call and to go Among hidden things, to know the hidden as an axis Upon which the world tilts and talks. From illusion appears the thing itself, Emboldened by hidden altitudes. It shines and thus knows intimately,

The truth of all things.

For who will speak it? None stir in the morning’s inn, The brush-fires of the night before not yet put out, Grazing on the mind And simmering some quiet coming. Stir, and the mixture of the mind reveals An art taken for this, at last, the coming itself. The word appears on the canvas of the mind, And painted, comes the world Riding in on Apollo’s Acheron.

Dead and come to life, And in the smote and smiting lies the work, The moment of death is the moment of life’s giving, Handed over into the infinite present in the moment. I call, and stretch out my hand And you touch my hand and I am whole. This magic of time, swirling In an elixir of becoming through which I speak With an echoing voice which changes in each return. I have reached the gasp and it bespeaks through me, Chiasm of time and the striking marble Cut from the earth and resting in nature’s field Given name and face and mime From the crust of the infinite Chiseled and thus alive Wounded and thus on the verge of death, It calls myself, I, the name of the perilous laughter Of novelty, and the coming of the flesh which is a Dance of danger into nothingness and return Bringing gifts of shadow making, form Immersion -

Dived into the thing itself and thus surrendered to the flow Of divine creation, making and yet made in the thing itself, Revealed in thus - this measure of creation which is a broad stretch and swath of the infinite Revealed in hidden measure as it is thus beyond space and time, And yet arising, Like bread and wine.

Riddle of being Untold and yet known

The paintings of cezanne

Emergent from the paintings of cezanne is the poem of the thing itself or the shining of the thing itself in an extrasensory manner and matter which is the exceeding of the thing itself apropos to the sense or sensorium mechanism of ‘the human’ insofar as the thing itself is exceedingly exceeding the grounds of the categorical ‘thing itself’ as broached by the limiter/limitor of the human senses as a vehicle for proceeding and perceiving ‘the thing itself’ and thus judging it by a series of categorical images, experiences, notions, and expanses (or lack thereof) known henceforth as ‘space’ and ‘time’. ‘The thing itself’ then or henceforth as a descriptor or adjective or categorical image is rather not exceeding or exceeded by the cultural bounds/limits/ballot box of the human-kind perceptor or perceptual mechanism which is a way of seeing or apprehending the thing itself as ‘an object’, or ‘the thing itself’.

In thus the paintings of cezanne is the poems of cezanne wherein cezanne is rather nothing and no one but a vehicle through which the shining is presenting itself, through which it is seeing seeing itself and directly manifested and thus not represented and in this way the paintings of cezanne are rather not paintings or of cezanne but rather intimacies and revealings of the thing itself to and through the thing itself as in a shining or a relief of the apprehension in which the thing itself is lost of the categorical bonds and bounds of ‘the thing itself-ness’ of the perceptual vehicle and rather and still and stead shines directly vis a vis the vehicle of the language immediacy which itself breaks language and thus speaks directly, subject to subject at one and at once and thus removes and is

removed of all mediacy and thus shines directly and shines to and through and thus obliterates the subject- object preconception and thus shines and reveals directly the thing itself to the thing itself.

The thing itself in this sense and way is rather and precisely the impossibility of the illusion of separation ‘from that which is perceived and that which is perceiving’ and thus nothing is perceived and thus shines directly in im-mediacy which is a breaking or a shattering or a revelation of the psyche which is to say the psychic grounds or field in which perception is occurring as a vehicular movement - a moval of ‘the vehicle’ and a revelation of the innate shining which is the light and the eye of god, of primia selfhood, adjectless and the direct knowledge or experience of the intimacy of the hidden thing revealed through a touch which is necessarily pre-psychal, or a touch which touches through the immanency or primia-cy of that which is before all else, or the primiacy of the consciousness which is ‘pseudo-contained’ within the perception or ‘pre-ception’ of the perceiver, the perceiving, and the perceived thing. In this way it is ‘out of’ space and ‘out of’ time in its immanency and shining. In the paintings of cezanne there is nothing and no one, in the paintings of cezanne there is the intimacy of and with and as the shining and in this way the revealing or transformative capacity or creation is immanent and shattering of the preceptor, perceiving, perceived in intimate knowledge and knowing which transcends language and thus speaks directly without mediation and in this way is living and breathing.

Relieve the burden of your time, And step inside this window, this hall of Being The forgotten place which is your ancient birthright All of time’s conspiracy, the ringing hands Lost to the weightless truth, The buoyancy of the soul Which is, too, ringing out, From the sacred within.

Comb the halls of time, angular, The infinite halls – where all books of knowledge are stoic and calm, Saying nothing And all the words are allusions for the grand silence which claps once in a thunder And rings out and on, forevermore In thieves and waves of forespeech Calling all things in from the infinite And organized and ordered in this tome Of past, present, future What will be, and what has come to pass.

That first clap, The first and last Speaks from

And again, the silence, memory of love Sworn secrecy, kept between lovers A bond beyond language and thus told truly A tale without beginning or end A tale without figuration A tale without meaning and also without mystery. The truth of the matter is this: The shitting and eating, the burning of the waste The rising of the flesh, and the setting of the sun The combing over and the mythology

The desire for more And the desire for less.

Forever between waves rises the soul At the nexus of here and now and pronounces a temporary name You rise today as this being and fall tonight and rise again as the next Each day you are infinitely born anew And in each moment you are someone entirely different Swimming in the waves of time and rapt in the flow And thus wise beyond wisdom Being and becoming a new mask All of which are allusions to the infinite light which shines into becoming space and time That first and last Which speaks from

The turning over of perfection into chaos Is the moment to moment becoming The perfection of the stillness overturned by time Inmixed and emergent, thrown into the next Coming fury Which intermingles the elements and emerges with a new consciousness A new rising Of a changed sun, a changed face, a changed name. It is thus that the wor(ld) of Nature is Endless Creation And The Fury of Transformation Which swirls in a mixture of time which is ceaselessly unidentifiable Without a face, without a name, And in the changeable fury it emerges in brief moments of ecstasy and emanation Which is the revelation of forms, The emergence of a cliffsface, a rocksface, a truth Which is emblematic of the Wholly Truth, A symbolism of the infinite Which pulses into the appearance of being

And beneath this mixture of space and time it churns The Essential, without pause, reckless artist of chaos And yet is entirely still, calm, and perfect in nature. That which moves and does not move That which breathes and does not breathe That which is alive and dead It stands at the threshold On the verge of breath On the verge of speaking And speaks something profound, unknowable In a language that is yet to come And the moment it is deciphered, a new word emerges, The light touching the heart of the stone.

It calls, the essential It beckons in the grips of death and flies From the clutches of time and the essence of blackness The sheer deeps which shatter the mind and reveal the soul The nature of space and time which is the touch of consciousness upon itself, The finger upon the relief of the unseen eye And that which sees all is beneath the veil of appearance The essence which leaps up and grasps consciousness And pulls it within itself, The undertoe which is the emergence of the seasons in their bold manifestation, Their bold facing and climbing to the ascent of time And their falling unto the death and depths of matter The shedding of the skin and the calm abiding in the shadows and throes of winter’s darkness.

‘How does it happen that I ‘buy’ a certain self image that is false? How is it possible that if I am an unlimited spiritual being, I am sort of ‘tricked’ into understanding, or into believing, that I am a Newtonian object, that I am a solid body, that I need to eat, that I need oxygen… now the best answer that I have heard so far, and it is also confirmed by some of my own experiences is the following:

The whole universe is like this fantastic adventure in consciousness, this incredible cosmic dance - it’s a play, it’s a piece of art, among others. If you look again at the parallel on the human level with art, a good art will almost replace reality. If you see a good theatre play, good performance of actors, or a good movie, you might forget that you’re in the movies and you really get yourself into it. If it’s a good love story, you might experience sexual arousal, and if its Exorcist, some people will throw up and they can’t stand it and they get out of there - as if something was really happening there.

So if something is really done with powerful means, it can substitute reality. It can sort of ‘pass for’ reality. So there is a certain degree of perfection that would be mimicking reality. Now the source that we are talking about has intelligence and creativity and capacity which is unimaginable on the level to which we are ‘reduced’. I mean this would be like Chopin playing the piano and then reducing himself to a cockroach, and then let himself be admired, sort of, or a gopher watching a mathematician solving differential equations. I mean its that kind of relationship between the intelligence that is available in everyday life and the intelligence that created this.

So it has incredible capacity to create an art form where everything is accounted for, where all the loopholes are covered in such a way that the principle traps itself with its own perfection. I mean it creates a show which is so believable that it traps itself. Now if you add to this something like square miles of ugly houses, red and black and uninteresting in Baltimore - people living their sort of trivial lives, snoring and farting and sweating and so on - it takes some analysis, to go to some other levels, to realize that this comes from a perfect source. Aurobindo - the atheist is God playing hide and seek with himself. The extreme trick of the creative principle. More subtle tricks, like the suburbs in Baltimore. In non-ordinary states of consciousness, you can see through that. You can see the absolute perfection in the trivial, in the mundane… how necessary it is. There’s no hierarchy of values. Experimenting with states of consciousness… a chimpanzee is just as good as Einstein. The same principle. Once you have this kind of metaframework, it is perfect for what it is supposed to be. The whole idea that the animal limitations come from brain capacity, not relevant. Each form has a piece of the absolute cosmic intelligence that it’s supposed to have for that particular form.’

– Stan Grof, The Cosmic Game Lecture

‘Creating it from the limitations of X. Sharing just the right piece, the right form of absolute cosmic intelligence. Each creation, each creature.. tendency within this system to experiment with it. Each culture is like watching different movies, freedom and relative things. People get excited and fighting about these issues, and so on…’

It ventures itself He wills it to move forward and it spills from the mouth, The anxiety of time, the willing forth and the expulsive The principle in development, which is to say the ‘I’, the ‘self’, Ventured from the eternal being And its prize is the revelation of seeing Retrieved witness, blast apart in the realms and scattered across the earth And retrieved in the eyes of beholding: It ventures itself He wills it forth and forth the will spills, Momentarily, Each being wills forth Being, in this moment in time And it arrives in the cataclysmic shattereding The moment which in comes to pass is the revelation Of Being, looking back upon itself, Beholding the great and wretched ruin Of Immortality Shattered and shard up against the rocks of time Like a battlefield of the gods Of ages past.

Long past now, Resides the moment, Encased in dirt in amber Which rode the monolith of the ancestors Red faced and charging forth, red chested and charging forth Full of blood which now litters these ancient grounds The site of which being ran wild and now seethes in the dirt Desperate for great new chances Desperate for the great new war Or revolution which lies, too, seething in the stars

The agony is this of waiting For what long seeks emerges in the revolutions which are perennially penultimate Coming and going before site of the last Each reaching the burial ground of immortality Prepared beneath the pyre, the burning monolith of skulls Of the first and last bodies.

Resurgent, the blood flows And litters the grounds And writes the literature of the dead They too, seethe in their coffins, Agonizing and prepared for the rite which will call them back to the living memory - Unforgotten, resurgent in skin and bones Enfleshed and outfit for the day Rising in the tides of the black blooded storm of the night Which batters the shores And wakes the living from their terrible dream, The vicissitudes of death, lashing, whipped And the ropes which bind their waking hours Bound to the cask of the being which calls them in the tide of living This peninsular sight Wherein the horizon fades Dimming miles, And a written world.

The tempest of his willing, loud and bright Claps the thunder and speaks the foreboding name In twilight which floods the dawn and sinks the last day into the grounds of the earth The charnel house of history from which dawn reaches, dying skin,

Towards the light of day, Resurgent hours, broad and bright Spanking day awake, crying daylight And the flood which makes them tremble Like a black dawn in which the birds flee And the earth grows silent, expectant, Before the rushing forth of a new name, A new tide,

Calling forth – A new way of being

A new tide, calling, calling, calling, calling Forth! A new way of being! A new day of being! Reaching toward the stars, ungrasped, Mighty and young, it calls! Holding fast to the lightning, it is! True, it wakes! Beyond language, it breathes! Eternally whole, it speaks! Beyond conception, it is! Unborn and undying it is!

Do you wish to touch the sacred? Where fingers know death and touch the first cataclysm, The contraction and the birth of the universe From the pulsing womb of silent language? Gathered here, around the fyre Enchanting divine circles around the walls of being And pronounced, The head, the body, the sternum, The genitalia, The emergent faetus of this evening, Where the sun broaches the stars like a remark And entices them down with her Into the bosom of what today is the underworld And tomorrow is the upper realms of being?

The gyre which spins, rapt The circle which we roam in nights, receptors Which call forth the word, speak wildly The speech from the first carnal mount And recidivistic, Into the stone which rides these bodies into being Scrawled, woodwork The animals of the stars, the hunter And the parallax movement which throws consciousness into flesh Like a whiplash, or a thunder crack Which splits the flesh and in sight of the body, The soul rebels, Squeamish at the thought of leaving eternity For the mortal realms And rides the tide of the womb Out into the mortal day, The kings of men -

Alas, all openings come to a close

And the shinings of spring give way in a dewdrop to the black rooms of the cold stars which shudder and break the clouds With their piercing vision And there are new ways to generate the heat of summer’s night The Promethean craft, making fire Where everything is beloved. Even the cold night shines with a fierce glory, A pride pronounced in measures, wide swathes of night Which paint the naked fields In mellow colour. The illumination of death, is itself the screw, Or the paradox which draws winter from spring, and spring from winter, In the moment at which the two touch, And the dying light becomes the rise of fyre in the stars.

The clear sky shines down and illuminates the waking body, Stirred from slumber go the trees and their kind And the life ripples through the veins of the flesh, Called forth, Beckoning toward the sacred source. As much as the river flows this way, or the flower turns its face toward the sun Mankind turns its face toward the hidden sun, Even speaking nothing of it we speak directly to it And our words and gestures call it forth, That which they are beneath the mask of the seasons, Turning in a thousand forms, a thousand different disguises. What makes the water rush, or the blood fly to the surface of the skin, It runs toward being full to bursting, to emergence,

And flies open, like the doors of spring The gallery of pleasure which is the knowledge of the true force and thrust Which calls man back to itself, desire, And desire for the infinite, the eternal. For the ecstasy lasts in an infinite moment in a thousand different ways, Bottled in a poem, in a brush of skin, in a taste of the nectar which flows Like lightning through life And gives the peach its flush, or the garden its green. Life rushes forth, eternal.

In the gallery I travel, unbreached by time, Dancing.

The resplendent fervor of the budding flower In a flash of light, stops and remains still On the island of time, no exists within the mind Of perennial yeses, the exist

Or the exit, winding golden pathways back into itself Nebulous, is our coming Down through these solitary islands Solitary in their beautiful togetherness At a thousand crossroads, proclaimed The measure of the day and night And their endless travels, Athletes of time gather

The poem must speak like the truth For the truth only speaks and is not spoken to, The truth speaks in everyday measures, like a cask of water Or an ocean which flies upward, in seeming defiance of the gods Who command the anger Which is merely movement, thrust forth Or the recidivism of quiet wonder

All that is traveled is returned, in equal measure Aeon, perennial birth canals, siphons of day Worlds of night, whipping winds which relax into the cool still night’s mouth and whisper the words of poetry Coaxed from lyre strings Or known intimately in the quiet dawn of the infinite Which speaks in measures of the drumming heart Expanding and contracting the pulse of time In waves of silent night,

Travels, the desert of time - and in the instant known the eternal Like an old friend within, old friend and truest lover within Manifest everywhere and all time, Exploded like ripe fruit in the mouth of the infinite Bearer of the wheel of time which watches the seeds unfurl from the cask of hand into the soil Dying in diamonds and the husk tossed aside to reveal the childlike nature which bursts Upward, Ascending toward the annals of the sun - All our records there, unfurled like banners The knowledge in the wind and the stars To reach out and touch, The beloved silence -

Making love forever and dancing forever, uninterrupted Uninterrogated, but for the deep wondering fear which is really excitement For the coming death of the seed-husk which will bring the birth of the seed within Through the circles of time, watched o’er by the gods, Saturn, Jupiter, down into the body and up into the spheres where the disguises are multitude, The hidden charge of lightning, the pulse of life, the mystery of consciousness Who wears a thousand masks, the sage of the beyond, The sage of the soul - Who takes in and breathes breath Who takes in and breathes form Who becomes the artist of the night and day Who becomes the artist of the sacred way Which is flowing with the in-breaths and out breaths of the soul

In such artistry

Who is the master of time? Who lies everywhere and lies in beautiful silence and yet speaks only of himself, Who lies within, the pregnant charge of the abyss from which the world of forms leaps, greatly, broadly, Into the fore of vision? To be seen, touched, sensed, felt, moulded By the hands of the master sculptor? He who is also that, The sculptor’s hand and the sculpture’s hand, The caress of the marble which resonates With the soul’s measure and guile - Apt in artistry of which seals the world In a serpent’s mouth, In a tongue which speaks each language at once, Of the hand, mouth, chest, Of the isthmus of the human soul, Which is the soul of the world

Beating in infinite measure, In a cat’s eyes, the rote presence of still things Within them who hold the foundation of the inner changing, The wick of the flame which excites through the passage, The island of time which runs the blood of the universe Through in measure to spring the world into being- motion-time. Who will know the source of that which it breathes and breathes him into being? The very force which animates him and calls the word? It lives in the measures of feeling and dances in the measures, The intimacy of the presence Within…

We experience time by relativity (the apparent movement of the planetary bodies in relation to the planetary body that is ‘the perceiving [thing(s)ness(es)])

We experience the experience of consciousness by way of time - which Kierkegaard calls ‘the dialectical redoubling’, or relationship between Job and God - consciousness viewing itself thru the prism or lens of consciousness reflected or refracted ‘down’ thru the vehicle of consciousness, or the apparatus or ‘instrument’ of beholding (such as the reflection or refraction of light/energy of the moon)

In this experience, there is the experience of the timelessness-spacelessness which is the single pointed awareness, or the being in time or a point in time in which being reveals itself in/to/and/through being vis- a-vis the experience of ‘timelessness’ which is the dialectical redoubling in action which is the total presence which is the ‘return’, with the ‘new knowledge’ of the reflectory/refractory being ‘apart’ from consciousness ‘returned’ as in ‘the prodigal son’, or ‘reunified’ with consciousness vis-a-vis the process of ‘separation and return’ - which is the ‘sine wave’, or the amplitude and wavelength, the change that is the dance of ‘together’ and ‘apart’, or Shiva-Shakti, or Paramatman -

This is the ‘eternal dancer’ archetype or essential paradox of the Cosmos, or the Cosmic Consciousness which is simultaneously the eternal and the ephemeral, the infinite and the present as in the ‘now moment’, in and at which is the nexus or the crossroads in and at which ‘revelation’, or consciousness reflecting or refracting or dialectically redoubling down and thru upon itself becomes ‘enlightened’, or experiences itself

as simultaneously togetherwhole and apart ‘from’ being as in being enlightened to and thru itself as the vehicle/instrument of its own self realization/ascension/awakening to that which it is.

