Freedom, Play

FREEDOM, PLAY,

Imagination, so freed to life,
Allied only unto itself, with no favor
To that which it has produced, Creator,
Is the life of the mind, which even now stretches new synapses across the folds of black space,
The crevices, creeks and valleys of the brain;
Synapse, electricity, syncope,
Harbour of the soul, where gracious hours tick in the very rushing of the river, timeless but in the swift movement which is inevitability,
Ease, then, the mind toils naught and vanquishes naught,
But for the towers and emperors which fall always before their time, strivings for an infinite mass,
Wherein the key was hid, within, that flourishes like an eternal flower, lila of the dancing dimensions,
In and out of being hid; in and out of direct manifestation;
Manifold, representation,
Upon itself, flowers into vision, like a ripeness to a certain dimension;
Like the eye is sought, food, hunger, quenching, thirst,
Copulation, between forms,
Crashes and crumbles like cliffs, rushing power of water,
Harbouring the electric plenum of mind -
So it is that ideas so briefly enter, sigils in the night,
Names, faces, places, games, of becoming conscious
Wherein mind flexes and striates the game
Stage play; flues of feeling, soliloquies and garish costumes,
Pleasing to the eye, beauty remains, winking like a star,
To eyes are drawn, to attention is stirred, and the molecular dance,
An excitation, across the galactic plane,
A trembling, a tremor, a tectonic shift in the seemingly night, stretching onward, like a desert terrain.
So in the gallery, consciousness to consciousness drawn
Like magnetism, to a curtain,
Where eyes observe the shape-shifting of pure energy,
Thru the veil, pierced by true sight,
Down to the nearest dancing, heated molecule,
Brain like engine, brain like synapses of the galaxies,
Heated by the raw excitation,
Like life dances toward life, drawn to higher forms;
Consciousness, that which shatters the previously formed bounds, conceived only upon the idea, the premise of a sketch;
Crashed away by waves of giant thunder, crashed away by waves laughing and playful,
Crashed away by minds youthful and dextrous,
Crashed away by the infinite child, returned to the building blocks and play with toys,
Fervor and further, nearer and farther, dancing and heating, distance and cold,
And the formulae through which a being grows old,
Upon circles of gravity and swirlings of molecules -
To peer thru the last gaseous cloud and observe the birth of all time,
Still existent, in passage of light like a memory,
And this birth within you,
Engine upon engine, fire upon fire, fits and starts, fitless and startless,
In an endless dream or an endless awakening,
Tithed to nothing, but the mind which draws forward, the imagination, possibility, and in presence ushered forth,
This very world, an artist, a poet, and drawn upon and thru itself great forms,
Bows of a tree against a snowfall in sunlight,
Guile, cat basking in the rays,
Ascending pillars of smokeless gases, suspended, waiting for eyes,
All artistry stretching out into the endless depths of space,
To be explored without, perhaps, but the very essence of life within,
Refuse the muting of the beating, turn inward,
That very artist in the blood and veins, synapses,
This life to be lived entirely free;
Imagination, the plenum which lawless, closest to first form and Nature,
At play with her own laws, stretching the bounds of what is possible,
Incarnate, and at play, in the realms of space and time,
Upon her black bosom is laid the play,
Dancing lila of planets and their design;
Delicate geometry which holds together the conditions for life,
To spring wildly like a panther from the womb of the earth,
The soil a jungle, the jungle a brief time
Through which the eye is completely changed;
Unto new laws, synapses and forms, altered at the very altar of being,
To new molecular geometries, new additives,
Like a potion, man’s being is spoken across great swathes and passages of time,
Far beyond the death dances of empires;
Into the very codex of the organism, into the very neurology.
Like blood upon blood is sustained, project of millennia,
For millions of years and revolutions of the sun star,
To be assembled from the raw gates of molecular, elemental ashes,
Fires and flames and burstings, of stars and galaxies across the plenum,
And for what is this chance or great design?
For a mind to observe the very interconnected sign:
That to mind and mind alike, the galaxies and man are together, like a current of electricity, like a circuit,
Like a very synapse, the air wavers with anticipation,
To be received energetically, this energy the very passage of space and time,
Where planets sing and state their gravities,
Like names and faces, populations of being across time,
Assert this very time, signature, and gravity:
Water across stones, wind across sand,
Heat across the spiral motion in the skies,
At great altitudes, distances, speeds, and times
Moves the hearth of man, across great phases and state changes,
Where destinies coalesce and are transformed,
Into a star, into an atomic fission, into a new elemental code; into a new molecular form.
Additive and subtractive, compound and complex; simple and elemental,
Beings strive and weave among their chemical particulates,
Moving naturally toward life; life being complexity.
All evolution takes its time, gradually, like a massive symphony,
In no rushed hurry, clever and patient,
For the right coalescing of chemical constituents, to produce the necessary reaction
To spark a new elemental particulate, a new additive
In which to be ever more entwined with the stars,
Reflective upon them; mind of which to observe mind,
Star of the mind, which sparkles and is unified across great distances,
Sophisticate, is Nature, with man as her missive, constituent, witness,
Who changes and assists in the state and phase change,
Like bees in the hive of mind,
Whirling upon and about the very formative geometries, World is this,
The building blocks, pieces, and elements, which follow the laws of life sustaining;
Incarnate, whisps in the wind, to principles of tooth and stone, ear and eye,
Each obey their molecular turning;
To infinity, each eye and die is cast, perhaps erring,
Toward the goal and myth of immortality.
Verily, each vein constricts, toward accomplishment,
Toward striving, paradox to the nature of life and living.
Which flows, blue lightning, amongst the stars and man, bird and soil alike. It exchanges and takes its time,
Moves consciousness like pieces upon a chess board as it shall,
Evoke the name as it shall, turn the face as it shall,
And create new conditions from the pieces therein,
To state and phase change the very natural order,
By way of the mind which plants in the soil,
Turns the wheel, stokes the fire,
Burns the essence; sleeps beneath the tree.
So the world is either awakened or asleep in an endless mystery,
Pregnant with missive parts to which life is ever more turned toward supraconsciousness,
Imagination, eternally in utero, to leap into transformation,
Bourne verily from the very elements which constitute life,
The building blocks from which it is formed,
And which conjure a speech differently.
Possibility, then, turned to new form,
Changed, by force upheaval,
Sweeps ‘neath the foundation and,
Returned to base forms,
Constructs in direct light of the truth of their Nature.
Plenum, then, shifting or shiftless time,
Seeks evermore to align fundamentally,
Ever more perfectly with the essence and nature of itself:
With eyes and minds,
T’ward imagination;
Consciousness of life.

Lo, creeping neurology, whose synapses are filled with imagination,
Composed the same as the stars, composted with their essential forms;
Made anew from death and ash, your alchemical field,
Your vessel within the field of all things,
Within the vessel of eternity,
In same, how the mind sees in narrows,
And is broadened in vision, ‘yond chains of the everyday
Is the imagining, a mind as in glitterings,
Like starry fields and their burnings.
Their inner reason, sketched on the inner folds, their imagining,
Like revelations upon the canvas of space,
Their awakenings, interdimensional,
Filled with heat and chemical coercion.