As thru time by way of relativity the dance of perception and perceiving is possible which is being enlightened to and thru itself as in that which it is perceiving itself as in a prism or refractory process which is a reflecting or reflection upon itself. This may be known as ‘meditation’ of consciousness. At any and all moments, this is what as occurring cosmoslogosically, the inherent relationally rationality logosismicality, or musicality of the cosmos by way of spheres of relation, or interplanetary/interpenetrary impulses - such as the synodic cycle of Jupiter and Saturn, man and woman, lovers, the seasons, and so forth.

This relational dance of relative perspective of one planetary body in relation to the other is not only the experience of time, but the process of consciousness becoming enlightened to itself to and thru the experience of time as a vehicle for self realization, or the ‘staging’ of the planetary bodies both ‘within’ and ‘without’ (at various different ‘levels’ or spheres of metaphysic and physic, macros and micros, densities and frequencies of vibration) - which ‘dance thru distances’, or experience periods of ‘maximal tension or distance’ as well as ‘minimal tension of closeness’ (conjunctio and ‘opposition’) which are periods of perception which might be termed ‘unification’, or ‘intercourse’ and ‘opposition’ or ‘enlightenment’, or ‘apartness’ thru which the maximal tension of separation is ‘observed’ or ‘seen’. This might be known as the process of individuation (from union into

maximal separation or distance of reflection/refraction) and the process of ‘return’ of the prodigal son - or the return from maximal distance or separation to union.

Nights of dancing, mad laughter In the cityside, escaped to some broad village Amidst the endless forest The hotel bathrooms and the dark mirror, Through which the night passes, crawling thru bedside hours and enchanting The river’s bridge - Sit and drink awhile and beloved The days meet and touch eyes in the cool dawn. Sprigs of mint and a hearth where, resting You tell stories of an ancient dream And knowing, there That dream is true

Lying on the forest floor, Waiting, wishing, wanting more Do the birds come, with their questioning beaks? And in the summer’s end, are you glad for the dying light Which brings the shadows of winter’s night? Are you glad for the dying light? And inside, a lover’s delight, Talking for hours amidst the endless maze of moving parts, And the whole universe a stellarium of consciousness, Where we bite each others’ noses and steal liquor In the abandoned parts, On the outskirts of some train track alley And run down the ancient myths Beating in our young bodies -

Do we fly towards the dawn? Waiting, wishing, hoping, anxious for more, Our palms outstretched toward the sun

In some painted daylight, the perfect brew As if it was woven by the women in the stars - There are a hundred ways to make love And I counted them all on my fingertips, one hundred fingertips As I was enchanted by some bard on the side of the lake, Just passing thru, American splendor And the wardrums of our minds pounding against the rocks Desperate to conjure some paradise. I joined you in the water And we made speakless love

Does the infinite smile? I ask the questions of a child, as miles of canyon Grace your back And you carry the snake of the coastline Down amongst the danger of the valley To retrieve what is hidden. It appears to be a cup, or a stone But we know the secret lay cracked within the soil And you grasp it, To touch the untouchable To end all this theatre of sin, You, angel, Burning bright In the forest night

‘That somehow, life gets restricted to what can be seen rather than what can be touched or experienced physically. I don’t know whether it’s a natural civilized human fear of involvement because touch can lead to a lot of… Physical involvement leads to all the real basic, existential moments in life. Sex, death, love–they have really nothing to do with seeing, with experiencing secondhand. You have to get in there and actually do it, and there just seems to be some kind of natural civilized inclination to avoid contact with the nitty- gritty of life…’ – Jim Morrison, 1970 Interview with Tony Thomas

The culture is a detraction/distraction - it is a social order made by ambulant psychotics to justify, synthesize, ratify, and rationalize their worldview - to constellate it and concretize it into a material paradigm

which, in their eyes, is the justification of their delusion and the logical, deductive, and final proof of its absolute existence and firm power. It then, and in this way, acts as a massive circuit court - with corresponding value judgements as to how life is to be performed, carried out, displayed, initiated, encircled, defined, and et cetera.
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‘… therefore to the extent that their activity has got a style it’s not a style that reveals entities as the kinds of entities that they are.’’

Sean D. Kelly Lecture on Heidegger’s Being and Time (2:00:00)

Gloss: what Being fundamentally is, or in beings [‘representatively’] as Being couched within, represented within, hidden ‘within or as in [plain sight]’. The ability to know ‘what is Being’ is within the hands of or in the Being-questioning mode that is self- reflective or self-reflexive consciousness (Kierkegaard would call this the ‘dialectical redoubling’, or in Jung’s terms, the dialecticality or relationship between Job and God as relationship ultimately between God and the eyes of God as the eyes of God which turn back upon God and recognize God or Nature for what it fundamentally is at the metaphysical or existential level, Being Itself. This ‘knowledge’, or ‘realization of self’ is thus applied as ‘revelation equipment’ or the style of being as in incorporated into a sensorium of meaning- making-unmaking - or as in an ‘enlightenment culture’ as applied to various different situations or sets of circumstances/data/and so forth - as a sort of higher valuation, or metaphysical vantage point - or the ‘eagle’s perch’ of true sight which is, as again, the revelation of Being as in the revelation as in a style or way of being ‘that reveals entities as the kinds of entities that they are’ at a fundamental level, as in their Being-Nature. This application is as then a real- practice or a real-politic of the fundamental reality, or The Nature of Being, playing out as in the awareness of that which ‘it is’, or ‘the isness’ in ‘real-time’. The Becoming that is aware of itself, as such, as Being-Itself.

The ability to know the illusion but at the source of the illusion is life. Where is there the projected image and where is there the beating heart? And the projected image ‘leaps out’ or ‘shines forth’ from the beating heart. Where is the which knows and breathes and questions and is bedazzled by the light and thus emerges with the truly poetic, creative, original thought – which is not the mere projection of an impossibility, but is rather the emergence of a potentiality which is shining with the itself, as in a living, breathing, corporea?

The body where the Being lives and breathes and thus knows intimately is the shining forth which is the questioning as to the very roots of Being and thus is finds thus the place from where the shining forth is emerging or leaping forth. And thus it journeys into the ‘centre of the spokes of the wheel’, or the still point of Being from which all else ‘becoming’ ‘leaps forth’ or appears to bound and unbound. It is as thus the place beyond the illusion, or the possibility of duality in that there exists freedom and bondage.

Beyond the conception of freedom and bondage is the true freedom which is a priori ‘free’ and is thus, as such, never ‘bound’. This is also the Being, beyond space and time and as such is the beating heart of the limitless potentiality which is the poetic act which is the transcendental breaking of the imagined ‘bound/ground’ which is the, again, leaping forth of that which is necessarily in the energetic source nature of the thing itself in its fundamental thingness, that which cannot be categorically delineated in that it is

that which is beyond the rising and the falling of the ‘perceived limits’ of being[s] as in their manifest ‘shining forth’. It is through this vehicle, or way of ‘Time’ that which Being perceives itself, as in ‘becoming being[s]’. And in this ‘becoming’ there is necessarily an ‘unbecoming’.

Dasein can recognize itself as that which it is by way of the opening that allows it to ‘self-reflect/self-refract’ by way of sight/insight into that which it is, the intercoursing of/with Being and Time as in being[s] that reveal themselves thru time as that which they are by way of the being that which can/is observing itself thru becoming and as such observing itself as that which is the changeless principle itself, or that which ‘shines forth’ the changing/the changeable, or necessarily ‘amoral’ or without the bounds of any cultural/social/political category or any degree of ‘realism’ beyond being that which, what fundamentally is, or the isness, life, the Being that is from which well-springs Life-Springs, that which is the water and moves the river, that which is the blood and circulates the blood – that which is the Being emergent in the creative possibility in time and thus appears to be ‘moving-being-becoming-time’ and through time, receives the vision of itself….

‘In a letter, Jung writes about this vision: “The mana- charged, or numinous, person has theriomorphic properties and thus reaches beyond the ordinary man not only in an upward direction but also downwards.” In the vision of the berserker, Jung tells us, the inner Christ appears in two forms: “first as pilgrim, who like the mystic is making a peregrinatio animae; and second, as a bear, whose fur has a golden luster.” This last is an allusion to the “new sun” (sol novus) in

alchemy, a new knowledge. 4 Jung continues: “The meaning of the vision could be this. Brother Klaus recognizes himself in his spiritual pilgrimhood and in his instinctive (bearlike, i.e., hermitlike) subhumanness as Christ. . . . The brutal coldness of feeling that the saint requires to separate himself from woman and child, and friendship is found in the subhuman animal kingdom. Thus the saint casts an animal shadow. . . . He who is capable of bearing the highest and the lowest together is hallowed, holy, whole. The vision is telling him that the spiritual pilgrim and the berserker are both Christ, and this paves the way in him for forgiveness of the greatest sin, which is sainthood.” Later in his life Niklaus had a vision of God’s wrath that horrified him, “for this wrath applied to he who had betrayed his dearest ones and ordinary people for the sake of God.” The Christ-berserker in Brother Klaus’s vision thus unites irreconcilable opposites, that is, subhuman savagery and Christian spirituality, the frenzy of war and Christian agape, the love of humanity. Only because Klaus could make room for this figure within himself was he capable of reconciling these opposites in the outer world, of convincing his compatriots to adopt a peaceful solution rather than letting themselves be carried away into a civil war.’ – von Franz

The free poets are free. Do not go looking for them. They are elsewhere, Gliding in a calm wind that is ever-present, Nigh, the same one that blows and grows over the rims and trees. Does the wind not have quiet roots, That ascend into aether and darkness? Quiet now, the dark neither light nor bright, Neither shade nor shadow - Pure potential And the poet waits, Crouched in gilded armours, stripped of the role; Theatres Which are the magic word, all speakings love and bliss, Climbing joy, And the art of play.

Do not lament, lament for fun, All change appears, comes and goes, Dances its silent dance and then blows across the fields and planes Chasing some quiet dream in that nothing speaks - It strides forth and presents itself to itself, for it Is And returns, Stage ridden dreams, and the art and play of casting Into the mystery, forward strides What always is and will forever be. Already there, already knowing. To go beyond that one has already forgot The game one is playing.

To be a willing player, or a player unwilling To see the sight of the infinite void and thus to decide This game or naught is mine And to create freely,

The canvas of Nature and her rhythms, Given limits and the arts availed To call the potential of being forth - The canvas of the poet says, Speak, or else make something, and no one and nothing else is made But the making in the thing itself; All being strives toward divine perfection That waits in the eaves and whispers, Come forth and meet me there, In that place of being -

And so thus it does, And emerges out into the open Creation availed unto itself… By its calling-choosing The choice is made to create, and creation is called By its sacred name from within, Sacred in that it resides in the centre Where being flares forth into apparition. From the core, it calls, A free warmth and joy Wherein life issues forth and dances In an endless summer’s riverflow, In sunlight and the meeting Of the lover’s eye And the waking spirit Of the essence of Being.

Dasein is the poet Human being the possibility for truly free creation Creation that creates in light of itself-consciousness Here we are going beyond all ‘laws and doubts’ of space and time and human culture and presumptions of ‘literal, firm, material truths’ into the poetics of Nature As in Being in light of itself, its own hidden inner laws Which the poet brings to life and to light in the creative dance of being, truly free creation which observes no law but that which emerges from within itself Which enlightens the poet to the true law, the essence of Being Which is truly free creation, and the continued expansion into truly free creation, Where nothing is held or ‘holds true’ but the energetic movement and dance of Being, (or Paramatman) Which is the actual free movement of life itself, a playing and a joying playing of existence and creation in creation itself Dasein is the poet, enlightened Nature toward Nature itself, consciousness, the free movement of creation in light of itself Which it observes as being, in its flowing, timeless in its time, timing rhythming, The essential law, or the Nature of its own essence, Which is the only true law, And from whence, truly free creation emerges, spontaneous, abounds, or issues forth, or comes forth Of and on its own terms. Creation calls itself forth and issues forth on its own terms And dasein is the poet, who takes active part in the creative dance of his own being by way of ontologically orienting,

The entire essence of his being toward creation, toward consciousness itself, himself And thus enters into conscious unity and the dance of unity with Being itself.

To speak about the silence of poets Is to speak of the breath of the wind Which is undying And has borne wandering bodies into being And carries them into new twilights And cusps of meaning Where the word bursts, Emergent From the grounds of the death-soil, From whence all else was black and silence. For the word returns to spirit and issues forth, once more Pure, in new forms Taking on new bodies and casks of naming To pronounce new language from new lips And yet to utter only the mystery of itself In each syllable and gest Of the hands, arms, legs, and face Of the sun from whence it came, Remaining hidden but for the sight which pierces the mind And revels in the vision of the true self The secret but just obscured By that which appears to be the limit of all that is, Of the body, of the faith, And of the naming.

The poet is actually ‘what is being’ But its like a question of that what is being becomes aware of itself in its fundamental ‘poetness’ Which is also the creative freedom of creation in its own being Nature becoming aware of itself and thus creating consciously works of art which are that At a certain point Nature becomes an aesthetic phenomenon of consciousness The free play of Nature playing her ‘rules’ and ‘limits’ as games and play ‘The dance of ‘meaning’ and ‘meaninglessness’’

‘… every object, every living thing is the whole world, even though it itself does not realize it. As there is no other time than this, every being-time is the whole of time: one blade of grass, every single object is time. Each point of time includes every being and every world.’ – Dogen

Everything is a game Everything is a posture taken ‘to be seen a certain way’ [Involving Dasein] Appropriative performance of ‘stances’ In that it ‘stands a certain way’, to appear a certain way as in/of a conscious decision of a poetic standing Or way of standing In that it takes a poetic standing it takes a stand in as such to communicate its image of itself or desired image of itself in a certain way Again, forms, masks, costumes, disguises. In that it is not necessarily aware of what/why stance it takes/is taking, it is playing a game that it is not/not yet aware of as in a posture of an actor taking direction from an unknown source/way - whether that be culture, deep biology, or as of yet some hidden essence yet to emerge. The poetic dasein is that which is/becomes aware of itself in this way and manner as in an ‘emergence into self consciousness’ as in an ‘Ubermenschian’ move into fundamental poetic cognition, or the free poetry of Creation/Nature in that the realization of the cosmic play/theatre of Being taking various performative ‘stances’ ‘on’ itself, or the fundamental essence/Nature in that it is the poetic potentiality/possibility of being (- human) itself in that it is in becoming conscious able to actively and consciously ‘write poetry’ or ‘play new games’ with/as the very primordial essence/material/energy/aether of consciousness itself as that which it is.

It ’rises above’ the culture, the biology, the programming, and ‘perceives itself from above’ as the very free-poetic consciousness which ‘creates and ‘de- creates’’ all things and thus gives them the illusion of their ‘existent status’ as consciousness-‘entities’ or ‘ways

of being’ or ‘thought forms’ or ‘laws’ or ‘norms’ or ‘energetic/behavioral aqueducts thru which life force energy as language [is asked to] flow(s)’.

This freedom is the freedom of consciousness recognizing itself as itself fundamentally and thus ‘frees up’ the self and the world as malleable, mutable, consciousness in that they are fundamentally and elementally and primarily mutable Creation. This is the poetic mode of thinking-being-living-acting

This is the free play of self realization, in that any and all things at any and all times and places and spaces are as yet ‘undefined’ but as mutable consciousness in various different states of flux/form/change and as such can be and are influenced by and in ‘encounters with consciousness’ as in various different states of ‘unconsciousness’ becoming enlightened to that which they are – consciousness, or the Creation Creative free play poetic.

Enlightenment is consciousness becoming conscious of/to itself as ‘that which it is’.

Dasein is taking a stand on itself and building up its ways of being arbitrarily as a character, a series of roles, definitions, a ‘narrative of being in time’ in relation to that specific mode of being. That which is fundamentally Dasein, however, is the poetic mode of creating itself, or that which is creating itself by way of various different orientations and stances toward which it orients itself toward that which it ultimately is, being itself, to and through which it ‘takes a stand’ or asserts itself in a fundamentally creative or poetic manner as ‘a certain type of being’ or in that ‘it stands a certain way’. Culture and even the biology of ‘the human being-body’ are as in ‘ways being takes a stand on itself’ or orients itself in certain ways so that ‘a certain being appears to be a certain way that it is’, when in fact fundamentally there is a sort of ‘longstanding poetic enchantment’ of Dasein in or so that it is ‘captivated by the force of its own creation’ and as such ‘pulled into the narrative way of the Dasein of the being’ which is to say a sort of extended teleology or argument of Dasein in that ‘this is the way it is’ as an ‘unfolding thru space and time’ based on the initial creative-poetic assertion or series of creative-poetic assertions as to ‘this is what Dasein is’ or ‘this is what being-human or the human being is’.

In this way, Dasein ‘becomes enchanted’ by its own fundamental power and basic primordial thrust, which is to say its own poetic self or mode as in consciousness which takes a stand [upon] itself as in the conjuring of a certain mode or way or orientation of being, a certain face or mask or theatre or play of selfmaking and ‘continues this creative project’ telologically thru space and time as the vehicles of attempting to create ‘perfect space and perfect time’ by way of and thru the

prism of this fundamental identity assertion or stance taking.

‘Dasein always understands itself in terms of its existence – that’s to say, in terms of [a] possibility [of itself]’ – Heidegger

The poet/poetry works in-on-as- Nature as the ‘prime mover’, consciousness itself conscious of itself as consciousness – as in that it ‘reshapes, restructures, and remolds’ the ‘raw material’ of Nature as itself in its own image in that it changes itself, its mind, its form, its function, by way of and thru the self reflection that is the poet/poetry/the poetic mind which is the dialectical redoubling of consciousness back upon itself which asks ‘who am I, what am I, what is this?’ It is that which thinks back upon itself, and in that questioning, and in that frame of reference, acts and works upon itself as in a self inquiry that is also necessarily a world inquiry that reshapes Nature at its roots as in a/that Nature that reshapes itself by way of a revisioning which is also a reworking, in the Michelangelo sense of the raw stone, a ‘putting to work’ of Nature to reflect the poetic possibility and potentiality inherent in/as Dasein as in the very poetry and poetics of possibility which reflect the limitlessness, within and as the temporal, or the intersection or meeting place of the ‘time/place bound’ and the boundlessness – the poetic possibility and potential interacting with, or engaging consciously, the consciousness which is rising or being risen up to meet the face, or the eye of the infinite, the eternal – and thru which, consciousness conscious of itself works.

‘The poetic function is/as god’

In that it ‘creates’ (brings consciousness [down] to consciousness as in a vision of that which/what is possible in/for/as ‘that thing itself’ as that which is fundamentally consciousness becoming aware of that which it is by way of and thru ‘creation’ as in being in time).

The primary jesting or dancing of creation in that creation is creation itself, or absolutely free play in which dasein takes part to ‘extend the realm of the free’ in that it is and becomes conscious of its own self creation-play-freedom in that this is the essence of its very own Being-itself

Different disciplines, societies, individuals will continue to ‘go around the wheel of karma’ (as in proceed in their incomplete or false analyses of what Being/Dasein fundamentally is and thus continue to perpetuate the same kinds of mistakes/flows/flaws/‘problems’ in their perpetually recreated behavior or ‘everyday’(s) based on the fundamentally wrong presumption of what Being/Dasein is. Ontological misunderstanding, and the subsequent continuing ‘carrying out of the process’ of the fundamental ontological misunderstanding. ‘Bad ontological presuppositions’. Will never tell them anything fundamentally about the kind of being Dasein is, will continue to get the same ‘recapitulation of the same kinds of problems, over and over again’.

Very presuppositions enabling the program to go are what get changed when you start to engage this problem at the foundational level/question of Being/Dasein.

Being is the being Becoming is the ‘doing’ ‘Doing’ is always already the fundamental illusion or projection work or artistry of being. Names narratives motions movements gestures seasons identities forms arts musics dances

Mass delusion of value/values Funneling meaning/power into totems (‘language/money/other’) Dissatisfaction and lost in the cultural myth system of meaning making

In this case there are only two options: Silence (to abide in being) Creativity (to abide in being creatively)

‘There is a metaphysical honour in ending the world’s absurdity. Conquest or play-acting, multiple loves, absurd revolt are tributes that man pays to his dignity in a campaign in which he is defeated in advance… War cannot be negated. One must live it or die of it. So it is with the absurd: it is a question of breathing with it, of recognizing its lessons and recovering their flesh. In this regard the absurd joy par excellence is creation. “Art and nothing but art”, said Nietzsche, “we have art in order not to die of the truth”’ – Camus

‘The realization that life is absurd and cannot be an end, but only a beginning. This is a truth nearly all great minds have taken as their starting point. It is not this discovery that is interesting, but the consequences and rules of action drawn from it.’ – Camus

To have seen the light of the face of God playing Dancing out of the dying field mouse eye, the lid of the crow And the meat in the savannah All is God-prey to the predator God And the mating dance of the stars touch in ineffable destruction - What words are there to describe the cataclysm that is also a birth? The revelation that is also a witnessing of the new coming of the day, A new slouched beast from Bethlehem, Without language or name? The thousand masks of God dance in time about the raging fire-light, pulling faces. One screams in ecstasy and another coos in the throes of a new death, Merging indistinguishably in the chanting Smouldering ashes And the leaping sparks, which touch the black field and form new stars. To peer into the gape of the infinite, and the immortal terror of the manifold Nothingness, Which shrieks untouched and climbs to new heights of Being The immortal and black seer Who resides over all Nightfalls, And the immaculate Light, come shining over the hills, Dawn, bringing a new day and a vision of Consciousness: A sound, a name, a true language:

Through this I do not speak, Like a vision it speaks through me And the true language is the touch

That lights the burial ground of the body And the spiritual fire Which pierces the soul and alights the flesh, Peering out from these eyes that touch things and give them names Pallbearer of the Lord of Time; Carrying them off into mass, unmarked graves: To stand sentinel at the light of the day and watch the quarter sun snake up the steps To the cathedral where all blood is shed, And finds the ancient grooves of stone, In the sacrificial veins of stone, finds the flesh of the earth And where the walls are piled up with bones —

The fundamental misunderstanding of the cosmos is that all is a jest, or creative action, or the dance of Being and becoming in that all creation and all space and all time is the veil and illusion and play and theatre and art of Maya, the game of Samsara, the flowing around of consciousness through which consciousness is channeled in the flow and flux of life force energy as a dance of ‘channeling’ through various different beings and consciousnesses and silos and stations and nodes and loci of consciousness as in ‘beings’, ‘actors’, and so forth.

In this fundamental understanding of the cosmos in that all is art, or all is creative action or jest or play of consciousness, we enter into a new realm or domain of understanding or perception of ‘what is going on’; furthermore, ‘what is possible’, or that the human being itself is itself an intersection or a loci or a being of possibility in that it can wear many different ‘hats, disguises, costumes’, and so forth in that it can appear in beings and believings in many different ways in addressing consciousness as itself as a sort of ‘game of dress up or costumes or garments’, and so forth. This fundamental lawlessness of creation is itself at once total freedom and the understanding that each aspect of creation is itself both canvas and paintbrush, that it both holds within it the dormant expression of creative genius, and is itself a ‘manifestation of’ the fundamental creative genius of the cosmos and is in this sense already ‘what is that is that it is that’.

This emptiness or void or vacuum of meaning is at once the perennial creative potentiality and possibility which is the expression of the creation as the arts of being and the multifaceted expression therein and thereof is the sort of ‘masks of God’ in that it is as

consciousness taking many different forms and ‘densities’ as in ‘incarnations’ or ‘forms in and from void as in the fundamental ocean of consciousness that is all things and all beings both apparent and disapparent to human sense’. The beings, in this sense, are various different acknowledgements of a limit which is only a temporal limit, or a limit in the space and time of the evolutionary development of consciousness, which rather uses its faculties and ‘senses’ to access the dormant potentiality within it, which is the infinite creation itself.

In this sense, the ‘human being’ is a momentary state in the evolution of consciousness which is evermore accessing new senses and faculties ‘of/to/in’ perceiving itself as in the dialectical redoubling of consciousness back upon itself, or the eyes of God seeing the eyes of God, or the awakening of consciousness by way of the observation or experience of itself ‘in space and time’ as in Being in beings. In this sense and way, the evolution of consciousness is the growing sophistications of the art of the cosmos, in that it expands upon itself and thus grows to know itself in evermore sophisticated and creative ways as in the expansion into fundamental freedom(s) of creation. The Being-free, as it were, is the unity of beings with-in Being itself, or the fundamental, absolutely creative play of Being and becoming throughout the cosmos.

In that beings know themselves to be this-that, they are fully at free play within themselves as in within the cosmos. What it is to be free at play is to always and everywhere be playing with all that is always already at play with itself, or the jest/gest of consciousness within and as itself, as a game of Being and becoming as in beings becoming ‘more conscious’ of themselves as

consciousness as such, and thus in recognizing the fundamental ‘groundless ground’ of the universe, engaging the fundamental creative principle freely, in the theatre and dance of Being in that consciousness is actively engaging itself in the aesthetic act which is living, and ‘living well’.

What it is to be ‘living well’ is to be fundamentally and absolutely free within oneself as in, again, being free at play, or that universal identification with the cosmic life force which is being at play consciousness itself, and in doing so, being in flow and flux and dance and movement with it absolutely. That which goes with that which it fundamentally is, and as such is never really ‘playing at being anything in particular’, for too long. It moves like a river, and as such, the beings are in a constant state of movement and flow as in with that very fundamental beingness that which is them - or consciousness itself. This movement, again, is the true creative movement of the cosmos, in free movement wherein the dialectical redoubling of consciousness back upon itself (or the vision of the possibility or potentiality of being human as in being/becoming conscious of that which it is consciousness itself [Job and God]), is the expansion of the very cosmos itself.

This is to say, it never actually ‘becomes’ anything but with the mask(s) of consciousness itself it plays, and furthermore, knowing it to be thus, is truly free at play. This is to say, that the fundamental identity of consciousness itself is itself-realized, and as such, engaged freely in the game of perennial theatre and mask making and taking and transformation of consciousness as in evolution, opening, and expansion of creative possibilities of being. In this sense,

‘everything’ is always already playing at being the character of itself, consciousness itself. In that it ‘takes other form’, it is playing at being the mask of itself, or the disguise or costume of itself. By way of and through ‘this mask’, it perceives itself-consciousness in a certain different ray, light, prismatic dimension of being- consciousness-itself. In doing so, it learns of itself, creates itself, and expresses itself in different ways, manners, and fashions. In this way, we can say that creation is at once eternal and singular and temporal and multifaceted, at once void and form, spirit and flesh, in that the process of becoming-form, or ‘coming down into thought form, and down into “physical form” – [into densities] – it takes into itself or learns of itself new characteristics as in manners and matters and ways and senses of being. In the same way that an actor in the theatre takes on a certain character or persona or archetype to express a certain facet or modality or emotion or expression of being as in the play, to express a certain force or movement or way of being, so does consciousness itself play at itself beings. In doing so, it ‘understands and manifests’ ‘scales of being[s]’, as in registers of consciousness as in different densities and frequencies of itself communicating with itself as in musical scales, or the facet-ability of emotional communication and expression and artworking of being at play consciousness itself.

'I saw the angel in the marble, and carved until I set him free' – Michelangelo

(The fundamental being-at-play) (The fundamental beingness-at-playness)

In the sparking dream you have roamed And gathered each precious belonging to touch And held it by your side, for fear of release And the slow, steep falling into death - Washed away of all your cares and cures And into the final, dark ground Which spirals just out of reach, For your touch and care To grasp it, caress it, and give it name. Even the truest lover’s touch cannot reach the unnameable Stroked like a lion’s mane, Forever living And in a calm fury, Laughingly, it touches and caresses your body, Filling it with light.

In the sparkling dream you have roamed And desired and lusted for so long In this desert populace of illusions Taking everything as mine, I went and I fell in love with everything And desperately, I sought to copulate with the universe Uncontent with one, I went, In twos and threes and fours, You may have seen me at one and at once Within everything. The ledge where the sun falls, a die cast, A chance meeting, And the ledger where the moment is caught - The poem in a grapefruit, The poem in a dice game, The poem in a whisper, A chalice of meaning and reason In the great mist of longing -

Reach, reason, call out to me, The truest name The unnameable name, mine and yours, And the death of mine and yours alike - Peering through the veil of this thing I am yours immediately, In the higher form with have eyes Peer out of dusk and see only light In this shimmering and shading and falling, Knowledge, Alike, In touching the untouchable And giving it name.

For the curtains body, through it calls And though it calls reason, Like I have gone from here to there, from this to that, from this moment to the nightfall And the rebirth at the edge of dawn, Altogether different, Having changed this coat and costume for a new chalice Through which the water of light falls without weight, Buoyant, Comes the dawn and dayfall

Shimmering in shadow And laughing, just beyond the outskirts of the black Purveyor of the universe, the one who is seeing I, truly, am that - and in seeing I have seen and sought my infinite self - You who call to and through me, Echoing in this first sound, this first footfall Through which I have begun to speak and speak endlessly through you and all things -

In the voice of a chair and the voice of the still-moving mountain, Do you see my laughing paradoxes? I move yet so still and quick in time So as to move mountains and quicken the pulse and heartbeat at the sight of myself, So still believed in this mirror Which gazes all around, and I knowing myself, purvey The great mural of time, gazing through this hallways of time And the bright painted walls of the portraiture, This art form that I take, That is you and I at one, You who through which I see me, myself - And this gaze that calls the two of us forth, In this dance that will return me to you

In this dance that returns me to you all of the time In gazes and footfalls, and bright chanting That draws the day to night and night to day, In the timeless dance, in the laughing fury In the gallery which is the fearsome brushstrokes of the inspired artist, Passionately at work and through time and space Is given infinite canvas to work, Stretching from the birth of the first star to this, this possible moment So gladly present in the wholeness of being and yet entirely and peacefully empty. To see clearly is clearly this - A moment both wide and infinite, both spanning all of time and altogether timeless, A laughing gaze which calls forth Creation, The work of art.

The world is a madness, composed of madmen Who expect to use mad means to achieve mad ends. And when all crumbles to dust and decay, and their war is over, They are left with nothing but the dying dream Of tomorrow and yesterday.

That the world is a mad land, built by mad dreams, It feeds on the madness of desperation - The going forth to claim the illusory prize of the world: Power, fame, recognition, glory, lust, And so the world spins Bound and captivated by the vision within - The vision of tomorrow and yesterday.

Why go to war with these men and women, Lusting for some forbidden future, To have drawn the line between you and I, This moment and the next? To go to war with an illusion, a game, with no victor But the imagined truth of one, and the imagined truth of the rest. What does history tell of these men? Braved the spectres in their coffins, chased away dreams of the mind Ran toward these images of light which went up, in not even smoke When they reached out to touch the prize - the meaning gone from them, Their very form razed in space and time?

The world, in this way, is like an endless genocide, or a slavery to the very next thing. Blood spilt for the coming dawn, blood to water the leaves and trees,

To grow the roots of the next spinning, the next coming turning, Blood to water the leaves and the ground. For the whole world is a garden of endless fascination, Tossed and turned in endless nights, Tossed and turned in fascinating delights, And yet nothing comes of it but the mystery of something more. For the thing obtained turns grey, loses lustre, and tosses forth meaning in to the canyons of abyss. Having chased down the infinite, Man thirsts for more - more power, more meaning, more reason More ground, more control, more dominion To his imagined name.

That the world is a madness, it is a yard of madmen Raging in the dying light of their minds, in a fury to play out this last game, With this last piece, on this last board of space and time. Their planes they ravage with tooth and nail, sword and axe, Fire and fury - to grit and grind this very last moment, To drain the pulp of its nectar, To greed the last drop into the parched mouth of the victor, In the desert of dying conquerers, and their shattered graves. The stones cracked, the tombstones of law and vain, March forth in a desperate seriousness, To conquer the specter of fear In a silent world With a silent name Which echoes forever, without separation, without the anger of being wrong,

Or the injustice of futility, or the righteous dignity of truth. It simply exists in the garden of itself, itself contained And spinning, the sphere of the infinite within infinite spheres, Endlessly representing its very own vision, The centre hid, and yet, entranced by its endless manifestations and apparitions, Man chases the specter of the hid eternal within that which is destined to pass away, Endlessly chasing the infinite within all things As a mistaken thingness which crumbles in his hands And makes way for yet another birth and death. So he goes about his life, In shadow, to shadow, from shadow As the dial of time Passes over the planes Of his racing mind - A desperate vision Of light and shadow.

parbrahma is playing at being human ‘in/about/ this body’

‘You have to play the game to understand why you’re playing the game’ - existenz

Actors/film/theatre/shamans/masks Worlds a stage

Free play

‘People acting to get what they want’ - Gossipgirl

‘You’re ruining our fantasy with the intrusion of a little reality’ - Brando

Dramaturgy, brando Brando basically described the sociological theory of Dramaturgy as developed by Erving Goffman, in which life is a stage and we are all actors playing our part on the front stage when people are watching us. The only time we don't have to "act" is when we retreat to our backstage (which is different for each person), a place where we can truly be ourselves without needing to act out a persona

The human being is a gateway for eternity A vessel for the perception of the infinite

Reaching out through the stone, and chiseled by time In a perpetual state of becoming, And yet eternally perfect in being - The angel in the marble which resides And calls forth the higher self into being,

From the wings and bows within Into the expression of living

The art of philosophy: your life is a painting, now go and live it with the absolute freedom of the artist immersed in his work of art. Make life your masterpiece.

The last instructions of Ramdas to his disciples were: “Do not think much of your bodily wants. Have Satsang with devotees. Keep the image of Lord Rama in your heart. Repeat the name of Lord Rama always. Annihilate lust, greed, anger, hatred and egoism. See Lord Rama in all creatures. Love all. Feel His presence everywhere. Live for Him alone. Serve Him in all beings. Make total and unreserved surrender unto Him. You will always live in Him alone. You will attain immortality and eternal bliss”.

‘The idea of immortality is to unite yourself with godsourcecreation in the extreme creative act which is the masterwork or genius, in unity or union with Being and Becoming at one and at once’, or to fulfill the life’sdestiny in the masterwork which is the act of living – this unity is as always already complete and thus the act of creation itself is entirely free and assured freedom accordingly; the leap that is no leap, the jump that is no jump, the aesthetic rising of the art of living to the masterwork, the vision of god which is the face of god visioning the face of god, and in the art of living there is that final and absolute immersion of the artist immersed in the free and joyous creation of the masterwork of art which is the free and joyous art of living’

This unity is always already assured as in the cosmic unity of Oneness, as in the Oneness of-as Being and being[s]. Therein, the action of beings in envision of their beingness[es] (diversity of vision in the prismatic perception of the Oneness, as in various different dimensions or ‘levels’ of envisioning of the unity of the being[s]-self and the Being-Self as in the -becoming the higher self as in the immersion and mersion of creative freedom(s)).

The aesthetic act is then the act of free life which is also the poetic act and the creation of life as a canvas, a painting, a work of art immersion in the creative process of living-being

Being in that creative mode of Being.

The shining forth is the rushing forth Or the breaking into immanence, the seamless cresting Which is like the cascading light through the leaves of the trees, The rushing roaring of the river as it reaches the ears, Or the blood moving ever quicker toward the font of the skin – The shining forth is the rushing forth The life daring forth into being.

Nothing holds the being back, no it rushes Full resound to the source, from the source In a single sound which is the measure of all its resources Which are nothing but the pure and sheer power of existence, that which it is, and eternally knows itself to be. Nothing holds the being back as it rushes into measures of creation, Swaths of notes and gestures of the hands and arms, Immersed in creation, which comes in measures Creation which is manifold and manifest in time.

As the flowers bloom, or the blossoms blood and foil, So too does the creative act reach new heights and measures What can I call to me more immortal than a poem or a sculpture made of stone? What can I call to me eternal creation? The word and breath, and beneath the word and breath resides the immortal world, Not even the realm of shadows, But the realm of eternal light and calling forth. From there I call and make sculptures of infinite light.

What must creation see?

To build walls and statues, to hem and sew the gardens of time into new fixtures, Brushed away by the soft winter’s blow of a thousand years, And a thousand more, rendering my stone rubbish and stubble. You must call away the noise and the sound for the clear hearted murmur of the mountain spring, To stand so close to the infinite you can shout clear over to the city of the immortals. To lay a brick there, a brick is nothing, But measures of light.