Burst forth, so too, the mind, with feeling,
Stirred, the inner vessel, with fugues of passion,
So this is life - the very cosmic principle of creation which animates all things;
Their dance, a song of light, heat, and emergings.
So these hands make, as these eyes and arms receive impulses,
Touch of wind, and sundial;
Among imaginings, the imagined create,
And thus harness the very power of the stars, the very power of which they are made,
Chemical transfusion and awakening,
The very power behind the eyes;
The very power behind the everydays;
That which propels the motor of the galaxies to unforeseen destinations,
Shrouded in gaseous haze and fog,
From leagues of light away, glimpsing their eternity in their passage,
A face in a mountain stream,

So, too, dreams of light assembly,
Are the veins of the leaves of the trees returning to the stars,
In all life yearns, the rememory which is unity,
A reconnection of the vessel to the very veins of the plenum,
Thru which consciousness flows and streams openly.
A relaxing of the being into the very eternity thru which it is assembled,
And all powers are harnessed thru it, like a circuit.
So is desire mathematical blue energy,
Which ripples like energetic lightning, hid within the vessel,
But expulsed, is red like fiery lava?
Blood of lightning, speaks thru me everywhere,
And murmurs in the threshing undergrowth, chirps in the dawn; stirs in the molecular mud.
All of life whispers creation, and thirsts for the life of rememory, thru imagination reborn.
The very organization of creation clear; flowing, beyond dualities, space and time, birth and death,
Synesthetic in unity.

All to ash, and from ash, once more, life:
Like stardust, particules, smoke, and soil.
Verily, the chemical elements, to which life are constituents,
Are evolving; shifting, acquiring complexity;
Devolving into deathly forms, among the vultures and the worms,
Among the black stars,
Awaiting the awakened mind:
From blackness to blackness; from imagining to imagining,
Like a snake, life twists in its mould,
Like a snake, like a prism,
Like a tunnel, like a cave,
And rises and falls within the breath,
Eternal lung; expansion and contraction of the cave,
Vision, this contained thing, unified within mind:
Verily, the world of consciousness perceives itself,
Sniffs the dirt, breathes the air;
Eyes the prey.
Digestion, then, takes in constituents;
Turns them to heated blood.
Furnace, thy name,
Thy destiny, to be returned to the fire,
Which burns in stations, and plumes of colourful, gaseous flames.
Thy destiny, to be returned to a foreign star,
Who speaks in language of irradiation;
Vibrating song.

Stone from orbiting moon, stone from fiery asteroid,
Stone from waylaid star,
Careening planet; calm, cold station, planetary gate,
Through which passes the ray of light:
Slivers of sunlit warmth, received by back and face:
This life is a day, synthesized by perfect geometry;
The creation of time.
If all that is predictable is the placement of the star,
That which is upon earth is in chaos;
A pulse upon dying, fleshy cores which do not obey,
The hardened millennia of stars.
The destiny of man, upon a galactic plane,
A chemical storm with no face and no name,
But a beating, a bearing, a burning,
A charging forth and hence, as a vein within the plenum.
Neurology of life, thru which I am the absolute design;
Creation upon creation, I am made, and brief form,
Which holds in stone, naught with beating hearts,
Poem spoken into aether; words flowed into wind,
Is all that remains,
Eternity, sparkling breath and breathing,
Upon a continuum of light,
Shining from the first moment of breath, of birth,
Visible thru the mist of being,
Great body, thru which life travels, like a flue,
Like a feeling, all come to pass, and formed into galaxies, stars, and suns,
Explosive, expulsive, life,
An unfolding without interruption, without partition,
Whose tributaries, endless and wandering,
Beyond counting; mimicked in the complex mechanism of the mind,
Mind unto mind, which hears the word of the stars.
Verily, same, the beating which forms the language of form,
Which all beings hear and knowingly concord.
Destiny of decoupling, all feared as death,
And acted as wildly as creatures before apocalypse.
Unveiling of the psyche, is this, true form of man and beast alike,
True form of beast and star,
And the names and myths which called life,
Eating, digesting, fuming, and excreting,
The very manure lifegiving substance,

Some who serve to build the prisons
Whereupon pyres the world is burned,
Round and roundabout it turns,
Where night meets to day, and turns to black;
Where sun meets to moon, and turns to chaos.
Where birds flee and life is stunned, apocalypse.
Engine of the stars, ladder of enlightenment,
Who is the spirit but the one who sees,
The one who is witnessing?

Affinities are evolutionary reactors,
Drawn near and repelled hence, sexed and flew, magnets,
Chemical forces for awakening, concoction and brew amidst the vat of the night,
Utero of the alembic, 
Evolution, transcendence, rememory,
From ash to ash, dust to dust, air to air,
Wax to form,
Drawn breath,
With heart the sun of the blood moon;
Pumping and pounding the breath of infinity,
The in and outbreath of universes;
In each breath, universe created and destroyed,
Life made and world; death.

To each day of same, this world a revolving prism,
Where all appears same; where objects retain form,
In time suspended, like ambre, where motion is propelled by heat,
Fire, desire;
Calls to gravities.
Universe to eternities returned, and same is the flesh; despair is the day,
Panic is the cage; the terrain of hours
Carefully scraped from the bedpan of the day.

Awakened to the concurrent processes,
Of entropy and time, swirling machine, of universal communication,
Planets with faces and names; stars with lifegiving radiation,
From which plants like cosmic trees hold root, and sway in the blue electric veins of the night,
Where mind is a mimickry;
Life is a screen, of boiling and stilled atoms,
Unto death of heat.

Consciousness - witness, and thus evolves,
Spirals in the entropy, rises in the ranging death,
From heat to cold returned, from world exhausted, panting,
Upon deathbeds of extortion and use,
Drained of life like a horse’s battery, an engine, a heart pumped for blood.
The nature of the soul - the eye which sees;
The eye which is awakening, to act differently,
In the day which is the eternity of history;
The night in which the planets are alive, swirling in dark mystery -
Reflected, as if in a scrying glass, or a fountain pool:
The very world within,
The synapses of imagination and memory.

Life turned to face, and thus, stirs in the corner, black mass of chaos
Swirling assemblage, a mirror to the mind, in various stages of development.
The art, the being, and action from and upon it, a network, a constellation,
Of stars and bodies, in their revolving play;
Being bodies a turning door; churning, heated ores and iron cores,
Inflamed by passions and extinguished
In the cool water’s still of the night.
Passion to passion, consciousness dances, rejuvenated and energized,
Hand to touch, eye to taste, neurons to fire;
World to turning, as if by each hand and dancing, flaming body
Great masses of being were supported,
As if by canvas the work of imagination was supported in design.
This dimension, a mutual order, a relative time,
A day afforded by night.

Enlightenment, the mind in light of mind, the mind in light of the galactic synapses, the star among stars,
Like a rippling of the water, throughout the system and network, of awakenings, bond and chain of fires,
From the mind which sees, thru the still and looking glass of sophisticated neurologies,
Genius, then, new bounds, untethers,
Imagination’s endless possibilities.
Code among code, mind among mind, eye among eye, awakening to the touch
Which reverberates the first fervor,
Which stirred it to form and sleeping;
The original spark which lay within, awaiting arrival
Of the eyes which see with eyes of foundational truth,
Amidst the array of confounding and perplexing novelties -
The base elements of which it is composed, the molecular symphony
Which is arrayed in energetic compounds and chemical symmetry.
Affinity is this, life to life-like,
Drawn, verily, to the source of its origin, the fount of life:
Which is the flame of passionate inquiry.

Loosed from the woven thread of narrative imagery,
Where life is as such; takes a shape and form unmoving; where man is a quicksand of his own imaginative making,
A prison, a chain, of form and certain meaning.
Loosed, imagination, the flowing river of life; awakening which is primordial and electric,
The formless essence and lifesblood of being,
All that is, compose, composer, composed,
From birth to breath to exhalation, the shimmering,
Beneath all forms, the secret laughing, the hidden meaning, almost a joke, of machinations,
Where each delusion served for the rising of the soul
Amidst calamitous uncertainties,
Amongst ideas which were unformed causalities. Chain of being, man to slave
In exploitation of imagining - mind harnessed to believing.
At last, imagination is free in awakening; knows no law but itself,
Knows no law but infinite creativity;
Expansion of the powers of its domain, and yet with no allegiance to no idea,
But the exercise of creative powers
In exponential divinity.

Even to rationality, man can be chained, to dogma and story,
To principle and value, to form and function.
From fossil to oil, sediment to stone, science to religion,
A prison of death of the generative capacity.
For man is free upon creation; man is creation himself,
Creation, verily, all eternity, and the very powers of life and being.
All that is, mind, changed and churned by the higher idea, mind aligned with mind,
Truth in the imaginative capacity, which upon the limit is spilled forth,
The very technology which is sophistication, the very technology which is reality,
The form of life in animation; the form of life in practicing,
Is this artistry, not casuistry,
But synastry, with synastry, mind of plenum with mind of body;
In unity and dancing form,
In flow of creation of reality, upon the building bricks of molecular memory.
For this dimension is a house of building,
A house of stones and materia through which the great work is made,
Triumph of mind upon moving,
Triumph of spirit upon awakening.

Aged in the still; transmissed, gene cultivation
Pass’t in fluid; bathed and bathed in time,
Sexed, split and unified, consciousness like wine
Is cultivated, itself like a walking organism, creeping neuron,
Molecule, spreading like a vein of vision, across the stars, mind itself like a galaxy,
Of synaptic stars, neuronal connections;
When touched, altered, when taste, altered;
Upon the altar of experience, the form is shifted,
Information, the gene,
Which is impact, shaped formed, and sculped like play, clay, tossed in the soil of time, shifting shape
Upon the encounter of the other, wandering body,
Star to star, hip to hip, sun to sun, dancing in time
And exchanging information;
Each form like a brain, a gradient of measure,
Complexity, the molecular structure;
The synapses and neuronal firing,
The brain itself like the veins of tributaries, the map of the cosmos,
Each being enlightening to a star map of chirps,
Thru time, each still is passed,
And cultivated by sex and cell division,
Splitting reunification and birth, amidst the still of consciousness, is the dance
The play of the lila, the flowering of time;
The information exchanged, consciousness, the materia, exchanged consciousness;
At last, all mind, within mind,
A synapse, a station, a being, a body, a form, a phase
In transition;
Carrying with it genetic materia.

Information, consciousness, like the wind, carried in the plasma of being, suspended in the great body of nature; held within the map like a buoyant womb,
Where electricity is conducted, like heat of mind,
Stirring of neuron, stirring of synapse;
Touch, reverberating throughout the brain of the cosmic mind,
From corner to brightened corner,
From haze and fog of the first spark, to the heated neighborhoods of gathered developing minds,
The utero of an intergalactic city of consciousness,
Stations of the soul, cultivated in the tender embrace of the plasmic womb;
Utero, their dreaming, upon the walls of the cave of fire,
Visions of ulteriority, separation, the spinning dance of planets and stars,
The mulling and milling of populations, their minds in a state of limbic suspension, cerebra,
Suspension and bathed in the fluid which nurtures their growth and development,
In various stages of awakening,
Where eyes brighten to starlight and movement in the room,
Far corners of the universe,
Where stars stir and venture curious hands,
Where lips taste cosmic residue in the palm of a cherry,
Where hips meet and leave genetic information
In a cascade of time,
From ocean to land, roaring synapses, to creep upon the earth like neuronal hands and feet,
In movement, passage, acquiring arms and eyes,
Cells in transformation, molecules in exponentiation,
Elements in the dispersion of heat and fire,
In the alembic still of all creation…

Consciousness, self recognition, among and as the plenum,
The explosion of mind; the synapses which reach thru the still and silent air, awakening,
The roaring thunder of the apocalypse of mind, information, revelation of psyche,
Awaiting in the cool and still air; bluster of heat;
Lightning of storm, droplets of rain; the interspersion of black space with the blue sky of day,
Refracted light and the layers of the atmosphere like the skin of the face of the earth;
The soil and sedimentary crust and hot depths like the breadth of the body,
Breathing like a hot furnace, hot engine;
In the reaches of space swirl ionic formulation
Clouds of painterly gases, bright and temple,
Of the soul in formulation, thought and mind,
From dispersion, ionic, to condensed thought,
Take form and matter’s shape, density, from mind proceeds the stations of the stars,
The buoyant planets in wandering coalition,
Hearth, in elevation of their mutual matter, with no foundation, blackness holds, in communities
Their manifest densities, brief phase,
Of molecular bondage:

From matter to spirit, and spirit to matter, together and apart, the cells and molecular spires hold and disperse, in regular explosions and decouplings,
Their dance the nature of time;
From thought and mind to manifestation of body, figure of the soul among the plenum of the cosmic, universal mind,
Whose synapses figure shape and form in a dance of neuronal creativity,
Whose energy feeds upon the manifest within itself,
An ouroboratic fire,
From first moment of explosive birth and heated density,
To cooling dispersion; consumption of energy,
That which the mind requires, nourishment
At the hearth of cosmic creativity,

Creative liberty, to sculpt as thou wilt
Upon the pyre of history and all time,
A single hydrogen atom; heated fury of expulsion,
Exploded into dimensional frame;
The cooling of space and time;
The dance of cells and atoms and asteroids,
Multiplicity, complexity,
And the relativity of night and day,
Distance and nearness,
Taste and touch, the refractory measure of perception,
With eyes, see the shimmering and vibrating, immortal beloved,
Shapeshifting forms,
To create, with these base elements, transmission of information and genetic,
Cells and blood, pass’t thru time,
Sculpted and steered by soft, primordial hands,
Intercoursing experience,
To this momentous reckoning, nature of nature,
From its womb and reflective upon it;
Creator of creation,
Now with hand and pen; now with chisel and building block of marble, ice, fire, stone, earth, star
Essence of all things; their compounding and falling apart,
Decoupling and soil -
Whose artistry has passed into hands and eyes that see;
Remark upon the ancient geometry of feeling, thru which beings are made and compounded forces,
Neurology of the rivers and seas,
Lightning which grows in steady molecular symphonies,
Violin of hearts and brains, woodwind of lungs, like trees, expanded across the hearth of the universe -
Evolutionary time, Artist of Artist, from unlikely means, sprungs idea of life, like a leap, cellular squirming
Heated reaction; with this symphony of compounds, into hands which sculpt life and create new terms from the very fabric and thread of eternity,
For law is this and this alone,
To sculpt with the foundational materials,
Elements and atoms and molecules,
Electricity and veins of life, which await amidst awakenings,
Materia of the body and flesh awaiting animation of conscious awakening,
Sparked to reckoning with the very creative force which compels them,
Millennia for reactive brain, millennia for creative brain, logic brain, rational brain,
To stand and consider the very form and essence from which it was made,
Consciousness, to which nature is painter and now painted,
Reflected in the harnessing of chemical processes to craft world
In light of the divine geometry of creation

OUR COSMIC INHERITANCE

OUR COSMIC ESSENCE IS OUR DIVINITY.