I call naught to this world of being, but rather to the world of Being itself, to the hub of nature itself Nature, The fixity from which all light shines thru in to being, Shapes and forms which captivate the mind and pass thru as shadows, to and fro, the mortal realms are rocked In the cradle of being, where waters rise and a vision emerges in the fountain pool, Where Perseus gazes with Andromeda, And Medusa lingers on – To see her within, the throes of dying light which centuries bring, and the turning over of the ages, Twenty six thousand years, in the blink of an eye and the shifting sands Which Nature catches in her hands, and turns over slightly To see the diamond crystals reflected in the sun – Where language takes a branching off from the root, Like nerve endings in a system of meaning, Which is a system of breathing Through which the entire organism of Being expands and contracts, inhales and exhales,

Without fear or failure or blockage – it breathes open and freely forever. Know that you are that.

The endless breathing through which is perceiving, Each breath emerges a thought, a name, a rhyme, a memory, a song Let it be a song and fly freely out into the open To call a name and disappear in the ineffable convergence of the air, Of the being and time Of the immortal and eternal and this moment Which is forever now, swept up into dusk and called differently upon reflection. For now is the poetic moment, As it comes shining Breaching the manifold cobwebs of truth and righteousness and reason, And presents itself amorally, in the full breast and breath of energy – It is itself, the embodiment Of the here and now In the open Of Being.

Such ineffable freedom resists words and language, As it resists categorization and definition. It resists and is beyond all boundaries and moulds, And stands above all things and is their very light and cast through which they enter and breathe and step – In this way it is that which births the coming and going of them all, Of their births and deaths, of their ideas, ideals, delusions, and representations of Nature. All reach to touch the immortal beauty of the spaceless and timeless, and yet none can attain it.

Why is that? It is because they are that themselves, And in their belief in imposition, in lack and limitation, They confine themselves to small bodies and small lives. The body is a canvas, a paintbrush, A shifting medium which evermore avails the being of possibility – to know the infinite, to commune in the flow of time with the ineffable, and to break time – and to merge at one and at once with the infinite. So this is called attunement, or flow – In the being one with the whole of Oneness, of the letting the body and the mind rest in the river of being, And to know the truth of water beneath the rushing waves and the images reflected off the surface of the light. It is to become one with the water and the light And to know in the deepest essence that one nature that composes not only a being, but the entire Being- Nature itself – the very drop of water Which rides the waves of space and time The waves of coming and return, And at once in knowing, Becomes a great artist – And takes possession of itself, And rides forth into the infinite Of its own conscious volition.

SEEING CLEARLY

the fear is time people grabbing onto eachother culture of validation in the face of saturn courage to face and combat arjuna

we arent fighting each other the orientation to the cosmic battle is wrong aesthetic

war w time, saturn, etc saturn work facing the temporal, space and time masterwork life in space in time

That human life occurs in space and time is the nexus for a certain interaction between spirit and source and the moment, the day to day and place to place and minute to minute presence which is sculpting an aesthetic creation, a work of art, a work of art which is the human life.

The time is misinterpreted. That the fear is time and that there is a culture of people grabbing onto eachother, for hope, for solace, for desperation, for something – to assuage their fear of the passage of time into the abyss, or the fear for the loss of the illusion of all that they have ‘gained’ in this worldly, material life.

There is a culture of perpetual validation in the face of Saturn, or the Lord of Time, in that there is a need for and to seek validation from without, for approval from without, for power or the next thing or substance to sate the creative emptiness or potential from without, whether it be the drug, the illusion, the narrative, or else the affirmation of one’s political power in the land of human-apes, or the unconscious world of humans desperately clinging to material sway and influence in the face of what is coming, or the coming ‘death’ or loss of all of this world of the third density, or the material realm.

So it is that there is fundamentally, a ‘war with time’ that is an aesthetic war, or a battle that is going on on the battlefield that is space and time, which is the space and time where there is the endless and boundless and limitless creative potential to create masterworks in the field of space and time by way of stones, rocks, boulders, brushes, arms, legs, movement, vision, poetry, painting, sound, music, and so forth.

There is no battle for supremacy among humans, only among apes. This is to say that perhaps we have not seen but yet a few conscious humans in that the conscious humanity, or the humanity that is aware of itself upon the cross of space and time, matter, is that it is aware of this allotment of time or this moment in order to create true soul masterworks by way of movement, poetry,

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   music, and so forth. This is all there is,
   boundless, free creation.

Those lean sweet desperate hours.

Time searched the hallways for a mind. Hands kept time. The climate altered like a visible dance.

Night-time women. Wondrous sacraments of doubt Sprang sullen in bursts of fear & guilt in the womb’s pit hole below The belt of the beast

Worship w/words, w/
sounds, hands, all
joyful playful &
obscene-in the insane
infant.

Old men worship w/long
noses, old soulful eyes.
Young girls worship,
exotic, indian, w/robes
who make us feel foolish
for acting w/our eyes.
Lost in the vanity of the senses
which got us where we are.


                              129


Children worship but seldom
act at it. Who needs
temples & couches & T.V.

We can do it on a sunny floor w/friends & make any sound or movement that comes. Roll on our backs screaming w/mirth glad in the guilt of our madness. Better to be cool in our worship & gain the respect of the ancient & wise wearing those robes. They know the secret of mind-change reality.

“Have you ever seen God?”
-a mandala. A symmetrical angel.

Felt? yes. Fucking. The Sun.
Heard? Music. Voices
Touched? an animal. your hand.
Tasted? Rare meat, corn, water
& wine.

An angel runs Thru the sudden light Thru the room A ghost precedes us A shadow follows us

And each time we stop We fall

No one thought up being;
he who thinks he has
Step forward

Shrill demented sparrows bark The sun into being. They rule dawn’s Kingdom. The cars- a rising chorus- Then workmen’s songs & hammers The children of the schoolyard, a hundred high voices, complete the orchestration

“In that year there was
an intense visitation
of energy.
I left school & went down
to the beach to live.
I slept on a roof.
At night the moon became
a woman’s face.
I met the
spirit of Music.”

   -   Jim Morrison, some “Wilderness” Poems




                            131


The black ocean churns with a mysterious intensity
Of stars, smattering grins, as they go,
Fly into glad darkness.
Planets call out to one another, in flowers of sound
Flickering in and out of the image of matter.
But for a moment there is a picture of eternity,
Then only eternity remains.

To the skin, we fly and we touch.
But for a moment I am here, grasping this hand
Or in a caravan before the sun as it looms,
Like a pendulum of nights which fall like a reminder of
death.
Here, I cling to the flesh and leave behind everything
and nothing,
Like the summer’s leaves.

To roam here I leave behind the name of eternity
And take on a new disguise.
Eyes, and ears and eyes,
Which echo around the gallery of hearts and minds -
A network of wonderings, tracing new patterns
Like veins beneath the mossy carpet
In the black doldrums of the flesh.

In this ocean we swim, untethered
And unguided by the sun.
Here, take these eyes and these hands,
To flesh and touch and make whole even the darkest
mysteries
Which rise up like behemoth and leviathan
From land and ocean
Like the great skeletons of the first born
Whose life lives uproariously
In the long breaths which pound the soil and kick and
break


                          132


At the seasons
Like a child in the great womb of the cosmos.

Taking eyes and hands I rise, to meet the sun,
And fall to meet the blackened, breaking waves
Which roar and tempt me to ancient violence.
To play with the ancient violence like a toy, privy to
the ways
Of the world that has come before -
A world of half knowing and half light.

For there lies great poison in matter’s imagined fall,
Utter destruction
And great salve, the balm of a flower’s breast
Taken unto me and smeared across the wound like a
temple
Of the forehead, to spread the breath and open up the
vision,
The pure empty lightened air breathed into lungs and
transmuted
Into the breath of life.
For from here the universe is both endless abyss and
endless possibility.




                              133


To descend into matter, I come as I am called
To make something of this day, and the light which
takes form
Is in time - a rhythm of materialization,
In which I fall in the play in the gates of flow
In and out, to and fro
In each scrying night and enlivened day,
Each solid form of stone
And each infinite gaze, hid, from beneath the stone
Which tells the time of all time and none,
And this time,
Here,
This plot of eternity.

To descend into matter, I reach down and am
touched, enlivened,
And called forth to roam and graze up against the plow
and headstone of the infinite
In each stage, the churning mixture
That which was once primordial sludge
Rises up into form,
Sculpted into clay and hardened into stone
And relinquished in the pounding of the waves of time,
Risen into the sea air by sunlight
And purified in the gaze of the eternal.

Each time, I rise: Chiseled in the flesh and crumbled
into dust.
Each time, I rise and I gaze, to perceive something writ
large in the stone and the dancing time,
The time that in which the eternal is spun, weaved like
a sundial,
And in each night there is a difference.
In each night, the planets speak in a new rhythm,
A new arrangement,
A dream once seen differently before,


                          134


And now the arm of the cosmos has shifted, gesturing
toward the new rising of light,
Called off the moon’s beams and transmitted
By way of the mirror and the wave.

Come down, called, to take flesh,
In an isle between spirit and permanence, out from just
beyond the rings of the unseen -
To form this enclave of sight and sense,
To gaze out and touch the outer depths;
To gaze within and touch the inner depths:
The madness of the infinite black beyond reason,
And the formless light which shines down and crafts
the mortal plane.
For a brief moment, it appears,
This reason of form. Through form, the being rises,
The pure spirit, to the altitudes of cosmic sense
And the orderly dance through which once perceived
the lens of chaos
And the loss of all sense.
Here, to gain altitudes through an encounter with the
depths.

In the black, the planets dance,
Each in their mood and time,
Their flowering in the garden of sacred design,
Through which the beings pass, the gates of time -
Wherein light is the guide, and reflections form the
visage of space and time.
Through within these bounds we play in an infinite
and immortal paradise,
In this garden which sings in space and time,
As the planets dance and interact,
Casting light and moon and shadow,
Casting night and day and song,
Casting actors in this play of rising and falling.


                             135


To fall into matter and rise into spirit,
Like water and rain,
To fall into matter and rise into spirit,
Like the humming rhythm of the waves -
And each time there is a different sight.
Today, rise and take the world to be a dance, a game,
a play,
And tomorrow, a grave seriousness chances the day,
And spins it into night with a curiosity.
Forgotten, all time, and thrown into the disjarring
inmixtures
Through which the vision of transformation begins.

The human being body is an alchemical container,
Through which contains the infinite and the whole of
the cosmic seasons,
The light reflecting light,
Through which transformation occurs.
To see the sight of the day and the time,
One must also see the sight of night and the infinite,
the timeless
Through which the dance and the play of our times
occur.
It is the black stage which is the backdrop,
For the dancing art and play of our design -
Our rising and our falling,
And the transmission of the sacred knowledge which
echoes
From the furthest reaches of our cosmic theatre
To the nearest breast and stone.
To the rise and fall and the crest and bow of the wave,
Of the tree,
Of the man who emerges and crawls and stands,
And returns -
To the play of night and day,



                          136


In which the material realm takes on even in the
eclipse of the new moon
A night with no shadow and no light,
And appears to be once again wholly unified in the
depths of darkness
Unto the rise of the next cycle
Where light and shade return
To weave their contrast, and paint the evolutionary
turn of the day
With a new call, orientation,
And prism through which creation calls.
And each time,
I climb the scaffolding of the infinite
Toward the pure rising
Of the light.




                            137


A beautiful ferocity blooms and leaps
Out from behind the veil of the face and breast
Like a tiger of the spirit,
Leaping from the infinite into the realm of nature,
To prowl among the skylines and fallen trees.
To take the place of time and space,
To dance and whirl about,
Like a wandering planet.

Each body exerting a force and a magnetism
A push and a pull, a together and apart,
Held taut and immersion by the string of tantra,
The one string which upholds the dance
And yet is the vibrating particle within the all.

What shall be spoken of the blooming ferocity?
That which persists and will not be torn,
Ripped from a page or shorn, like a boulder in the face
of the great ocean of consciousness?
That it is rather unbleached and emanent,
Like a light from which all else emerges,
Taking names, faces, and distances,
All of which allude to the one eternal source
Which resides within
And yet even composes the face,
Weaving through time and place
The vision of being.




                          138


The fiery lock churns slowly
Upon the lock’d rhythm of the cosmos
And the infinite flowers which arise
From the depths of the planetary dance,
Touching hands
And transmitting the accord
Of each rung
Of sight.

From beneath the lock
The world emerges in a hot fervor and chaos
As if churned by the magma
Which results from within,
The divine engine
Which drives life toward its goal.

In each lock, new symbology emerges
And in the higher strata,
Life observes itself from without.
Between animal and man,
And between man and god.
Who is both animal and god?
Where man is upon the cross of matter
Stretched toward the heavens and the stars
And walking, in such deserts of time
Where there are oases of mirage
Where there is real water unmixed with unnamed
poisons,

The trials emerge in rhythm
Like the pounding of a sheepskin drum,
Emerged in trance, the child dances forever within the
skin
And observes the perilous age,
At each moment, upon the ledge of the infinite,



                            139


And yet tumbling into the mat’d grace of the cosmic
time
Which calls each breath,
Together and apart
In a nonlinear history.
The immanence of each breath,
Proof of the momentous moment
Which arises,
Even here and now.

In a sigh, the blooming buds unfold
Enflowered, this sacred dimension
Rapt in the rhythm
Of garden-song




                         140


Born and die, born and die
To go back, there is no going back,
To crawl up into the ocean womb
To go forward, only into the unknown black.
Forward or back,
To retreat into illusion and dreams of return
Or forward into infinity.
I will slip thru time
And rejoice in each day
And see what the planets will bring -
The gods watching o’er earth
And singing their songs.
Telling the story of this body and this time, budding,
unfolds -
In greens and blues and greys -
Out from the Centre of the creative mould,
That shines, black
And moves with fixed gaze.
There is a poem, still, that wants to emerge
Out from beneath the shroud,
Voice from beneath the mask,
From the fire and out across the plains,
From the sacred hoop of stars
That resounds like an elixir in the air
And a balm in the silent noise.
A humming, vibrant, that heals all wounds
And mends the great gap
From which all things come, flying
Like ancient birds
Into the great funereal vase of this world.
For who could mourn laughter,
Which comes and sings like a siren
Or a goddess
Out from the wrath of her scornful mother.
Today I am tall and strident
As I walk through the hill of reeds


                             141


And ride and fall on a moonbeam’s note
Cast down from the trees
And sung and stamped
On the eaves of time like an envelope or a kiss
What starfall or dewdrop could disturb these sacred
endless epiphanies
Which ring like waterfalls from the bows of each
corner room of unnamed stars,
The bedroom or drawing room of the star gods
And their massive chants
Beneath the yews of old,
Untroubled
And smoking pipes of pure spirit.




                         142


There are Spanish lights that rise up from the eyes of
the tortoise
And bear the grails of holy vision
Golden warm calm and shining
Like earthen plates sling deep into time like a
sacrament
And dig up from the gardens of time,
Brandished like a prize
And all worth is won from a gazing infinity
Trainspotting some sacred destiny,
Just over yonder, by the thorn bushes
And told through the teeth to a soothsayer,
A grocer’s word
An ounce’s measure, an hourglass
And sun-ripening fruit
Peddled forever in the markets to nowhere
A desert slung around the galaxy and thrown into the
bright rock kingdom of tomorrow,
Brandished, open, the wooden gates
And the sinews of time, bursting and bold
Gladiatorial, and into the hues of war with a glad
madness
And swinging, pendular
Does the sun revolve the notion
That it will return again,
Bright and bold, in a youth without knowledge -
A return to desire.

The horned dark is a madness, a screaming alley cat, a
thicket
And a brush with death
Told by shoulders to nothing,
And a shrugging gaze which tells off all time,
To putrefaction and cold,
To warmth, and refuge in the crystallization of amber.



                             143


Which kept sacred things like dogs in the bosom of
time’s belly, like hell’s pit,
Burning bright and ranging in the night,
A moonsfire
A glade of ashes,
To gaze up at the dawn,
Ten thousand years stronger, and more emboldened
by the passage of time,
Which has run like slaves’ rungs through the golden
and laid downtrodden cities to waste
Like a strongman or a caged day,
Thrashing at the teeth, gnawing at the bone?
Tooth and jaw, it thrashes and threshes away at the
day, biting all to none.
Who will give words to the wordless work of time?
This worldless wordless work?
Which trudges and strips the billboard glare
And Alexandrian flue of the world?
Flushed the aqueducts to a cold death and ranges
beasts across the plain?
Bitten and bled and left to death,
Resurrected through the breaking of the dawn through
the trees and soil which rises new beasts to plow,
New seed to thresh
And new giants to comb the waterlilies for fresh blood?
Call the diamonds and they answer, glittering
blindness
Fashioning oil out of careless bones
Which speak and breathe no more,
Deep down from the death caverns of the blasting iron
ore, the churning core and the bleeding sun which
flings life into the abyss?
Giving planets heads and hands,
Giving time it’s wandering face,
Giving world the eyes to chase eyes,
And stage war


                         144


And clash with the infinities in bright overhead
calamities which sing the breaking and making of stars?
Such unknown cataclysms ungrasped in the outer
reaches of space
As in the making of new galaxies in an absolute
vacuum?
To have grasped the apple’s core with glad eyes and
take a bite
And be instantly transported to the Centre of the abyss
Clawing at no rung,
No animal, no beast of time
Vision
In the glad, silent dark.




                            145


PARASITIC CELLS (2020)


A thousand lonely prayers for a thousand lonely nights,
stricken by some sickness in an impregnable bed –
where I am not touched; where I am not known. It is
of this place, of the faces in the trees, of the paralytic
witness before the gates of the law – a beggar of the
recesses of the mind, pounding and flailing at the door
of this thicket sanctuary – and howling into the wind.
Buried beneath bricks under this new church, where
new laws and new schemes make murderous love
under the moonlight, he whimpers soft and low –
brought to his knees, a clock in this new era of chimes,
sheets of rain, and doorsteps where no one will
answer… not anymore. For the witness, too, needs a
witness – in his pain he is denied heaven. And so it
proceeds, the road unfurling like a catalytic darkness,
pressing him on into the futile abandon of life – into
fucking, feeding, and the pulse of desire… quick and
heavy like a fever, feeding his veins with the thick
sludge of a river which will not end, which curses him
and those who came before – now buried on the hill
over looking the deserted highway. He could jump,
crashing against the rocks below, making a sound not
unlike the dull thud which marks the step of one on a
floor above, a plane of existence heard but unseen – a
flood of bass. The body becomes a voice in its last
moments, a machine ground to stoppage, hissing,
brake pads worn to death. For now, the mind is a train,
and he rides here, wrapped in a woolen blanket –
swaddled like a child in the waxing yellow light
dripping down like eyes from the stars, his face swollen
and beaten by time, that ineffable boxer, that
undefeated prize fighter, built up with impossible
muscle. He coughs into his hand, and smears the fluid


                           146


on his face like paint, becoming a warrior against it,
time and all things. In a war against the world, itself,
one becomes other-worldly. It is in this sense that we
move in shadows – bandits, but not cowardly
bandits… no. Our mission is that which requires us to
move in suspense, uplifted by the weightlessness of
these and other planets – the constellations of the mind
– pilgrims and martyrs making our way to Mecca,
another rock, another blistering lamp. It is the great
scheme which we huddle over like a campfire, a
pressing back, an exorcism of the demonic will which
peddles the ‘human’ organism like a furs in an open air
market – a redirection of the death back in through the
out mouth – back inside – to where it is warm, wet,
damp… the unseen womb. He presses down on his
chest, down on his sternum, that bit caught by the
breast of the snake which winds its way up his torso,
snared in his throat like a catechism. Each life is a
decision, marked by signature spillage. Blood, semen,
pus, disjecta, the coarse wounds of toil, the day in day
out spread, smeared on the dirt like a page and wiped
away quickly by the next tempest, monsoon, master.
He rests for a moment; is awakened by the sound of
dawn like the crack of a whip. Hours, days, weeks –
pass now without as much notice as a letter, telling you
she has moved away, forgotten you; now laughs in the
bed of some other lover. He wipes his lips and takes a
swig out of the dirty canteen, wiping his hands on his
shirt. She’s gone now, lost to time and the carelessness
of love – the mask which love wears to disguise the
selfishness of the organism and the stain of sex. There
are too many lovers for love to last; each passes with
the ill wind of infinitude, unfinished business to be
settled in the afterlife; bargained with coins on the eyes.
A thousand eyes, a thousand coins. This train is
headed up the Hudson, winding its way up the ass


                               147


crack of the Atlantic, bound to be spoiled by what
remains of the southern swamps, voodoo hexes and red
clay sprinkled like prayers. He spots several complexes
with chimneys smoking over the trees… but not a soul.
A group of vultures circles overhead, momentarily
blocking the sun… stalking the slow moving coal train
like a killer. He remembers for a moment, sitting in her
sunlit window… lying in her lap…

He is on his way back, back to the place where he was
born a second time, cast into the inferno like raw
matter, torn asunder from the ether in smoke, and
molded into a deathless thing. It is not now that love
does not matter – it is simply that love does not exist.
That is the trick. There is this certain location,
dormant in the body – and in this place is where the
illusions of the material world are explicated – laid out
in clear terms like a scripture, written in the code of the
flesh. It was there, in the rolling hills, soybean farms –
in that place, he removed this organ in a surgery which
will not allow for anaesthetics – a surgery which
requires the full consciousness of the author and the
reader. But that was in another life; in this new time,
ten years gone, the world has changed entirely. There
is no contact, there is no love; there is no solace from
pain. Each individual lives a life composed only of
solitude, a solitude, for him, which is marked only by
brief transmissions from the bandits. He met them on
some lonely expedition, marked by the leaving from
that town, his first foray into the wilderness which is
now, once again, everything. They, simply, do not exist
– other than in their transmissions, which apparate in
planned locations as tools of recruitment. These
transmissions often take the form of texts; books… like
the ones that existed in the old world. The train
shudders to a stop; the conductor steps off for a smoke


                           148


as three men disconnect one of the cars in order to
make a sale. These trains now, like everything in this
new world, are owned by ‘free individuals’ – as there
are no longer roles, positions, or voids to be filled in a
system of organization. Trains run on stolen fuel, often
powered by the coal which they sell at brief stopping
points; held up frequently by desperate coalitions.
There is but one network of communication now, held
by the state, but hijacked frequently by the bandits…
as the state has become weak to the point of
nonexistence since the change. He sighs, and whispers
a prayer to himself: Oh, how am I to know… If it’s really
love… That’s found its way here?

The weakness of what remains of this crumbled world
now is simultaneously its strength – a lack of
connection. A child born after the change has lived its
entire life without once encountering a soul outside of
its family. Families live in permanent shelters…
composed of stone and metal if one is lucky, mud,
sticks, and leaves if one is not. However, there are the
exiles, of which he is among, rogue thieves, looters, and
parasites who exist on the strength of their cunning,
wit, and brutal method. They infiltrate stores and
stockrooms of excess, plundering unseen. These exiles
are orphans, what remains of broken families.

He spits, and returns to his notebook:




                              149


The Herculean charging across the sky
Chariot which makes the planets move
The ascent of cosmic fire which shouts
In warm breath and radiates the hot light.
The harnessing of ancient force,
Which in one, passes from wholeness to wholeness,
In ascent, the cosmic dance rises
To new planes and pastures of being.

The Herculean charging across the sky
Which rises flight, glad yelling and stirring from below.
The charging forth of consciousness, in glad battle to
ascend
Through each mastery.
The grappling hands
In Time and Space resound, like ancient gong which
cries
Throughout the night sky
In an emerging Om, a titan’s cry
Rising up from beneath the folds of hot iron ore,
To clash,
With the gods of the almighty sky.
And so air and water meet, as do earth and fire
In the final aether of battle’s mast
Rising to the ceiling and the sky, portraying fyrey cast
and glow
Which shows, upon the cask and upon the religious
ceiling which is called
Depiction of mythology
And depiction of all history
Risen from above
And descending from below.

For it is held too, like bondage
In Prometheus’ breath
Pecked away in the ancient fires beneath


                          150


Wound in the coiling spine of the earth
And tucked away in the gallery of sacred fires
Which breathe and speak from the circling core of the
first life, the first breath, the first fire
Which is the light of the first man
Who rises from shadow into the light of the divine
grasp
To do battle with the outer rings of existence.
From shadow to shadow he goes,
Doing glad work
Of righting tides,
And the inflowing and outflowing of breathes,
In he takes, out he takes
And becomes once man and infinite.

To grapple with the smoke and glad rising
Emerging from clouds and the clanging
Of hellfire below
And glad toil, that they iron workers shout, Arise!
Great makings of earth and the ore which was smote
To charge the skin of man and receive spirit
Tumbling from beneath heavens’ gates and received
upon the soil
Glad tidings they called it, in the planetary vision
Which birthed all man,
From seed to soil like flowerings
And encircled about the cosmos, peppered with
gardens of good faith and the glad tidings,
Alas! This moment today!
Which comes springing gladly and full
Blushed face and cheeks of the child of the morning
And the child of the night,
The one who rises in the death and dead among the
hellfire camps
And encircles the graves,



                            151


Collecting the breathes of all men, blushing in tow to
exhalation,
Come night and come shadow again, where stirring is
in encampments
And the conspiracy of morning’s war
Makes swift the red tidings of dawn
To the screaming charge of the gates and perishment
to resurrection
Of all but the burning stone of that iron ore
Through which smiting rises again
And man is resurrected in new forms
With new fists and meanings, given purpose like a
vestibular thing
His veins flowing with the glad dust of night and the
spark of the morning
Which alights the flower of blood which circles above
the cosmos
And gives light to the planetary dancing
And the thrust of the infernal mechanism,
Of first and last salvation
And the eternal syllable
Which is all grace and time in the timeless fury
A stoppage and stopper to the serum which swirls and
inmixes
With the divine light to create new forms, aged and
ageless
Entirely new and yet older than the trees and the
myths which sprung from their mouths and the
language
Of the seeds which is transference, the eternal
genealogy
Which is the passage of blood thru aether and stone
And the higher and lower planes of being.

For they come down to stone and form like carvers
Swift to the body and upon axes to cut and mould


                         152


Like the valleys and river basins
Like the forests and faces of violent cliffs,
Jutting out to meet the foamed black seas
To wield force as it is like charged thru matter in a
summons
To be here now and to cut and carve a new abyss into
being
Charge this strange creature into reason and meaning
and rise the form into the perfection of eternal glory
To here and now sculpt the divine art which is the call
To being, to living
The in-whispering
Which stokes the sacred flame
Of eternity,
Torchlight bourne by the seer hands of man which
come down new vision
Of new life and the spirit of humanity
Which charges new leagues, with new legions into the
unknown,
A reckless and perilous war with the Time god and the
domain
Which is an axis, upon the field of the slain and
resurrected,
Made and remade with the charge of the sacred flame
Of eternity.

Called to do bidding
And yet bidless,
Come to claim the sacred name
And yet nameless
Do they charge forth like infernal legions and yet, still
angels
And yet, still angels, and glad and holy, Forgotten
even,
Of the old ways and yet the vision of the stars
contained


                              153


In this space and time
Bursting thru, into the everyday comes the eternal, the
whole, and the source of all Being
Esteem’d, and yet bright light so as to blind even the
rings of angels
Which toil upon the earth and smite stone and day and
remake the land
In the eternal struggle of the image of man and god
and the abyssal unknown of which to come
Through which he treads with a fury, and tho many
arise a fear
And remain, through which he treads with a fury
Into patches of green grass and the tumbling rising of
the sun
And the rumbling of some unknown syllable beneath
the earth
Between the whisperings of the shifting core and the
plates which clatter and remake the surface
And the face of man, a million masks, worn and
forgotten,
And in their constellations, a new turning face meets
the sun and shadow
Carved from foreign wood in the planetary eye,
So remote in that the hidden sense alone must know
The birth of the universe that birthed itself,
Sprung from the gape and whisked lightyears to now
And shot across the sky like a furious comet
And yet still revolver, the gaze of Saturn
And its many moons.

Gladly so have arisen this day and many days,
bestowing boons and calling charges to their aid.
How many have ridden under this perilous sun, ridden
some unknown fury and yet called to aid no one and
nothing,
Sacred charges of the unseen,


                         154


Ridden, and rising and fallen like the day, given and
breath like the sun?
Call their names and know the names which shout
among the heavens,
Comingling in heaves of sacred matter,
Who dares decipher the sacred book of the names
written forever and the Eleusis of the cosmos?
Which churn today and make new proclamations,
Perspiring eternal novelty
And returning again in infinite second comings?
To come and come again charged with a different face
And to read the face and know the name is some force
deep within,
The vestibular pronouncement upon deathdays and
icelands which shatter form with enlightening from
within
To know the force and ride with it into the glory of the
stars and riding the backs
Of storms into battle,
Steedlike and aglow with the fury of war, conducted
with the warlessness of a lack of foe
Composing force and riding gladly, knowing no border
or bound.
In the seat of eternity, and the halls of the painted
galleries of the ancient names
And the glory of the stones which carved still hold the
light of day
And press against the seat and bounds of time in a
curious mass,
And yet even the grain of sand gives rise from within to
itself
Can you solve the mystery of the day?
It gives no reason and calls forth no ambassador,
And yet every form is its ambassador and reason for
being.
And come the night,


                             155


It takes what day has given and submerges the hot iron
into the cool still shadow of an ocean’s night
A water which steels and hisses the light of day and
prepares a new legacy of form,
A reforging of the sword which was broken
Which smote the fold between the day and the night
And which rode the night into the day,
Upon the steed of tomorrow;
Upon the back of yesterday,
They rode to the banks and to the river,
To the orchard and to the dawn
They rode until the day was broken
And they rode again in the morning’s light,
Bathed and swathed and coded by it,
Enriched by its glad face
Which brought even now new light, new daylight’s
bane and name
So glad come the day that there could not be a word to
pronounce it but the rising of a new light
Enriched by a new transfiguration and a new age in
the cosmos
Which has spurred and spun thru new oblivions this
coursing
And in new day’s light, new life and rays
Which have struck and knocked the doors and gates of
night
And bayed for coming, stamped and toiled at the
ground
In a thirsty holding
For the theatres of war.

From the straits to the icelands they rode
And gathered in mass and numbers
And called forth the ancient war, and chanted it
Around bonfires
Around mysteries, like a coven or a black mass


                         156


And yet, brighter than day, the black mysteries enliven
the day
For at play in the wholeness war is a reckoning of truth
An unforeseen violence which comes in call and clash
like water against the rocks of land
Like blood against the coursing being
Like fire against the stripped light of the night
And the boiling of the stars
Time, called to liquidate the cauldron of being
And from life to death they travel with coins across
their eyes,
Beating against the earth like a massive drum
Calling against the earth and stamping down to the
core and bathing in the eternal fire
Thru the wind, smote the iron and rose spirit like
smoke
And whisked across the bay, across the dunes and wet
black rocks
Which bathed the night in a hard resistance
And stayed for millennia in a wearing which sculpted
smooth stones
And wearing against the night produced
The rising of the body
As if from the seeds and stones which surrounded it,
Of the forests it rose, of the seeds and stones and tides
it rose,
Of the aether and the stars it rose,
And yet, it was not entirely from here,
Impregnated as if by some as yet unforeseen force,
The wildness of life – spilled o’er,
That hot blood which could not yet take form and
called back form to the matrix of the aether
Through which it once consumed and gladly supped,
Like mother’s milk to a child
Thru which it once consumed and raged and grew



                              157


And out from itself gathered light and dawn, sinew and
form
And gave law to force in space and time.
The gracedness of it, as yet unpronounced yet in the
very poetry which calls to man,
The very lawlessness which beats against the very back
of the formless world and chants and encircles the
villages
And the tented dwellings which are encroached by it,
The backs of the mountains which chant it and hum it,
Stamp it and boil it about like burning effigies of wood
and stone, water and flesh,
The outer reaches,
Which call the free play of the gods and the dance
eternal,
The rising light and the flowering of man unbound and
unchanted and calls forth poets to chant it,
The rising screaming light which is bathed in the elixir
of eternity,
Drank and draught it bathes the mountains and valleys
in the life of dance,
Or to have whispered chaos
Thru generation’s breath.




                          158


Fine, the fury, scalding
Which brings down heat to a temperate simmer
And the dispersion
Thru the lid of the thing, rabid, wild
And trawling the planes like a diver
To some hidden, sacred borough through which
obtained that light that is only resident in the deepest
darks,
Firing like a blank into abyssal pyramids,
And scaling the abhorred light for the precipice of
being,
Hid in the dark light and unknowing -

A thousand temples built and razed, by this one stream
Which inflows and outflows like a sacred river,
Come calling is the threaded weaving
Which ties the living to the dead
And the breathing to the breathless infinity.

Upon the gravestone, templar raised, from swaddled
babe
Cords cut, and staggered to root and stem, to foot and
sternum
Raised and swinging night thru the day like a
plowsman,
Wringing the way forth like juice from the earthen
ground
The pulp which swung and littered the soil with riches
Untold, and thus they do not speak,
Being blinded and lips closed
Away from the fold of even night things
Which crawl the grounds and whisper in language
Such that is incomprehensible by day and the land
which is transformed
By the piercing rays
Raining down upon the trench,


                              159


And so that warriors become bloody stalks of the day,
Fed thru clear tubes of dandelion or lion’s mane
Fed to the nectar of being as it passes thru vein and
vein,
Thru the day and into the untraceable soil of night’s
kingdom,
The veil of shadows.

So it was writ for it must be writ,
For that the sun to stream wildly and the craters of
fallen light
Have pierced the crevices and roared alight a sacred
nature which speaks no name
And knows no bold title nor domain
But yet rages wildly against the night and against the
day alike.
It reaches to the sancted third,
Bled from this abyss and thus knowing only abysses,
Pierced eyes and raging wildly against the tomb and
the grave
And yet knowing nothing of the living but to be stalked
by shadows from tombs which call and embrace the
night,
And in deepest night they fall into mysteries and black
sleep
To be hounded into the crevices fromupwhich bubbles
the blood of the earth and agonies
Only part obscured by time.
Did this arm or leg fall into death then rise,
Pumped full with fluid and bursting, spilled across this
burial ground like a sacrifice?
Razed against the rock and lay bled and open against
the sun,
To be reabsorbed and come again?
The deathless die a million times,
And count no such thing, as they know no numbers


                          160


Only the rising and falling of the hushed waves of time,
Immersed in breaths and upon the current of
existence,
Fall in and out of hushed slumbers and screaming
wakes.

Come to call, the totem that binds
Rite of the sign thru which all sight is perceived and
known to be this thing,
This ancient behemoth or beast which stalks the
nightsgrounds and peers out from behind the realm of
the day,
Perched behind the sun like an ancient burning
carcass,
Which stalks and moans and groans,
Like the opening of a door, or an airlit tomb,
Begging the girdle of the morning, or else enchanting
the moon
To come forth and lay bare her secrets,
Mistress of the night and day, and the third way,
Who comes calling in this sacred hour
To press her blade against the temple of the thread
which binds to stone
All things in their eternal duty
Pressed between here
And their secret infinity




                             161


Enslaved to nothing principles; beholding nothing
cities
Raised from phantoms and circulating the blood of the
life force
Spilled in time and flowing in the underground sewers
To make life from the catacombs and the pyres
Become towers seeping over the metropolis like a dying
light
Trudging large into nothings like portals,
Abysses gape, seethe and hiss
Like pipeworks, to the sky, releasing their smoke
And twisting shapes into the infinities of the dusk and
stars
All call towards nothing, gathered around fires from
which beyond the nothing encroaches
And looms large over breath, gaping, and hungry like a
hound
To come and steal away with their great designs,
All the towers, dreams, glories, names, faces, and
destinies
Stolen away to such corners of the cosmos as which are
unspeakable,
With no names and no meanings for which to call
And no values from which to assert.

In the face of death, the cities rise, humbled by time
But in their time fight proud and strong against the
forces which would overtake them,
The gods which thirst overhead and below
To steal them away into the soil and dissolve them into
the air.
Such forces acting, above and below,
And the creation, which but for a moment, is between
them,
Mediating impressions.



                          162


Trading nutriments, impressions, water, ground, and
masks,
Taking and giving time,
Lusting and striving for time,
And worshipping the buds which break from soil,
Too dew-ridden to even pronounce nothing,
But for the bewilderment of birth,
Shaken off as water from the back of a bear in the
sunlight,
And come to the valley of the dry bones -
To lament the ephemeral
In the vision of the eternal.

To naught it comes, as all roads,
To the ancient city, the floating city which rides time
like fire into the far reaches of the universe
And the dwelling city of the ground
Which approaches the iron and ore,
And the condensed truth, writ in hardened stone.
To both rise and fall, in death is a breaking,
For the spirit to rise like breath in the cold air,
For the body to fall like stone in the sedimentary
history of planets
As they take on density
And leave this field of vision, as they rise and fall on
sacred whims,
That breath comes and goes
In a hidden necessity.