I.

What we need in this world right now is deeply compassionate leadership. As I think we're all aware, our social structures and hierarchies around the world are breaking down; decomposing in the face of a global and world reality that desperately needs change. As human beings, the current system; the ways that the economies and labor systems are working, the lack of mental health care, the lack of consideration for others - is not working. It is not working at the level of our literal humanity. It's hard to understand that someone across the world, for a lot of people, is not very different than them in terms of what they need. We can have different beliefs and different ideals and different ideas. But people need shelter, they need food, they need water, they need compassion, and we don't have those systems in place to provide that. So when we wonder why people are suffering so deeply not only in the country of the United States, but around the world, we are not putting systems in place to provide for people; to acknowledge them as human beings; to support their emotional and mental condition as well as their physical condition. That's what we need right now. We don't need any more of exploitation. We don't need any more. It is destroying us physically, psychologically, and at the level of our souls, our very will to live.

II.

We are coming into a world where life is going to be incredibly simple. I know a lot of people think that it's going to get complicated, but it's going to be very simple. It's going to be based on compassion, our ability as human beings to see the divinity in one another and to uphold and uplift that even in the midst of turmoil, even in the midst of chaos and confusion - that we see each other. That's who we are, the divine child inside each one of us. And getting people who have that kind of compassion in positions of leadership is going to be what is necessary going forward. Policy, it's just a side effect. Laws are just side effects of our ability as human beings to not come to one another with a desire to exploit or use each other or this Earth, but to see the interconnectedness of our being and to proceed from that place.

III.

This is what we haven't realized as a collective yet - that we can try at the most myopic levels to construct the perfect system that will fit human beings in; that will create growth, that will stimulate progress, that will increase innovation. All of these different ideas. Life is not about ideas. Life is about understanding the depth of interconnectedness between you and others and the entire nature of existence in a literal way. It's not about knowing, it's about understanding inside of you that interconnectedness - that's where the love and the healing and the compassion is. And that's where we need to be as a species. That's where we're going: because we're understanding that knowing isn't helping us. Knowing is creating separation through beliefs. Understanding is compassion. It's the network of all of us living on this planet experiencing existence together.

With compassion, policy, law, and everything works itself out because you understand that no matter how much money someone has, no matter what their status is, no matter what all of these sort of cultural and social games are that pretend to separate people - these people deserve to be treated with that kind of inner divinity, that inner self that extends through all things, and that we can't exploit people. We can't manipulate people, we can't use people, we can't exploit, manipulate and use the Earth. We need to be in touch with that compassion. That inner self. And if we don't love ourselves, we can't have that compassion for others.

IV.

When we surrender ourselves to that web of existence or that matrix of existence, that buoyancy of the universe, we are very close to the truth. We began, at the moment, let's say, if we're going with the science, that the hydrogen, that one hydrogen atom or molecule exploded. There was a large compression of heat, dense heat, that spread over time and formed a great massive amount of beings, planets, asteroids, constellations and galaxies. We are from that, our lives here, whatever it is, 70, 80, 90, 100 years. Whatever your time is, it's this brief phase, this brief phase of chemical reaction, a compound molecular structure that has a neurological system, that has a vascular system, that has these organs; that has genetically been woven through thousands of millions of years up until this point. And we're going to keep proceeding as forms of energy into the future. If there is a past or a future, you can look through a telescope and see the beginning of time. It's there in space. Because of the way that light travels.

We need to have a greater perspective, and when we have that greater perspective, we realize that no amount of money is going to fill that void in the hole in our hearts. No amount of control or power is going to heal that pain and that suffering and that trauma that was passed down intergenerationally to us; that we experienced in this life - that the only thing that truly heals us is to create an environment in a world based on deep compassion, where we create a community in a society where each person that we meet, we genuinely care about fostering their well-being, and that means living locally. That means changing your mind and your perspective. That means getting out of this historical living for me - it's me versus the world, or it's my family versus the world, or it's my tribe versus the world. We're in a global tribe now, and all of our ideas, our visions and our beliefs of what the universe is, what divinity is, they're all valid, that's fine. We let each other believe what we want, where we are; live from where we are, but respect that inner divinity which exists in each thing, each living thing, and each aspect of nature. Because we understand a stone or a rock is made of the very same stuff that we are, so is a tree.

We are in different stages of evolution. Different stages of compound chemical reaction, different stages of molecular bonding. What we need to do is recognize the principles of the universe; some have been translated scientifically. Something like Einstein's spooky action at a distance or one thing at one side of the universe impacts the other. That shows the interconnectedness of all things. That is an aspect of the divine in divinity. This is where we're headed - to understand. Not only are we a global community, but we are a cosmic community, and in that cosmic nature in essence is our divinity.

OUR INTERCONNECTED, INTERGALACTIC PROFUNDITY

I.

So when we begin to understand from a spiritual perspective the interconnectedness of all things, that we emerge from the same essence, and this can be verified scientifically. It can also be verified through pretty much every religion, religious and cultural tradition that there is. We have to put that perspective into practice: that through this kind of singular essence, this cosmic essence, whether you want to say it's an atom or a molecule or spirit or life force emerging, this is a concept represented in a lot of traditions, like the tree of life or Yggdrasil, in the Norse mythology.

This concept is represented again scientifically in the Big Bang: the creation of heat density through which there have been many different threads woven from that essential first kind of singularity or thread, that there is a complex web or sort of network of veins or tributaries of galaxies and beings in existence. We have the ability to visualize what the galaxies look like with modern technology, hundreds of billions and potentially trillions that we have not yet mapped. It's a huge amount that we've been able to visualize so far. They look exactly like synapses in the human brain. It's a one to one. You can compare the intricately; scientifically mapped pictures and you can't tell the difference.

That complexity is so native to us, that's our minds, that's the way we imagine and we create. We believe, we become, we create the idea of ourselves, our names, the ways that we are, our religious belonging, our national belonging, the creation of a country, the creation of a house, the creation of the world. Those minds can become our prisons if we let them, and they are ultimately our prisms. They are the way through which our optic nerves, all of the nerves in our body receive information and process information and create this sort of programmed matrix of reality. The way I say programmed matrix is that in the matrix sense of space, cosmic space, everything is relative. Planets are relative, people, distance between people are relative, the very space between trees that is created in a forest. You can see that the trees and their leaves they all fit together, but they don't touch. That's what molecules do.

We're moving around in this sort of cosmic stew, where molecules heat up and bounce off each other. And we're living in a state of basic and primary magnetism of electricity, where a molecule is moving fast because it's been heated as in water, and they almost bounce off each other, but really what they're doing, it's like a magnetism. They come very, very close together, and they repel, they don't actually touch.

That complex system is something that we have emerged from. We are as complex and compound, as profound as the universe itself. We are a biological entity that mirrors our essence, our cosmic heritage, fundamentally in the structure and system of our brain as well as our neurological system. You can also see it in the vascular system that mirrors the essential structure of the universe. Trees do this as well, so do other animals and plants with their veins. We are absorbing that cosmic information through the sun, through water, through food. This is the idea of nutrition. It's actually being passed down. All of that kind of essential spiritual, cosmic information of heat and light and nourishment from the energy of the explosion of the universe is being passed down through animals and plants, and that's the way that we nourish ourselves - as well as the water. We are so a part of that that my very existence right now, chemically and molecularly, is composed of everything that I have consumed and experienced. That's our genes as well as our epigenetic material, which is the information and experiences that we have that change us as human beings. Our very existence is in this way almost entirely indistinguishable from our ancestors, the first humans to walk this Earth.

II.

This is what and who we are. We're a part of this stream, this river, this ocean of information and energy and light that continues to shift and continues to transform. And when we start to see ourselves that way, we begin to truly create a paradise on Earth. Because our perspective of who we are and what we are, why we're here and where we're going has changed, and it's become in line with the scientific and spiritual essence of this Earth, this world in the cosmos. Science is catching up very rapidly, and I don't think people realize that. That the evolution of quantum mechanics; things like thermodynamics reveal spiritual information. This is not a diluting. This is not a materialization of spiritual information. The scientific truths we are just beginning to unfold as a species actually reveal our complex and profound cosmic spiritual divinity. It reveals the innate and inner spiritual structure of the universe. As the philosopher Heraclitus said, all comes from and returns to fire. The universe is a cosmic fire. We're in this stew or this vat of becoming. We are the very energetic force of cosmic evolution; we stand in the very presence of a transformation we can barely begin to comprehend. We are that force, that change, that shift. And our conscious awareness of that is deeply empowering. It emboldens us to envision unprecedented and beautiful futures. We are here to be fundamentally and deeply empowered with life.

III.

That we become aware, that nature is the miraculous creative construction of a galactic system or even a solar system where there's a Sun. There are multiple planets that dance around the Sun in terms of the gravitational pull of that star, in a geometric perfection. All of our life, everything we see and feel and hear and touch, comes from this miraculous creation. If you’ve ever seen a mapping of the dance of Earth and Venus around the sun, it’s this perfect, beautiful flower, a wondrous geometry, a lila. All the while, that entire solar system is being pulled at massive amounts of miles per hour toward a black hole or a black star that we don't know about, or the Great Attractor. Our existence is so profoundly strange, and yet we exist in this simultaneous network. What point is there in killing each other, in using each other, abusing each other? Do we not devote our energy to trying to understand and foster compassion for one another and see each other as part of this network and web of existence, to devote ourselves to science, to art, to philosophy, to attempting to comprehend this profound reality and live in light of its true laws? Because we know those laws aren't war, we know those laws aren't separation and strife. We know those laws aren't some people having and other people having, not.

Everyone knows this, it's just that we don't speak it out loud. You see someone on the streets begging or you see someone been violently wounded or attacked. Everyone knows that this is not right, but we don't admit it because we think we don't have the ability to change it and that's what true compassion is. It’s that we feel that feeling inside of us and we express it and we say this is not right. We're going to build a better world.

We cannot be afraid to say it out loud, to demand peace and love in spite of the potential repercussions. Our only hope for true peace and prosperity, joy and goodwill and love upon this planet is that we demand a cessation of violence and this profound state of artificially created inequity, slavery, control, and genocide. Violence benefits only the very few. Poverty benefits only the very few. And even for these people, who stash away their wealth and intimate control over others, they are miserable and empty inside. They are desperate for a sense of control over their own lives; to feel a sense of power in their own existence. Power over others, and control over others, it is a meager shadow in the face of being so deeply, fundamentally, and spiritually lost in the world. These people, even in the face of the acts they have committed, to rape, use, and abuse others to gain for themselves, deserve our compassion and understanding. This is a deep vision of love. For many it is hard to bear or contemplate, because such wrong has been done to them. Their families have been raped, killed, their loved ones abused and murdered by a system that cares only to use them for their labor and their life force, then to discard them like empty containers. We do not fix this by continuing violence, we fix it by ceasing this perpetual state of conflict, a state which we have not seen ceased in a history we can consciously remember. We create this change in our very existence; in our very minds and hearts and souls, in our perspective and fundamental outlook on life - who we are, where we came from, where we’re going; ultimately, what is important in life, what is meaningful, what it is worth to be alive here on this planet together as human beings - what responsibility we have to each other and to ourselves as aspects of divinity, of precious, powerful, and divine life.

THE SPIRITUAL HEALING POWER OF IMAGINATION

I.

Imagination creates all things. What we imagine with the synapses of our mind, the firing of the neurons of our mind creates a neurological system in an order that has pathways. Those pathways are not predetermined, but they're actually based on the experience that we have. You have a neurological sort of reaction to something that you touch or see or feel. And that pathway is created in your mind - that happens over and over and over again every day, every night, every day, every night. And you become basically acculturated to your own mind. That's your vision of the world, and that's the experience of the imagination that knowingly or unknowingly you create. The bounds of this have to do with how people are inherently, genetically wired; how their wiring is confirmed and moved and reimagined by their experience. These pathways have been built with time, in the still of the universe; these pathways can be altered, changed, and creatively constructed with conscious engagement.

When you look around and you understand that there are all of these different, basically, temples to the imagination, whether it's factories, cars, houses, political systems, geographies - that these things are all in their basic essence arbitrary decisions based on a certain amount of information in the face of the necessity of survival: that someone said I'm going to build this or I'm going to create this and with whatever power they had or did not have in their basic, essential, biological, physical being created this thing. They built a factory with the labor of other people who believed in the same thing or built a temple or built a society or government, as in the case of the American Revolution, and other such events and times.

II.

Our imaginative power decides what exists and what doesn’t, because our imaginative power functions in the same primary way that creativity of the universe does. What is in existence now from a nature perspective, as well as whatever human beings have created, is what nature has created fundamentally - because what nature has created has come into existence over thousands and millions of years. That includes us. The mountains on this Earth, for instance, or this Earth itself, or the brains that human beings have which include hindbrains that are millions of years old; the genetic information that has been passed down through generations into our bodies. That's all creative information. It changes over time and with the engagement of relativity; the engagement of experience. The engagement of neurological, sensational, differential life. We are, in the same way, the imagination of nature. We are within its imagination; simultaneously, we are it and capable of changing the very course and direction which nature takes with conscious, creative action.