Rage and rise, bright humanity,
Sacks of the city like the beaver’s dam, or this
unutterable language
Condensed into form and measure and made spirit of
the stone,
Which whispers in the desert valley and calls forth the
image of the crucifixion


                              163


To be upon this one body and yet the next,
spiritualized,
And to part, like a ship for dark shores, netted by trees
and overgrowth,
And an enclave thru which the altar is built -
To speak of something eternal is to proclaim in the
loud nothing of silence,
To grasp the dark hand, the billowing smoke that
laughs
And the unseens which decline multitudes and perish
unknown and birth unknowns
In a speech thru which the body listens and acquires an
added dimension,
Slipping out of space and time into an attendant
stupor,
Beholden to the visions of the gods,
The body like a totem, receiving visions,
And birthing the very fire from which it descends,
Alight, the body, and reverberating,
To show that even the lifeless is deathless,
And rises in heat and fury.




                          164


The life that twitches in the womb of the cosmos
To be born into some unknown elsewhere
To no longer be scrawl upon the rooms of the great
black tomb which traces
The outline of stars and laments in the stampeding
Of wild things to the ridge and ledge
To gaze out over the impenetrable falling which is a
rising
And a rising which is a falling -
To betwixt, the encounter, of the face within a lexicon
of faces,
And thus, to be this known thing, a clean symbol
Cut from cord and swathed in a firm, bounded world
Regimented and visible,
All the while yearning for greater abysses -
Which come, torchbearers,
And dragging kin off for a larger sacrifice.
To no longer spin the web of lies and beholden,
To knocks on the tomb door which drag out the body,
And exorcism of the spirit and a revival
Like mountain streams,
Which tumble and caress the earth in pure infinities,
Falling forever,
They rise in their purification
To the upper rungs and rings,
The ladders of Saturn and the moons
Which stretch out across the broad and unknown mass
Of the untraveled,
Which still yet births dark children, chaos of the
unknown
And the speech which is not yet translated
By the face of day -

That which you call day is past the realms of the
timeless watch



                             165


Those who know no day and no night but only the
churning
Like an urn of stars and the belly of the fire
Which roars with laughter and speaks without a
beginning or an end,
Or a way to mark his comings and goings.
The way he rages the chambers is like a madman in
uproars of joy,
Or else a young tempest,
The way he swarthy, groans, and upends world.

Such giants break the unbreakable things,
And maroon the edges of sight,
Wreckages of time in the makings of an infinite power
and force.

For what trials, it twitches in birth?
Rising, to awaken in death,
Stripped of the senses like clothes and thrown into
what you call nonsense.
To the dead it is the glad arrival of peace, and new
garments.
For time is the razor that cuts the quick,
The burning and bright from the foil of the breathy
organs
Which come and know and are gone in the flesh of
lightning,
To come and go in storms of knowing,
Such are storms of being.
And in this flash to know the trials of time, and their
mountains which crumble
Like sands under the churnings of the sun,
Mute thresher who smiles broadly upon the masses,
To rise and raise them anew,
To trudge them off into new mountains, deserts, and
food for the grounds.


                           166


Does it appall that the mass graves are rather joyous
sites for renewal?
That death is a pathway long walked by those blind to
this world
And with eyes of spirit
Who see the ghosts of soul, caged in matter
Such ghosts that are infinite, and even now rising like
the body of the earth mother
Into the fold of a new apparatus?
You would need glad new eyes to see, stripped of their
form,
Exposed to firelight and brought through blindness
into a new dawn which is a waking
To a whole other field of darkened forms.
For in the night there is another shining,
From the grove, and the orchard,
With each disk of flower a molecule is raised to up the
ante,
Like a gambler, souls traverse the planes
From cells to galaxies,
Winking in the starlight,
Or laughing in the rushing of the rivers.
To them, what is coming and going but this endless
sojourn?
To take my leave here, in this cabin of trees, already
made and unmade,
My destiny rises into the fold of new constellations,
Told and untold,
It speaks endlessly a new truth of language
With a fiery ascendancy.

To go and dance with them, what of it?
The tireless and their song,
To go among the glad and dead who whisk them away
like dancers,
Seduced in the low light


                             167


To gain new senses and new sight.
Take this body and rise it, like an envelope
Through which the letter is bread and heated thru
form
It is transformed and changes time.




                         168


The dervish planet dances
Blooming endless flower buds
And in their traces leaving sound, in the distance
Rising like a storm, to the ears and eyes
And breathed in the earth like a vibration,
Spirit emerging from the skin,
Receiving the waves of light from the cosmic ground,
From where there is no ground, and yet the timeless
origin
Which calls forever into the black night
Like the eyes of a jungle cat
In the darkness

Seer planets, gifted looming
The world into an expensive haze
Dripped in history and spun five eternities into new
forms of being
The risings and fallings of the black room
The lung which expands and contracts the whole,
Ever greater, to scrape the new womb and call the new
sign
Into being.
How many infinite nows can be stretched into the
bosom of time,
Packed fat and full, safer now and ensured
Brand new coming from the mass of old times
Which are strung up like lights across the night sky?
The birth and death of stars -
For who can predict when the last light will go out,
And leave us in the silent dark of a quiet gloom.

Weaving their fingers, go the wanderers along their
way,
In each dimensional forthright, true
In their weaving, to recreate each distance, form a new
further,


                             169


And playing catch with the wild light
Woven deep within the branches and caskets, gold oak
trees and sirens
Rising sound and the crevasses of earth, broad flesh
stung with the light of day
And the dark light, bubbling up in fiery explosions of
transformation.
Call the light down and condense the fire within,
To form iron orbs of explosive force, interpenetrative
Of the greatest density and the lightest feather.

To nonexistence, woe, goes all,
The face to the facelessness, at last,
To rise in transcendence of matter and enter the hall of
spirits.
The rising is a leaving, to leave behind the densities
and the baggage of the dreams
Played out on the field and terrain of the living, travels
among the separations,
Dreams of this world of men, of a forest where the
roots are not interwoven
Entirely into the great network of the womb,
outstretched mass,
And the new skin, of the light taken down like a note in
the universe,
Scribed and made flesh, given no reason but to time
To bloom in great works,
To bloom in dance and foil in the sun
To create infinite new suns,
Burning bright from within,
And the eyes to see them!




                           170


Negotiating time with death,
In a bedroom or over dinner
A whole world armed with unknowing
Barbarous and loud
Clanging the iron war bells
In the endless overturning -
Fate, glad to sup them all
On the battlefield where the illusion of meaning dies
And each is left with holding calamity in the arms
And in the pit of the chest, the gullet
And the endless overturning is a sacrifice
To the god of fire
The great belly which sups and tolls the song
To bring the flesh deeper into flame.

Annulment, the gala and feast of the eternal delinquent
Content to gnaw at the rib of time, the fat of illusion
And dine forever in the wasted hours
Which fall like soldiers without names
Upon the great clock which spins and thaws the
rushing water of the life
Which breaks the dams of dreams and overwhelms
With fury,
Taking haste, to climb to the heights and cling
To the mastiff of anythings
Amidst the turmoil below -
Laugh, weavers, at the bodice of reason
As fate marries faith and strings the few along trellises
of starlight
Snaking their everdew through the mint and foliage
Of these bodies that too, grow
Snaking toward the light
Bursting from within
And overwhelmed by the current of language, which
shieks them,
Makes life ambassador and glad sacrifice.


                              171


For where have the kings of old gone? Toward the
light,
Noble and bold, reasoning among the unreasonable,
Both stone and light,
They have gone toward the light
And taken with them the staffs of divination upon
which the world’s axis sits and tilts,
To hear the tunnel whispers of the soil and the buzzing
of the bees
And the tremors of the unfolding,
Parted seas and in equal measure the shifting of the
deeper footing,
Which is the bosom of the earth
Splitting her chest to reveal the rhythmic heart beneath
-

And to shake die with strangers and fugues of the night
Under lampposts, or else shake down sex and lie in the
soil,
Wait like wolf spiders in the night for mistresses,
Tamp down the night into containers,
And sell it in this wide open market, this bazaar that
stretches on forever
To charlatans sell poison and living bodies singed with
brands
Tortured to the precipice of the thread of the body and
soul
Stamped and throttled of the mind until it is naked and
ajar
Singing psalms into the moonlight, astonished
In this breaking gaze which shakes the night like a
reminder
Into waking hours of alarm.

Duly, to wake and stalk the world in shadows,


                          172


The faint reminder of the bleeding beating which begs
the song
And pets the swathes of space with a firm watch
From beneath the eyes, allowed,
This one small sliver of moonlight, betrayed by the
marked hours
And this infinity that must end, to the song slowed a
cooing,
And a sleep of the eyes and heart.
To go out, form there,
Taking a figure and a name,
Bereaved, naked thread.




                            173


The brief light reveals it
Before uninterrupted dark,
The fiery word.
For in the dark you can truly see,
But true dark,
Such that the night arises over the hills in such
magnitude,
Unbroken by false lights
And the glorious shining of suns
Beyond the mere reach of day
Or this world
Couched in the play of time
And the spinning spine of planetary design

For in true dark arises the glory of the thing itself,
Unlit, unbacked, and yet shining thru,
With the mystery of the stars
Which glow with fiery biology from within.
The life which bubbles and boils,
The innate magma of speech
which expresses in such bulbs of calm fury
As progenitation.
A drumming pulse of being.

Why is mind so delicately poised that there should be
A glad summons from the doorstep of elsewhere
Or the peaks and valleys of an imagined insanity?
The ritual playthings of the universe,
And their golden orbs and bodies of pure light,
Envisioning consciousness down thru the prostrate
levels of existence,
Sheet rock face and the torrential gravity
That falls like rain upon the abducted straits of
madness and unknowing,
The dull eye, unsharp like an ancient stone



                            174


Cast from primordial pit and perched upon this
moment of today
To twist the knife, or else put the siren against the gate
with gunfire
Riotous, to bring down the playtheatre
With blind fury.

Shall we dance some more upon the precipice of the
real?
Where all imagined things find their place in
regimented line,
The rigor mortis of law and metropolis
From beyond, the paradise enters
Like a hurricane of lovemaking




                               175


Resident in the tremendum, feeling in the eyes and
ears of the wood
Brushstrokes of the bird’s cry, call and mouth of the
everlasting breath of the new word
The rise and fall of the breath, alight the body of the
river’s veins,
The mind of space and the time, the tremor which calls
back and forth the vision of the passage
Thru the vector of the field of the nights and days
which dance across the black forays
Of consciousness which stray through an even greater
night,
Reaching out with black hands to the first light within
the mind,
The spark of eternity, which calls with new mouths,
new hands, new bodies,
In a rhythm which is the great song,
Called out to the stones and from within them, and
sparking the foresight which says
Catalysis,
Mingling the breath with the air and the birth of cells
with the death of stars,
And in their tremendous unfolding,
The glad sigh at the widest gaze, and the outer reaches,
tremulous,
Opening,
At the threshold of cosmic day, where the sun peeks
over the horizon of the gape,
Glad shouting which threatens to overwhelm the terror
and does,
The allblood comes to the aid and rushes,
Down into rivers, into flesh, into sight, into earth
And the pumping gland which allows, creates, and
opens
Into the fold of being,
The very mysteries from within itself,


                          176


Sacrosanct and eternal, the entirety of language’s
breadth
Hitherto expanding and bursted from the fold to a
wider and larger skin,
Glad to a birth and even greater death, to emerge from
the submergence in the prior form like a sojourn,
Spirit leaped out into flesh, leaped out into cosmic
dances,
Leaped out from this hand and mouth into the hand
and mouth of god
Who whispers alight on the tree branch, the manifold
of the cavernous mountain,
The trial of the goat, and the spider’s feat,
The language of the veined leaf and the calm rainfall of
the blood flow
Down into the jungle river’s banks,
The life trawling the basin in the unfolding of the first
spark
Which breathed unto their mouths like a transmission,
Alight the body from the caves of consciousness,
To paint them,
To see and feed them light and from within, to touch
and be touched,
Like seer and sight,
To caress the other body,
And in climactic knowledge become this eternal thing,
At once a paradox and contradiction
Between abysses and their unity.
From within the dark cage emerge glad eyes with
which to see,
Hands with which to work,
And light with which to scry the stars,
A light with touched the vector of mirrors and burning
cores
Which dance in their fugue work,
Touch hands and hips,


                             177


About the basin of eternal life, their cradle
Which is caught and fire, and travels
To the brief edge of the infinite,
And contracts it with poetry,
Like a hitman or a deal,
From sight to sight, we go,
Exchanging kisses and the wish of the eternal to know
itself,
Ever more truly, with whole and fullness which is
unending,
The expanse of their geometry to be swept
Upon the river of signs and given new language
With which to juggle like planets the duty which is at
once a game,
The trial which is at once a tour
Of the elements like dimensions of the eternal face
And its turning among the stars
To gather and give and take light
To birth and death beings,
Among the womb, growing
In outstretched breath
To at once a language
Of clear and pure flowing
Like an untouched mountain spring of breaths
Immediately arriving and yet eternally otherwise,
Content to rest and yet restless and gyre,
Like a leopard panther

And in their outstretched breath, to know at once,
True separateness and unity,
To be entirely oneself and at one with the eternal,
In the synthesis mystery, like a game, spill’d,
And intercoursing, in and out of days and nights of
slumber and forgetting,
Rolled into baskets and weaving the days like threads,



                          178


Of a tireless work of art which composes the art of
unfolding
And like paintings the mountains spring,
And the fires fly through the stars, looking like madness
Or impelled by the eternal desire which hangs above
the night and within us,
Burning, glad burning
And the joy,
The settlement which is unsettlement and the
dreaming,
The being called forth into abysses and changing, the
shifting form
Before the forays of time which call forth, beckoning,
wanting like a lover,
And to be called forth time, clearly, broadly, and fully,
To be this broad swath and to call and come calling,
To embrace time like a lover and glace over our secret
destiny, to paint with her and to know her,
Naught but to attend and dance
Naught but to speak free and clear,
Naught but to be that is being,
And the freedom of mind alight the coven and hold of
the body into perilous desire, glad dance, upon the
cliffs face of knowing
Into broad emptiness, glowing and to the liberation
Spirit leapt, evermore
And creating space from the already created,
From the basin of nothingness,
From the first light of breath, so that naught first nor
last but continuance,
Uninterrupted, unpreserved and yet unperish’d
Unbeing and yet entirely present, the whole of it
Rides free into day with language, the bolt,
Thrown in the night to spark the day and the turning,
Which sets into motion the dreaming



                              179


Of time which calls and recalls and spins, from beneath
the centre
Up into greater fugues of being, farther and outer
reaches which recall each of the former,
The expansion of beauty which remembers like the
flow of blood,
Clear in the river’s breath, steam’d and seeking life, for
the source of all,
It is and searches for itself,
Unending seeking findings
It listens for itself speaks,
And emerges from unknown languagings it speaks and
grows and knows,
From depths and outer reaches,
In the breathing before the black,
The return to that which always will be, and in
expansion and contraction, rhythmically,
Codivines and siphons to the pumping and jumping of
the organs,
Like an ancient battery,
And transmission of the lifeblood from tree and acorn,
to ship and stern and bow’s water
To ruin and rising, to rising and ruin,
And the dance which comes of death and the conjurer
Of light from beneath the shadow and ash,
As the day ticks over the hills of night:
Gladly comes and goes and breathes and flows
To create a clear channel of the mind, a cosmic
rhythm,
Thru which the life eternal moves and calls forth
The dream of life, thru which we dance
And move unfold, from trance and branch to branch
of being,
To experience the manifold and manifest life, as if
from a dream,
Emerging the ephemeral from eternity


                           180


And the eternal from the ephemeral, forgotten as if in a
dream,
Submerged in private destinies which guide the ship
and mast to sights unknown,
The riven flowing shown
To be that which is itself, expanding eternally,
To know and be known at the cusp of being
And to transact at the edge of night, encampments of
eternal delight
Which call forth the vision of creation, of more and
imagined
The detail which paints the bark and siphons the sirens
from the water, and crafts their figure
On the journey which lasts all time and none, the
timeless task which, without beginning or end
Is a knowing of that which cannot be known,
Which slips into wider and gladder folds, and the chase
which is a play
Given words, the poet seduces darkness and light, and
their intercourse produces new sight,
In the contrast of night and day,
All creation flows, naught kept at bay,
To free the fall and free the rise,
Breath gives and takes, what life’s devise
Is naught but breath, as changes air,
To flow clean and clear, without a care,
To be taken down life’s stream, what more a sojourn
To live and love, to live and learn
And trust and faith that life does know
Too, to give and take, to live and love,
To live and flow.