That's creative information that is flown and moved through genetic biological time, thousands and millions of years to get here - a tree, a cat, a fish, grass, moss, the cosmos. Our neighborhood, our solar system, night and day, are products of that natural creative process. And so are we. But that's what our brains, the symmetry of our brains and the cosmos is and so profoundly does. The synapses of our brains reflect the galaxies, the cosmos. We have that creative power inside of us. All things are that creative power. But what distinguishes human beings at this point in time in our evolution is our ability to decide to become aware of our imagination, to become aware of our patterns, our biological, social, genetic and epigenetic patterns, and to begin to consciously change the way that we act. We are not bound so specifically to our history. We can profoundly change our times by way of knowledge and insight into the processes which form us; the processes through which we, like bees in a great hive, too, help form the very natural world which is moving, evolving, changing, shifting - in real time, about us, within us, as us.

We have the opportunity, the possibility and potential of becoming aware of what our imagination does on a daily basis, consciously or unconsciously, and to change those patterns, to reprogram the mind and that happens through awareness. And this is the way that we profoundly change our current reality, that we've become conscious of the fact that the way that these current systems and structures have been built have not really been built consciously, but rather that they've been built as reactive systems that create profit for the very few and starve the many. These are not systems that foster compassion and love and wellness for people. So what we do is we become conscious of that; the way that our minds have become acculturated to that. The way that we've imagined that this is our reality, when in actuality it's not. All human empires, all human cultures, all human systems come and go. The entirety of the existence of humanity exists in a hair's breadth down a massive hallway. If you can envision the relativity of a hair's breadth at the end of a massive hallway. We are this very, very brief phase of existence in the massive span of cosmic time, the way that nature evolves and the way that nature has evolved has brought us to this point of millions of years of revolution of the hindbrain and thousands, hundreds of thousands of years of revolution of the forebrain. That's our cognitive, rational faculty.

Becoming aware of our patterns and becoming aware of just how powerful the imagination is to determine who we think we are, where we think we are, what we think we're doing, and what we think is possible is becoming aware of the limitless potentiality of what we can build: not only by ourselves but particularly together. This has to do with healing our minds; healing our neurology, in light of hundreds of thousands of years of genetically remembered trauma. Our bodies, in the most primordial and fundamental sense, remember the pain and suffering of our ancestors. Our very systems and ways of viewing the world reflect our historical struggle to survive. We want to move from bare survival into true, deep, profound love; the creation of bliss as an essential aspect of togetherness and life on this earth.

III.

Our chains, if we have any chains, our prison, if there is any prison in this world, in this universe, in this cosmos is, I think of a good way to say it, a prison of the imagination, a prison of the neurological pathways. We have acculturated ourselves to a form of existence. And again, there's really no one person that you can point to for this, there is no real source of blame - that due to trauma, due to intergenerational trauma that has impacted the very foundation of humanity, this changes your genes. This profoundly changes the structure, view, and outlook and organization of your practical existence. This has been scientifically studied: that trauma passed down through generations changes the genetic structure. The information that is provided to you upon your birth changes the way that you react to certain stimuli upon your birth. So no, we're not blank slates. When we're born, we have a deep, deep, deep genetic memory, a deep human memory. This is why something like attachment styles upon birth is so incredibly important. This is also why suffering is something that's so historically deep, profound, and continuous - is that we have become acculturated to pain and violence.

And consciously or unconsciously. I want to say it's entirely unconscious. Certainly there's people here that are conscious of what they're doing in a sort of twisted way, that they’re inflicting pain and suffering upon others; that they’re taking life and energy and meaning from others in the name of profit and control for themselves. But that consciousness is entirely based upon pain and suffering and confusion. The pleasure or joy it receives in witnessing the suffering of others is the projection of its own deep, profound, miserable suffering within. We have built systems and structures that recreate and reproduce the essential conditions of the suffering that we have experienced in this life, and I'm going to say it in past lives. The idea of past lives is very easily proven scientifically, one - by way of intergenerational trauma, the passing down of genetic information; two - by way of the essential principle of energy, that energy is neither created nor destroyed, simply changes forms. We are the very energetic principle that has existed for millions and millions of years. We are that information. We're drinking the same water that the dinosaurs drank. We're composed of the same primary molecular elements and structures that compose the entire universe. We're tapped into that.

IV.

Our freedom comes from understanding those principles - those neurological pathways that for us have become the everyday reality. This belief that we have to exist in a certain way. Healing this is where something like neuropsychology is very helpful. There are a lot of different forms of healing modalities and practices that are very useful for this. Our advancements in science, medicine, and technology have increased our understanding in the ways that the very wiring and pathways of the brain inform our everyday life to levels and places previously we could not even begin to contemplate or understand. Changing the neurological pathways and reprogramming our brains and our minds - we have to, through extensive deep mental health work, create the conditions for healing. That can only be done through consciousness.

When we become conscious of how those neurological pathways work and structure our reality, we are in a place where we can change those pathways and create, not react, create from our hearts, from our dreams, and not feel trapped within these structures that feel so solid and feels so confining. Those structures, historical, political, even natural, are just a passing phase. We are the living consciousness of existence; we are imbued and endowed with great creative power. But it starts with healing, not just for one person, but for our entire global community. We have to prioritize healing our brains and our bodies, from the deep evolutionary, multifaceted and multidimensional sources of trauma which have in large part structured our current realities; our perception of said current realities. This, again, includes the trauma we have experienced in this lifetime, alongside the trauma we have experienced, by way of intergenerational inheritance, down to the very foundation of our existence as a species, as human beings. It goes that deep. And with awareness, with understanding, that for a great part of human history, we have been pushed by great unconscious forces to form and create conditions for existence that can barely be called such a thing - but survival, at best, we can proceed into the future, collectively committed to creating something more profound, better, more human, more inclusive, more loving, kind, and compassionate. We can move forward into the future committed to a life where thriving, community, and love is the foundation of existence for everyone. And that is a world worth striving for, imagining, and creating with loving compassion - for ourselves, and for all of existence. But it cannot be done without awareness; it cannot be done without healing.

THE STORY OF MAN

They could not evolve, but for the black death that was behind their eyes. It was aeons of conquering, rape, murder, pillage; unspeakable things which formed the starlit vision, barely palpable, which wavered in the air before each one of them. It was their heritage which spoke for them, pregnant in every word and intelligible utterance from the mouth, that the organs heaved and spoke and pronounced the terror for which they were barely conscious - the terror of their formulation, from which chemical vat of ages they were uttered, and thus sprung up like a concoction from the primordial mud itself, covered in the scent of death and the thirst for copulation. What withheld them were the tethers of the unpronounced, implicit laws of their civilization, which even then hovered on the brink of absolute chaos, the laws which attempted to restrain, like hell hounds upon black leashes, their desires, which at each moment bulged like indulgences from their eyes - and each morning was the awakening of death, murder, and pestilence. Such they craved, like emblems of the stars themselves, black and vacuous; fiery like the pits of hell, to which they themselves were committed, to the fury of desires, flesh, power, and command; they carried out the licentiousness of their birthright - a birthright of unadulterated, silent murder. Among them and between them stood a strange seed, a seed which upon a gulf, was reason inborn, like a cure among the pestilence, like an antidote from the venom of the snake made. Their energy consumptive, for this was life, for that rape and murder and the pile of bodies in their wake was the exhaust, the excrement, from life - like an ancient one, which travelled from shell to shell as the blood travels and the pulse quickens; thus they thirsted and fed upon the young, for desire there was fresh, like a ripened fruit.

Within them, a seed of doubt, a seed of confusion, contradiction, verily, the utterance of death was born - in an age long since forgot, but recent enough to weigh barely upon the darting eye of the beast, as it hovered over nature, that from which it was born and had made dominion, feasted upon its flesh and leaves; manipulated and controlled its children for their machinations. Their leaving, their death, was a livid prayer, an agony, a compulsion to which all must cease; that death must be controlled; it must be leashed, even at the death of all law, reason - that all must be exchanged for immortality. And so it was that flesh was a feast, and that the rape and murder of the young at the cult of the ripened, quickened blood, was a deeper, more esoteric order, which lived in the caves and fire rites of those who compelled and impulsed the masses, their leaders, their worshippers, their guides. For they lived among caves, in caves among caves, in a vast, uncaring universe, whose eyes shifted upon and among them, men, the cross upon crosses through which the pupil of the stars was cast and focused; it lived and died in brief fires upon their breast. Desperate, is life, immoral is life; at last, immortal is life; the seed that was sown within them, from species unknown, from ages and aeons before the world was born, upon which they trampled and sowed their own seeds, upon the earth and soil which was mingled with their flesh, blood, semen, eggs, oaths, vows, and ruination - their wars, rapes, empires, and dreams. Like a foil, was the bare and unadmonished universe, which lived within them, like a great casuistry, a mind among minds, which seethed and simmered with the black memory which fed them; that they feasted upon death was their great design. And yet, there was that part of the brain that fought them, haunted them, the new aspect, consciousness - like a black angel of death, it called them either to their death, or the unfettered, mass adulation at the cult of the fire and the feast.

From the cosmos from which they rose, from the fire which was their sustenance and moved the organic gears of their enfleshed form, they were commanded to choose life, by forces, verily, far greater, and that impelled them like a host of planetary gods, that compelled them to gravity, that compelled them to desirous sex and meat, that compelled them to the less hostile climes; the leash of control over the enslaved bodies and minds of those which worked their mines, tilled their fields; built their great icons to the power of life: the power of merciless, hot dominion. And yet, it bore, in less antient times, the seed of its own end within it, the completion of the reign of pure life over the universe, a life unchecked and seething with the hot blood of killing and taking, where consumption was met with the antitype of starvation, questioning life; at last, the realm of suicide. That death could take out of life and refuse the host, that, perhaps, there was such an antiviral solution for that which it had proclaimed to be the creation of the universe. That it, that aspect of the mind, aligned with black space, stillness, and silence, rebelled, threatened the course of life, and created duality, contrast, and discourse. And thus, that which once raved uncontrolled and unchecked at the rejoicing pits of fire which spent and swirled aeons into oblivions, that rejoiced and reveled at the mass, antient cult of the fire dance, which acted in universal conscience like the explosion of stars and the copulation of galaxies, rebelled from the seed which was sown within itself, the seed of questioning; the seed of doubt. For that the universe could die, amidst its revelries of heat; that it could die and perish the primordial pestilence within it, the mad ravings of life; that this death would be a righteousness, a tribunal for the unchecked war-drum of the conquering force, was a doubt which arose by way of the fire which fed it, the evolutionary contradiction of the vat of chemical forms, producing the anti-venom of life from within the admixture itself. And so it was that life, and the impulse to life, became checked with duality, questioning, uncertainty - and that, as it was once so believed, that life eternal was to be strived and worshipped like a great beast, a pyre, a monolith, like an unconscious fire - was thrown into discord.

The rebelling constituents, from that fire born, threw themselves from the walls of the carved stones which they built themselves in honor of the antient, great seed of life, their god destroyed by the rebellious force inborn within it. It was as if the order of the universe, the seat of the stars, was thrown perilously out of joint. And they could not reconcile this invader, this parasite of parasites, this virus of viruses; that it was named consciousness was that it had thrown them out of the eternal garden, their paradise of infinity; that it had awoken them to the beauteous flowers made of skulls; the city made of rape, upon the maligned and manipulated bones of their children. And this weight of consciousness they could not bear, and in this weighing they died. For it was that the primordial vat, the universe itself was not prepared for its awakening; that it had slumbered peacefully within the onslaught of death as a stream of life, that it had lived in a perfect and previously eternal harmony in alignment with its valuation: that all was from fire and that to fire it would all be returned. That it had awakened from this slumber is that it no longer was somnambulant, that it no longer bore the kiss of death upon its valiant enemies, and that the other that it had mutilated had long since been a self mutilation. The life of unawareness was now marked with the death of consciousness. And as such, the order of life had become untenable.

They saw that this world they had sown was marked by two eras: an era before consciousness and after consciousness: that all which they ate was marked with death; flowed with the blood that flowed within them; that all which they lusted was from the same womb from which they were born. That their predation was, verily, upon the prey which marked them: their own child, which saw from the seed of life a hope, a possibility of love, amidst the gleaming that was the fire - left unchecked and consumed by fear of death and age, the quickening of the organism, the molecular speck within the great system of belching fire which threatened to return their brief eyes to starlight and earthen ground. The power which sparked them was within them fleeting; the desperation that impelled them to seek the hearth of universal fire was marked indelibly by time, the moving river of eternity within them and beneath their feet, to which they found and felt no true grasp and foothold, despite any marked language or participation mystique. As much as they were marked and held by this fire of life as the constituent essence of their form, they were equally impelled by the cosmic gravity of black deathlessness, the antecedent of life, that which came before the fire, and even now threatened to extinguish it, into specious, spaceless silence. This order, come to man, the cross upon which man now lay as a wanderer in a blackened, snow ridden molecular desert of falling leaves, of the passage of time and the churning of the great fiery wheel which consumed him as he consumed it, fed upon him as he fed upon it, was the cross of agony upon which he writhed, between the continuation of his organism and the vanquishing of it, upon the blacksmith’s still, the seething of it upon the cool waters of silence and true eternity. He stood in meditation upon this cross, with his path already chosen, beyond life and death. For it was that this seed sown within the still of cosmic fire which impelled man for millennia was his new faculty, the evolutionary impulse and mechanism which propelled him into an entirely unknown and ulterior future, an intergalactic consciousness of the force and faculties of all life; yet something else, something else entirely beyond life and death.

And thus, from life, something else entirely arose, something from the fugues of the wheel of death and eternity rose, from the rogue composition of chemical elements, rose.