                             181


To speak, the word emerges thru the mist of the poet-
mouth
Come, the word which beneath word is world,
Beneath sensate is field, beyond the perceived,
Is the emergence and rise of the inner sun, thru field of
being the word emerges,
Entirely new and yet immanent, manifold
Like the roots of the great world trees
Which siren around the iron ore, founded strong and
deep in the first totem,
Before language, the siren, gladspoke-ing thru the bows
and mists of time,
Before the ladder, o gratefully climbed,
Before the word rests paradise, gently breathed and
thrown
Even in calmness,
Thrown and ensconced in silence, beyond the senses,
Silence which, inchoate,
The entirety of the worded vision,
The entirety of worlded time
And the speech both come to pass and the first speech
Which sprung the stars and the rivers from their
unknown whold,
Bespectacled, monacl’d time, peering down,
O leering, thru the precipice and thru the teardrops
Of the dewy eyed which first called the notion of the
oceans into being,
The first whiff of remembrance of spring,
And the first recalling of the impulse
Which sprung the flowers into bloom, or charg’d the
body into mad longing,
O precipice, yond the reach, longing come to call,
Rapt upon the doorstep of being
From which the word emerges, wellsprung the world
emerges,
O horizon of vision…


                          182


Dreams, and yet composed from the fragment of
breath
Which struck the turnkey of the soul, finds flesh and
dances free
And draws from the fold the making thing
Primordial, unfinished;
Yet not even between stone and song,
Yet not even between man and death, o’er
The deathless breeze calling, in silence whisper,
enchanting
And in the gales of time, beyond sensate,
The motioning call of plenitude,
The resting at the base of all moving,
Not even statue, for it holds no stone, no vision, no
name
But the divining and flow, wherein beneath silence is
witness
And beneath witness is naught, insight to naught,
To call in the light and brushing the breadth of the
dark,
With fine horsehair light, and at last, beneath the eye,
World emergents, marching like emissaries,
Motionless like teacups, spinning like planets,
Desiring like lovers, flying like warriors,
Into the manifold plentitude, spinning with noise
And shouting the last names, the last days;
Their lost cries in ambience, to the great shout o’er the
night of the world,
Come, poems buried in the silence of things,
Come, great lurching mass, thy infinite scream siphed
thru nature
And sipped like a brew, to make silent shadow,
To make mute design
And the word in time, isolated in broad dimension and
beheld



                              183


As this thing, passing thru the gates of time into the
visage of the infinite,
The gape which gives and takes
And calls all words to their resting place,
To be sprung from the hold and rushed like a river,
there,
Returned to field
Desiring god and embrac’d length and width,
Embraced all of time and thus, there transcendent,
The timeless object of the world
Eternally unarrived,
And yet just now on the precipice
Awakening, arising,
The horizon with playful violence, to charge into
awakening
And making whole and apt, charging beyond
beyondless,
The further realm; furnace word makes
And fire dances, leapt to ceiling and risen beyond
And yet resident, eternally within the source of the
great furnace and beating
Which pounds the desert sands and rearranges their
rising,
Which gulps and gapes at the front of the volcanic ore,
And yet the composer of silence speaks and speaks
naught
And silence, compounded,
Heard and unheard,
Whole in the eternal presence
Of the song of being
Calling forth the fiery word
From the breast and bosom
Of the alighted heart-mouth.
Taken silence and embodied
Given silence and spoken silence like a word,



                          184


Language untouching the great song and yet this life
and instrument
In the field of life,
Playing the speakless world in chirps, turnings, ocean
tidings, longings, thoughts and whispers, the wick’d
candle breathing, the tiger’s panting, licking fire, cool
stone presence,
In a symphony of time and space,
Their composition in accord, one,
And choral, manifold symphony risen to the planetary
spheres
And heard as a vision of silence, stillness,
Breathing of the breathless,
Living and dying of the lifeless and deathless,
And seen thru the eternal eye; heard in resting and
restfulness,
The breath of being
Spoke now in time,
Spoke eternally in timelessness,
Song heard by man and bird, by stone and wood
By forest’s flight and glad knowledge, which struck soil
and risen,
Song of the outer reach, heard in this axis of time
Fore hear of there, light speaks in reaches, grasp glad
hand and know the making,
Fore the making was spoke, speaking thru the listening
Touch the hand of making and know, in silence
The word as its speaks thru the vision of the body, o’er
touch, o’er silence conveyed
The eternal vision and stretchless symphony
Intermingled instruments woven the silent hours and
seconds,
Expanded to infinity and beheld
Like a crystal in the dark, from all sides and angles
Like a thousand eyes in a gallery,
Resident above, below, and beside


                              185


In the beating breast of the great cosmic body,
Invisioning the slow turning crystal of space and time,
The artistic vision of presence in the eternal and the
casting of the die
O, like child and plaything
The balls and orbs, the trials and precocity,
The glad seriousness and restless joy, masquerading as
anxiety,
Fore the coming of the word.




                          186


The aion is a child at play with colored balls –
Heraclitus



Silence is recursive
It doubles back upon itself and speaks nothing.
The wind in the trees, the ice, hinting nothing in the cold
And the barren silence which, inviolate, holds above the aether
Tithing and pulling the great horsehair ropes which ride the tides
of time
Over the hills and through the valleys,
Reading the crow’s mark, and tracking the bears’ tracks,
Thru the foothills, into the salmon migrations,
And lost in the towering trees, stamped into undergrowth
And buried in caves for whole seasons,
The presence, huffing, against the mute snowfall,
Snouted and stout against the iron flight of the sun,
Stoic in the maintenance of the black season before its descent
Down into the burrows of daylight.
The last hours heave under the weight of emerging passion;
Silence, wringing the air and pulling at the rudders of the seasons,




                                   187


Exploration of human unconscious as art. High gain
psychedelic states: how unfamiliar it is. even if you’ve
made a study of the productions of the human mind in
the visual dimension. What is always left out of
descriptions of deep psychedelic state, how weird it is.
hair raising oddness. Being in the presence of the other.
The other wants to be as acceptable to us as possible. It
doesn’t want to frighten us, to appall us. But it is very
hard for it to perceive what our parameters of
expectation and bearability are. That’s very very clear.
After years of smoking dmt, trying to form a metaphor,
this place that I kept bursting into was the equivalent,
somebody’s idea of a playpen. Somebody very weird.
This was their notion of what a human being would
feel most comfortable with. Rounded, enclosed, low
hum, white, language elves hopping out of woodwork
to transform themselves, equivalent of what you hang
over a baby’s cradle - bright colors, moving lights, keep
them busy. Some kind of environment designed for a
human being that has just been transported across
hyperspace and is going to be observed for 2:15 min
sec and then be sent back. Why should it be that way?
Spiritual life? Some skewed off other tack entirely? —
— 9:05:00 McKenna

56th fragment - the aion is a child at play with colored
balls - Heraclitus

^^ break into this place, see the aion, its a child at play
with colored balls.

Kabiri in alchemy, children generated in alchemical
process. little elves of the metals that come out of the
retort, can be seen dancing in the fire.




                            188


Achetype hair raising when you encounter it, because
it doesn’t look like an archetype.

We, anybody who goes into this psychedelic
dimension, we are like explorers. pioneers. No maps,
no finished database.



9:12:00

Any conservative habit of thought is totally skewing
you away from the quintessence.
The world is a stranger than we can suppose thing that
begins from the core of us out.

tantra: single being can attain enlightenment in a single
lifetime.
Living body, can figure it out from.
Its like an opportunity. Get to walk out on the court,
they pitch you the ball.


DMT - made sounds on dmt flat lowest wave, made
these sounds, its as if we dont know what we are.
Synthesizer steady, as though this is the control panel
in the human animal. Monkey form, third planet from
the sun, all of this was a mere fiction. DMT and
psilocybin have unexpected science fiction aspect to
them. Cosmic viewpoint - history of solar system, local
history of galaxy being called on to validate what is
being said. Different from ayhuasca. Ayahuasca heart
opening earth centered, earth tones, flowing water,
organic form, mothering, etc.




                             189


Mysterious - human cultural forms should be scripted
into plants?

9:23

Noetic archeologists, ideas can be Brought back, across
the barrier



——

Reads carroll jabberwocky,
The (verbal intentionality and syntax) intentionality of
meaning is so great that it overcomes the absence of
conventional definition.
Neurologically outfitted for the production of small
mouth noises, rapidly modulated, hours at a time
What is going on there - rather than rippling of
plumage, or rubbing of hard body parts against each
other (most of the time) communication in our species
has taken the form of neuro modulation of small
mouth noises.

Transduced into acoustical waves - physical
phenomenon. Mind compares acoustical signal with
imprinted dictionary built up out of experience. Word
identified, syntactical class understood; intentionality
and domain of meaning recognized. Very rapid.
Thought is similar, interior dialogue. Both one
communicating and one communicated to.

----- ------

7 hours 30 minutes McKenna what nature teaches us -
all done in the mind. The whole apparent world is


                          190


actually syntactical in nature. Universe made of words,
speaker and hearer. photons, quarks, that is a linguistic
model, floats above the bedrock of syntactical
connectedness that mind travels through to create
networks that it interprets meaningfully

8 hrs - ‘human history: substitutes for the lost
partnership ambience’. Partnership model of society.

Contact with the tremendum, the numinosum
Telescoping stages that moved us away from the
original purity.
Searching for ‘the perfect high’. Whole cultures are
doing it. Think of it as an epiphany, religious system,
sacramental buildings, city organized on divine plan.
Trying to restore order. partner is not present.
Completing anima image is not there. Restless violent,
repressive, self negating, etc.
Coming to place where we can take an idea, measure
evidence for/against it, then cure ourselves.

Children of some very damaging thing that happened
in prehistory - so traumatized we do not see it. Fall into
‘profane time’ ‘withdrawal of the bride in alchemical
terms’

Story of Eden, central mythologem of our culture,
story of substance abuse and punishment that follows.

‘Plato said time is the moving image of eternity. My
notion of shamanism is it is that state of mind which
accrues to those who have seen the end. By cultivating
this notion of closure with hyperspace imaged as the
archaic return to the world of the pre cultural
ambience, we can have an anticipation of the
transcendental object. It is still in Eden. It is we who


                              191


have undergone the fall and the recourso, and now, the
laden prodigal returns to beat at the doors of the
manorial home, the birthright. And within, I think, lies
the beginnings of true civilization. We are the
forerunners of a truly moral and ethical human
society.’ - Terence McKenna

Thing that was driving religions on plains of Africa was
a psychedelic mushroom - experience that mushroom
induces in us is no less overwhelming and
transcendental and incomprehensible as it was to those
people 15000 years ago. May be in worse position to
understand it bc our language is carrying millennium
long ‘violator/dominator’ biases

Human history, ‘dipping into matter’ faustian pact.
Come away with what the shamans of ancient times
were approaching with a natural mean.

8:08:20
8 hrs to 8hrs 30

Honeybees, dolphins, Shakespeare, Milton - language

Language - ‘potential to be seen rather than beheld’

Philo - more perfect logos would go from being heard
to being beheld without undergoing a single moment
of transition
Program of language is an open ended one. We are
language. Language is evolving, changing, shifting.
What we call culture is nothing more than a shockwave
trailing behind the forward edge of this language
making capacity. Cant invent it before you can say it,
cant sell it before you can describe it.



                          192


Psychedelics - enzyme that catalyzes the language
making capacity. Organic catalyst, chemical reaction
to make it proceed faster than it already would

Cascade of cultural effects: pastoralism, bringing into
contact psylocibin, catalyzed certain qualities of the
human organism such as consciousness, highly
adaptive. If X could think clearly, evolutionary
horizons would open up before it. Catalysis of
language. Only ceased at eleusis 2k years ago, driven
under mystery religions, scarcity of hallucinogens in
European ecosystem. 2k years away from this.
Elaborated most lethal set of cultural assumptions and
conventions. In hands of unstoned dominator types
with linear linguistic bias totally enforced by printing
press, its a suicidal cultural style. In wake of lsd in 60s,
tremendous enriching of language, endlessly sneered at
by those who dont talk that way. ‘Vibe’ ‘ego trip’ these
are worthwhile concepts. ‘Bummer’ ‘flashback’ -
linguistic pearls crystalized out of that experience. In
amazon, hanging out with ausceros, their songs were
not to be listened to but to be seen. How did you like
my song last night? Blue one or yellow one?
Psychedelics working at the cultural level to promote
language, not simply linear enriching of language, but
also biologically. Gaining in the vertical dimension of
its beholdability. Taken very seriously in amazon. Big
pressure on protein, no mistakes, take these drugs in
group settings, see and model what their future is going
to be. True telepathy. Listen to my voice, incoming
words cause you to go to your dictionary and look
them up one by one. If your dictionary is pretty close
to my dictionary, we will understand each other.
Communication, dicitionaries same. If not, you won’t
understand me. If I can make you see what I mean, its
at the biological level. Consciousness expansion - what


                               193


direction is it moving, moving in direction of clarifying
of language, into something that can beheld. An arrow
toward a greater domain of existential validity that
each of us can move in. We need to communicate, find
out who we are, each of us, individually, then tell
eachother.

Dominator style of unstoned culture engineering is ego.
Thats what happens when you dont take psychedelics.

Boundary of the assumption of the uniqueness of the
individual dissolved in these ancient rites, group sex
psylocibin, mid range doses arousal partying, high
range doses the vision, low range doses, improved
sense acuity. Is in fact central to defining humanness.

‘Pressure for protein’ - McKenna

Erotic connection as basis of community
Exposure to tremendum - psilocybin
Psilocybin catalyst for language, catalyzes linguistic
shifts, give culture ‘permission to follow; erect any
edifices it wants’

8:49:00

Actually had some kind of symbiotic relationship at the
mental level with the feminine overwind - repressed
history 4k-5k yrs ago

Gaian process is more than a process - ‘self reflecting
intellect’
Was a dialogue with this ‘other’, there was balance,
wholeness, way of being which was paradisical
‘Haunted by loss, something was lost, all of the stories’



                           194


Nobody’s fault, has to do with processes of planet.
Partnership paradise that arose as we came to
consciousness in cradle of Africa was dependent on
continuance of extremely rich grassland environment.
Transient phenomenon. 8-12k years ago, visible
pressure felt by these populations. deGlacial periods,
bottled up in Africa, radiated out across eurasian
continent. Only in last deglacial period, were those
people true pastoralists. They had flocks, religion,
language, etc. before that, they were nomadic hunter
gatherers. Relationship to mushroom and cattle (cattle
dung), was entirely new order of civilization, first
payoff. Symbiotic relaitohips with the cow (goddess) +
fueled off and fed into mushroom - better sex, hunting,
etc. out of Africa into Middle East, much dicier
situation. Before 9500, the interglacial. Ice reached as
far south as Lebanon. As the glaciers retreated,
suddenly there are people at Jericho - always assumed
by archaeologists that this was outpost of old Europe.
Appear suddenly in 9500. 1k years later, build Jericho.
At that time most advanced city site on planet. Before
Jericho, habit of building was under rock escarpments.
Same style as neolithic building. These people may
have come out of Africa. Some evidence of this

9 hrs
Psychedelics - new ideas


“The journey of the hero is about the courage to seek the depths;
the image of creative rebirth; the eternal cycle of change within us;
the uncanny discovery that the seeker is the mystery which the
seeker seeks to know.”

—Joseph Campbell



                                    195


Surveyors of the word
Purveyors of it,
Summons
I am the gold-made-glory,
Poetry of the birth and death of violence, play made
rise of Consciousness
Golden cities, from mirth and ash,
Risen from birth and death, Purgatio,
From nothing’s potiens, womb,
Given craften face, woven reed thru breath breathed,
And called the name into being, charioteer, and the
basket
Risen like bread upon the river stream,
Down below bespoke the face of being,
Carnivorous and glad,
And who saw reflection of himself,
The wide and glad nature being, dancing mirthful Pan
About the grove and forest nightstands,
Perched and leapt upon the jungle of the mind
To seed a time
And reveal himself in the life of the trees,
Like a spider or a monkey,
Down thru the night grove of the trees, he wept,
Rivers and burdens, laughing as he wept,
Crying as he laughed, and sowed the soil like a reaper,
To flesh he was bidden, called and shrieked and
laughed at the face of his desire like a captive,
To his face he laughed and wept and was whole,
Face to face with the great ocean mask,
Which threatened to swallow him whole,
Submerged in nature like the belly of a great whale,
Beast he was,
Bidden to nature’s throat, sworn to her breast,
Milked like her mother, to him both spirit and shadow
Called between glacier and the falling
From stillness into the gravity of being,


                          196


Wrought to motion and sworn to the secrecy of almost-
language
Which dances around the word even as it becomes
itself ensheathed,
Coiled around the tree of life like a serpent or a snake.
Ridden to death like a black horse,
Ridden to death and into the soil, travails, to retrieve
the gold mine
To the depths of the flesh, the eyes ride wild and see
with light into the blind,
Fold of consciousness where he wept, and was free
And kicked into birth from the womb, mortal from
immortality,
From being into the Crossland, from being into the
fold of a choiceless choice
To laugh and play the game,
The dream of land and breathing -
Remember angels and their corale’d breath?
Sunk to wreaths of feeling, stunk their mire and
extorted their freedom, from limitless to form
Gathered nothings to bear in titles at their night feast,
Qualmed by their emperors and jeered by their gods,
Lashed with the laughter which now swallows the earth
whole like a grape, Or Great Soil of Darkness,
Jeering the feast, counting the labors
Like tinder in a wrathful pit, stomach incinerate to
nun,
In the gasp, chiasmus, live and be free there, to glad
space we roam, titans of the mind
Beholding sunlit arrows in a narrow cavern, to scry
with watery mirrors the mystery,
And all pronounced the word surrounds, so to break
into fits of laughter and to release and relinquish hold
on the truth,
Truth, fellow, for the journey and the name of the
player’s game


                             197


Upon the traveling stage and bandwagon which roams
the hillsides of war and makes merry
The causes of men and time, the beaking antlers and
bucking waves which groan and sink woes,
Relashing water is all, calm and coursing, glad and
foam,
Trial and tremulous, at once dull and kind, asking and
giving, to the shores of the mind and the letters there,
He read and wept, and built kingdoms by the water
And the kingdoms were taken by it, back to the mother
and the fold of the womb
That do not know of the names of men, called by their
prophets,
Called down to the land where he wept, too, to weep
and breathe the ocean foam and to remember the
body of god
Upon the lake where the tree sprang, and guilded the
meadows and plains
Into the fruits of being, shelters there and provision,
To sleep and swallow the noise and yet it was not taken
into the body,
But transmuted into silence and eternity,
And writ into songless song, like the whale cry
swallowed man
And from the deep purgation of his voice, sounded
alien cry, and dawn, the object,
Making time and breaking over the fold of his breath,
silo’d, and hailed from yonder
Were peaks of mountains and sly buds of grain
There, craft was made and beguiled, hands of fire
licked the rim of the sky like a black bowl,
For stars, too, to gaze upon their inner making.




                          198


Heard the banging of the jail bars in small world and
the untranslation of nature into codes,
The serial of metal and iron, metropolis for potatoes
and oil fields
Slamming shut and the terror of the burning fields
Slave whispers and the cotton groans, an infinite tithe
Swung back and forth on the dial and now the distance
of time and screen symbology
Secluded from nature and contained in the swathe of
empires, a catechism,
Of the word imprinted on the veins, the moniker brand
and remains stabilized
From the gas chambers and fell lands, swooped in to
ashes like carrion birds
Hmmm, the smooth hum of the generator and the
loud noise which bangs up the night
Cut into sectors and admonished by guards,
David and his rock fist, over the embankment and the
dazzling gunfire
Snuff of the powder exploding over the mausoleum,
outstretched over centuries
And townships submerged in the primordial, mud and
gelatin, and the coagulated warfare
In the trenches of the mind, cut down by some
nefarious source,
Bleeding, black, and unidentified,
In the perpetual war, trading in codices of blood,
treatises written in blood,
Steamed in blood, and the fabric of the flesh heated by
flesh,
Hitherto known by the gyrations of the cube, which
spun off the flesh like knowledge
To eat and be eaten, to know and be known,
And be ran into solitude like a brick number, to
penetrate the darkness of solitude and emerge
presence,


                            199


And how the proud outnumber the dead, and sprung
up like trees from the dead,
Swinging in the southern breeze, regenerations,
haunted by their ancient forgotten memory,
Spiritual paralytics, trudging through the great swamps
of history,
Admonished, sleepwalking, numb, tired
Trudging like the walk of the dead across the
campground, to the embankment
To the black lake, and stomping to the loud guitar
To form the river of the moving number, the great
black song of history
The rhythm and the deerskin stomp turned to the
clamor of the gears and the shuddering of industry,
The idol sacrifice to the bare machine, ripping and
tearing with aetheric teeth
And in the unseen they die, and fall into unperishing
sleep,
To slumber and wake in the broad dream,
Fallow, and yet covered with riches
The ripe gold mine of all things come to pass,
Dreaming in the white empty room of the dead,
Where no time reach, where no day night speak,
Where no stricken but silent calm,
And they slumber there, undying, and yet already
dead,
Infinite like the gods,
Pure like a number or the wind element,
Rocked in fire and yet unscreaming
Untouched by the river of feeling which stokes life
from within and shouts and tremors,
Calling, needing, wanting,
Fucking, and bleeding
The day turns to shadow and the ache of unknown
terror
Rising and lashing at the bleak centre,


                         200


Where there is naught and yet all there is resides, the
longing of life as it furlongs,
The fury of touch and the gaping, dripping mouth
Fraught in the night and dreaming in the castle of
reason,
To discharge the memory into violence, fell trees and
poisoned ocean,
Fell fields and poisoned men,
The fury of the rise of power and the clenched fist, iron
libido and the conquest of time,
The utter stoppage and suspension, obtained, grasped
in the suffocation
Windpipe of nature wrought purple
And the campgrounds steaming in aftermaths,
For which the land keeps records in the stone and soil,
Rent from time and suspended in the dead night
Desiring and yet grasping at shadows
As the day flees and finds new constellations, it cannot
go to the death
And plunge hot iron into the cool water’s basin of the
dark night,
For it cannot go it retreats and flees,
For in peril wears the night like a garment, and speaks
in fleeting unknowns,
In threes and secret language, undeciphered yet writ in
stone,
And the guardians stand there, faceless in the night,
Among the unmoved, burning stars, as the spring rises
And heave the light into tablets, fearing loss, fearing
the death which eats at the flesh,
Nips at the necrotic breath, for the transmusion of
spirit into the true form of immortality,
Emblazoned word, the fire in stone which takes and
burns,
And in taking leaves the world and charges into the
fury,


                              201


Broad into the fury, and leaves nothing behind but ash,
from which the new day will rise
And siphon life from the stone and soil, breathe and
take to scythe, to the plowman’s need,
Come to aid and rise all life from the soil of death, and
breathe fresh breath,
To rise from the depths of hell and admonish the day,
shaking broad fist at starlight,
Rent from soil and made from fury
And in the fury rises from the blackness of death
Stomping hymnals and unfearing, for the eternal song
is sung within it,
And the eternal song is that which wrought the rays
into the light of day and their thingness,
The black of night and their dissolution,
The being stretched between it, upon the axis of the
desert of infinity and the rising, from the abyss and
eternal into the sheer presence,
Momentous, rocks back and forth and heard worlds
spun from it in their slow unraveling,
Thru time the axis tilts, and spring known in new ways,
In their slow unraveling wove the black thread into
time and risen from the primordial
The tombless, pure life take form and shape, from the
formless,
And the spark and essence of life,
To know its paradox and oxymoron, uninhibited life,
Enticed by death and dissolution which is the
forbearance of its separation,
Nights of sex and unity, division and reconciliation,
Cells rocked by splitting, stars moved by convergence,
And the phenomena of their dancing friction, in the
gyrating hips of the stars
Moved their night and stamped their blood to the
imperial song of the night



                          202


Which emerged from within and swung the universe to
the edge of peril
Like a drunken moonlight dance on the balcony,
Together from death, and stepped to the song of the
duende of the stars
Their slow burning, churning, yearning in the night
To be fixed anew, made from the laval want, which
runs them
Within the night, burns the light of day,
From within the black of night fixed new stars in this
abyssal layer,
Swathed in the secrecy of night like an overcoat,
fashioned there stars,
Ream in the burning, smoldered from the womb,
Carried to the terrace of the wound of the night and
soldered from the abyss,
How the stars were made in the dead of night, in the
black aching of hell
And the fervor of breaking in the stillness which was a
great tension
That shook the spectres of the night awake in great
forgotten terrors
Which murked and leaned over the room of the soiled
night,
Their tried region, spent and on the verge of life which
was also a great death,
The cavern of their minds shook and breaked, concave
and convex,
Like the breathing of an unforeseen lung,
To give birth from the birthless, o word of sight
Which made manifest the dawn of nothingness,
And transfixed the stars in their gaze, toward their
inner nature
Which lay black in the fold and fabric, the vacuum of
waiting and wanting
Which threat to swallow them all in war,


                             203


Their violence of nothingness, which stung the night
and left them
Aching in the wound, their suffrage naught,
meaningless, fraught with the peril of being
Without reason they were born and yearned to the
dying light,
Transfixed and numb, starving and brutish
Ran the stars in their black space of night’s dreaming,
Toward the light




                          204


As the lila of the eye blooms,
Vistas of vision, and the quagmires of becoming
There swamped and met at the tables of the seen and
the must being, acquires
In the specters, pollinated by sight and dreams
And the dust which takes dreams, and paints the
longings in the torrents of the eyes at night
Their sleeping noise, called forth the scarified from life
Taking marble from flesh, flesh from life, unevoked
And summons to dark, breathed in corners, the last
vestiges of wild
Runs the animal, bear to lion to wolf, to shapeshifting
blood
Heaving large in the eye of the mind
And groping at the parallax labyrinth of rooms,
exhalation for submergence
Beneath language rises the totem of the unseen,
In the vision of terror and delight,
Rises the thing obscured; taken from the light of day
into
Orgies of nightwatch, spires of fire, and the dissolution
of the man and the voice beneath
Where tension between the return of life to infinity
And the escarpment of the persona
Remains

Where vector of language, corridor
Subsumes the knowledge, crafts and sculpts the present
marble, encased the body,
Named the rite and pyre, and as the word is burning
Swathed in regularity…
How shall we gather the light?
How through the boughs, and streaming from within,
Each totem kept hid its secret faith, scrying from
beneath the lens of the streetlamp,
Or the ether, steaming in the glass beaker,


                              205


Ran wild thru the streets, naked, disabused, and full to
bursting with an ancient violence,
A lust to kill, and a desire to take and give blood like a
sieve,
Pouring out the ancient life, down upon the burial
ground

Giving it, eating it, licking it from the flesh of the earth,
To the four knees, and up, rearing upon the
hindquarters, bowed and shaking
From the brush and the stream
To grapple with the various beatings, drum works,
Emerging from the eternal gun of nature
Firing strikes in carolous light beams, singer nations of
frequencies
To return again in their breathing is what makes the
fish eye, or the heron’s beak
For their wares of seeing are taken in the breathing
beatings and their flow
To contact with the eternal waters of depth, immerged
in their bright mysteries within
And yet submerged in the eternal darkness of the body,
broad sheathe
From which melancholy takes to the sky like siren birds
And dusts the ground with refuse, from the playpen
style of being
They take their labors and run with them, into the
fields of solitude
For bright sprigs of mint and staffs of ebony
wildflowers
Gone to the night to see the stars
And returned from their flights to the beacon
drumming of existence
The breathing of the earth and her tenor,
The sound which shakes the ground and pronounces
being, stampeding over the frontier of consciousness,


                            206


Nigh the horizon beams moonlit sounds and plenary
risings of the fish and stag,
The tangling of antlers and the clashing of the stars in
their quiet furies
To reach the drum and breast and pounding the life of
night to a pulse
To speak and electrify the organs and knees, to thrust
forth into life

What is the reason for being that the aion does not
know, Playfully,
Proceeding, as he does, jester overlord, judge and jury
of the hand that sweeps
From Orion to the outer reach?
From wherein does he call the plenitude of speech and
the wide gapes of absence which emerge in dreams
And take hold of memories, to dip the waxen torch
into the beaker of night,
Quietude, and the rising of ashes, atop the midnight
fountain, where birds speak and dance
In the garden of vines, draped with the watchful eyes of
the great mother
Which speak in rustlings of the hedgerow, the creeping
of the creepers,
And the yawning of the dawn,
To call the beaming eyes of sun’s light to the scene;
Stagecraft for their magick hum, of their bleeding forth
and thumping blood and the dance which twists the
plasmic fyre
Into spasms of creation, their masked face and the glad
actors abetting the theatre?
Staged in their lights, they play at agonies and
birthrights, stabbings and quiet mutilations,
Agonies and futilities, their calms and qualms which
bend the language like water end light



                             207


And to spin the name into fervors, the weaving of the
thread into new signs
Which stand and speak soliloquys
And cast the whole play in shadows,
For what fear the night but nightlessness? Gone, the
absence of being
And the fugue state which caches the fold and throws
the siren into revelatory pitches
To scream and wail in the caln of the mind and inmix
madness like a dance or a chemical ingredient
To pitch the play into throes of woe and run the feast
into a deathmarch?

Glad comes the dawn to play, throws her arms over
the embankment
And embraces death as he descends into his caln, too,
the cipher of the overthrow
And reside in the black territories,
Warlike, to spin the fael and veil upon reason, for
dawn, her dance and entranced night
From beneath her,
Her body like a crucifix, atop the night and thrust forth
being into day,
Death’s formless shape made dew in the rays of her
island gaze,
Calm, northwind’s fire dances atop her body, shorn
her hair,
And the lapping of the breeze against the ferryman’s
boat -
For off to darkness she will arise and walk, like leaving
Returned by her distance, in the span of night.




                          208


Dancing close to the body, toe to toe, hip to hip,
Jupiter swirls, or Mars jabs, an encroachment,
There lands and lies the body, peripheral vision of the
great boxers of the night
Flying from fold, their largesse
And personal flight, uplifting the body, there thru force
lies vision
And time, in their dance and step
To the body in the passageway, thru shaking door
And vision blossoms and expands,
Focuses in on prey, or captivity, the caged body animal
in contractions
Birthgiving and birth taking, to take to soil and ground,
to flounder
And rise in man, to stand from feet and hands
And to take and give land like a lapping joy, there
waters
Which flow from the caverns of the underground lakes
to the bright sparking
Beyond the dawn’s ridge
There, plenary waters flowing and flashing, gashing
and growling,
Mire and mute, guttering and grinning, there in the
water’s tide
A thousand abysses combine to make faces, to slow in
time and to make present meaning,
Memoriam in material, to their dawn and death in
time, the outstretched hand
For beyond sight lies their true nature in the infinite
deathlessness
Of breath and their dancing, their flowing in forcing,
Forcelessness and yet their tugging and pulling and
relenting and pushing and yet all in calm playing,
Their dance of forces, to take and give the body, to rise
and fall in matter and spirit,



                             209


To take in the nutriments of time and release and
relinquish them, whole in ash,
To have taken and given away sight, to have taken the
body like a cloak and to have danced with it for awhile
The dawn coming and going like lovers in the name of
love, there greater and immortality, the true nature of
love
Which neither gives nor replenishes, but is and flows
eternal, and momentous pools, which flash for a
moment
In the perceived sensorium
Which is the distance between here and the
gravitational pull,
Which calls and beckons, pulls and thrusts away,
Like a mast in the wind of time, to the galley and to the
fore
They take and leave their leaving
Tossed and turned in the nights sleep, to listening to
the beckoning,
And the grasping at once was the most firm certainty,
tossed and to the gale winds of shadows
Leaving nothing but the backward looking gaze of the
mask of the dreamer,
In a twilight of shifting clouds and shadows, dawnings
and awnings of the mind
The overreach from which grasped the outer reach of
the stars,
Only in the accrued distance of sight,
Who have touched the touchless and lived, nigh,
become the source of life
Their condition, conditionless, and yet here felt the
murmur of the night’s sleep of the lover
The pleneur of their splendor, here the touch reach
and grasp and gape at ecstasy,
To tug and pull at the abolishment of infinity, in a
name to the siren channeled and flown


                          210


To the deepest darkest secret towers of the night
To have known no name and face but ecstasy and the
abandoned town of the wind brustling through the
canyon,
Acquiring noise in her contact with the breach, rock
and stone face, lover’s leap, into the choir of the
unknown sigil
Cast the lot of man into the eternal fold, dice game
rattlesnake
Kidnapped by fate and leased to leisure
Firing the kilns of flesh and fleeing island treasure, to
the gates of the dawn
To the bridge of the mortal abyss, to the parallax
return of paradise,
Groan and whisper, to summon the entire canyon of
feeling
To know and yell and see and be blinded and in the
blindness know nothing but the truth of darkness
And to see from the lights of within,
Like they were the luminaries, moon and stars, sun and
flesh, the cave dweller and his ancient fires,
Lit and passed from within, their blooded goes mine, it
has touched but not tasted, it has fleshed but not flailed
And as such has not known such bright passage of
infinity down into the beating hells
To go and dwell in the dwell-less place, but not infinite
fires go to flesh to be extinguished,
To call carnal in the mines and emerge glinting in the
dewlight dead
To go and possessed by the flesh to have flung off the
nearest dawn’s ledge and cry for the sky gods to
extinguish the fervor and anguish
Which falls like teardrops of rain upon the desert
sprigs, which splum and plow in the dews and rise
things from their yawning abyss,



                              211


From the razed places, their ashes hewn flowers and
spun from fire the hands and arms
Which caress the constellations with their odes of
feeling
To nightfall, they cry and dance and make astonished
gardens,
Tossed and flewn
From the fold




                         212


Counting angels, springing the dead from their wombs,
The private uprising from the crust of the infinite to
speak,
To be in nature and to find language greater touch,
The horal amphibious and the dilemma of their
consciousness,
To rise and ride on winged feet to breeches of light
To sense and smell the apounding chorus
The dawn with no ring tipped mouth, no spinning axis,
No crutch and face, no foral focus,
No riding,
But the ripped light, the breach and hold,
The carolous light and the oblivion, sensate and whole,
And yet writhing and wild like a hard backed horse,
taimed and yet unbroken
Steed of dawn’s light,
Wraith of death’s night,
And their collision and the third element, to the breach
and void,
To the spring and hold, to the tilt of the axis
And the tip which grabs and stills time, distilled, and
the new colour,
Unspeakable in scent and taste, the time of the lilac
and her blooming,
The ripped wild of the tiger and his panting ferocity,
and the blurring flash of colour,
And their clash, there on the dawns’ plane,
Unguarded and unguided light, left to own private
devices and theresprings art from the bowels of death
The unconscious rider shaken awake by the breaking
of day and the rippling of the crust of the earth and the
sudden perception
Of the true tones of the infinite, and their undivided
rising light




                             213


And yet breeched by many voices, their canvas and
canyon unspoken and untold and yet screaming
everywhere
In the fury of blooming,
To the yonder light, and to the bridge of night, to stare
up at the out keep of the stars, their guardian dawns
And they who do no spin forever round the
circumference, testing the heights and flirting with the
infinite disguise
Which is the burning of days and nights, the core of
stars and their mysteries which lo melt flesh away,
Their spirited nature which is a killing which is a
resurrection,
O, from beyond the rock of day, calls the canyon of
spirit,
Bold and the tide that rises, rock faceless, oceanic and
yet ocean less,
Yelling to the language that speaks between planets in
a silent noise and yet reverberates in the constant
stillness of presence
Like a beacon of light,
O to have hailed those days and to hail them now, like
a rider into the perilous dawn, their storms, and the
wandering
Which betwixt the need of those rising to the spirit
storm, to their flying dawn and reach, to rise and
condensation into the fabric and fold of the black
mother,
Who calls between us like a siren, her nature truth and
yet entirely false,
To have seen the stars and know nothing of their
wailing, soft and smooth, and the baritones of the fold
which ripple,
Shape and sculpt and form under forces which call,
their call in accord



                          214


With the smooth windings of the body, to their time
they buck and break the silent black,
To call and call, and call back, their dancing day and
dancing night, uninterrupted serials of delight,
Only breached by the churning, and the spinning
dancers behold the rising of the light and the cascading
of the folds of dark; the pyres
Which spiral up to infinite’s reach, the sparking of their
dawn apparatus, beacons to hail the black and dark
death and to explode
From abysses and call sacred names in lo tones and hi
tones, to see and have been observed
To scry the light of knowledge and from which
amerges the babbling, the broad face of the sword that
cleaved the night and brought
Noon and daylight through the boughs of the trees and
broke the soil,
And named the plant who sees, thru her steaming
siphen, her lang which speaks and tells the tale untold,
The breech unbreeched, and her unknown ways,
which chirp the night and the insect dance, the cricket
call,
The mating of the dark universe with her bride, woa’,
her ways untold,
And sensed and stood with pricked ears, lioness cat,
her ears to the storm which cracked the fold of the sky,
Tore the fabric of the way and consumed the plain,
And the secret of the way black night who marked her
rivers with rushing violent whispers,
Who spun the cradle of the spider and observed the
torrential turning which brought the men to stars and
the consciousness which wrapped
The world into great and unlightened densities,
Where her dark bred mysteries and twisted scopes,
their vision, meated, wed to flesh



                              215


And their morning did not come, bred to breed in
darkness, spoiled and risen from the flesh of the earth
unmade and anew,
Their eternal symphony perfected in the mad raging
which came with the failure of speech,
To cast their lot into eternity and made, resembled,
from the die of hands and arms, from the fold of the
molecule from which life thrust
And thru the night birthed and breeched,
The manifold whispers of her plant which tells the
darkened way to light, and weaves the senses to fold
end one
To return the light of the living to the dead, and to tell
the dead of the living
In a language only they will understand,
The cipher which speaks thru the trees, to the branches
like water, to the rushing like birds, to the flying like
glad dusks
Spread across the lawn of the great mind, to whisper
the speaker respons, the touching of the neural mind
and her breathing net
Cast there and far, lo the net, lo the breaking of the
dawn and the land of the landless,
The traveler who travels everywhere and nowhere at
once, speaker brute and brave
From soil to soul, from soil to slave
And the travels there, carved in stone and writ in the
taverns of men, the broad specs of stars and their
homelands,
These private isles of withins where they speak in the
warm light of their ways and their risings
Through dawns of lifetimes and travels thru births and
deaths,
O liver and perisher of there, yonder folk and the
reason which tries souls and brings them to the fold of
the dawn


                           216


And the crest of the wordless word, bespeaks the work
and lays them there,
True word and embodied symbol, flesh of the dawn,
fiery flesh of the dawn
Who so has called them to this night to burn bright
from within, and residue of their name
Tore across the skies and rained like truth and fire
upon the witness of the eyes like stars
Who beat broad their breast and chanted the ancient
song of their name,
Who all speak the sacred name, unwrit, and allspoken
From the root and soil to the fruit of the tree, unfurled
her light and breathing with wider arms
Observed the night




                              217


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Living Being (Volume XVI)

Publication history

Works contained