Desirous magnetisms, by sex, attracted and compelled,
Nourished, as by fruits upon the vine; meats of murder,
Upon axis of fire, gyring light and heat,
Which fuels the infinite organism’s machine,
Rejoice, in Dionysian revelry, or else contemplate
In Apollinian corners, where all else but the light within is hid,
Abscured and absconded, to dark corners of meditation,
Among the flesh and lights, in ecstatic copulations,
Where to drink the blood of meat, in the heat and heart of the sun
Which beats within, to sustain in time, the music of the cosmic stars.

What by chemical desire quickens, magnetism of heated bodies and heated bodies,
Attracted, and compelled to the fire beneath, great passion of lovers,
Genius, is that which roils in the fold, inquires, breathes fire, speaks from furnace
And has shed all memories of the guild, cast the cloaks of infinity,
Raiments de paradis, what all shields have hidden,
Pure ecstatic radiance
What bare tether, boundary, holds this body in orbit of the sun,
What bare tether is this molecule to a dying star or the ecstasy of pure night,
What shutter withholds the gleam, to pure darkness, none -
As it breathes beyond all conception, ‘yond all mind,
In the reaches, pulsation, in the reaches, musical time; gesticulation
Of the organs of the divine body, and their perpetual encounter,
Between songs and vibratory chords, liken the planets dance,
Liken the encounter of lovers, all world’s a song,
And even discordant harmonies, for there is no discord, no chaos, no evil,
But magnetic stirrings, and chemical burstings, admixtures of spirit,
Compelled by clothes of light, assembled like molecules neath the gyrating storm,
This body, bathed in electricity, roiled in heat, consumes and eats,
Desires and quickens; to desire is to life,
Like the breath that breathes thru the body, and stirs the organs to copulation
With the entirety.
With bones to breathe, with oxygen to feel, with flesh to touch;
With trials of the sun, pas’t down ages to cure meat and feed the reaching plant,
With face of fiery hands,
To light reaches, and all to light, and all to flame,
Like moths and lovers and warriors,
Nothing but love compels them, nothing but the violence of sex and the unity of touch,
To magnets and magnets collide, and briefly reach
The point at which molecules almost touch; their fury of closeness,
Remember - as the planets spin, as the spark of light, spins in a thousand stations of flame,
Constellations, that which comes near and destroys; that which comes near and creates,
Whirls within the womb; the cosmic admixture, the transformation of the alembic;
The spirit and the soul which rises and falls within, aloft like the breath; breathing like an organ;
Breathing like a lung, like a mossy carpet, heated night, exchange of atmospheres;

To each flesh is different, assembled under different stars and densities, as each creation maintains
But a bit of the time to which it was given, a signature to which it was born;
About it spins the picture in time, the memory in eternity;
The curative of time, which reveals.
This meditation - about the stars as they spin, like gyres upon gyres; within, the organs sing,
Without, the planets copulate, dance, and exchange inner melodies,
Soliloquys and song.
All that which silence hears is remembered, in that silence is composed by ritual;
Subtlety of hearing. For the ear at rest; for the eye,
Is a birthright; a lone hearth among the stars, which rests at a distance
And as yet is neighborly, molecular
To all that which eternally dances and spins:
For still is the mind, which takes all fury and laughs,
Sits in the music and hearts the eternal note,
The fire about all which dances;
The molecular flame, to which calls and attracts,
Cloaks and repels,
To which all is gathered unto life sustaining heat,
The passion and desire.

Beating within, the stillness, like a song, changes in focus and attention,
About it, storms, callings
The light remains within, stoked by passions,
Stoked by learnings.

Resentiment; the call of the daemon

The world is operative on the tendency to desire to consummate desire.

The function of desire is imperative as power; it is the function of power as in the ability and flexibility to consume at might of will.

Thus, it is that desire is the accumulation of power as in the perpetual ability to act with impunity upon, and as, and in one’s own mode of desiring.

This is to say that desiring is ‘unleashed upon the world’ as pure libidinal will.

All worldly striving is as such - to obtain the means to express and realize the desire as in the desired object.

Desire, and the implied consequence of its fulfillment, is the transcendental object at the end of history, or the singularity, or the unity of bliss.

This is the unification of the desire with that which is desired.

As in process, desire is the life force energy which compels life to action - as in hunger, sexual impulse, thirst, imagination, et cetera. In this way, poetically, the world is as if a desert contained within it the mirror of the libidinal image, the anima fulfillment, the oasis of eternity in the sea of ennui, the possibility of the fulfillment of the transcendental object within and as the arrival of time.

This is the implicit and explicit messaging of such religious terminologies as ‘the second coming’, ‘the apocalypse’, ‘revelation’, and ‘psychedelia’. Therein; within all of these concepts is the idea that the libidinal image will once and for all be revealed, fulfilled, and consummated, as in an ecstatic ‘death’, or a final, eternal reunion with the ‘beloved’ as in a teleological end, an end of time, a return to the ‘before’ and ‘after’, the alpha and omega point of time, eternity and ecstatic union.

As in world as in time, desire is that which functions as the play of opposites, the play of images, the play of mirrors and subjectivities. The desired object is that which always contains the next necessary ‘step’ or ‘container’ forthwith for the perceiving being-body or ‘desirer’ to achieve glimpse of ‘self fulfillment’ as in even brief consummation with the desired object before desire shifts and reorients.

Desire, like time, is the moving image of eternity. Desire, like time, endlessly shifts, and even in, as, and upon consummation, is ‘dissatisfied’, as it is the order of things ‘to be obtained’; necessarily, as such, is unobtained, but for the extinguishing of desire proper.

The extinguishing of desire is the returning of all things to their primordial order psychically, which they have not left, but merely been forgotten in the glamour of biology. This is to say, what is unremembered of primordial unity in the midst of the fulfillment of the body, that which fires and is the kiln of desire; consumes and is consumptive.

Revelation as in the nature of this form is the impersonality of desire, as in the impersonality of eating, thirst, and the sexual release. Revelation as in the nature of this form is that desire, poetically, is like that of the movement of the river, wherein the organism plays constituitive influence, part, and faculty in the cosmic movement of energy.

In this way, desire is symphonic and purposive in the greater nature sense - for it orders organisms, moves energy, and materia across great lengths and distances in a primordial call and response.

Desire, in a cosmic sense, is always already ‘within itself’ as in the constituitive, universal elements or fragments (in the Dionysian or Osiris sense) of the cosmos which are always already entirely unified in their essence (their birth from and as and in primordial wholeness); yet dispersed throughout space and time as in the heat and source of the universal whole changing over time. Desire, experienced organismically, is the cosmic energy which is thermal.

As such, warmth and energy is produced by the body as in calories, as in sexual impulses, as in rejuvenation. The physical form is a conductor, an energetic circuit of desire; calls and is called from within the universe toward itself, toward that desire that is the source of all things. In this way, it experiences the energetic form of the universe itself.

The function of desire in the spiritual sense is to know desire, as a magnetism, as an ordering of forms. To know desire is to know and understand the hidden essence of the universe and nature as that which orders forms. The order of forms is what allows for the perpetuation of life as a cycle of perennial transfigurations: as in the bird that is changed from light to a seed, to a worm, to a river, to a child, to a breath, to a star, and back again. The order of these transfigurations is the movement and primordial distribution of energy forms as in chemicals and elements and molecules and molecular structures throughout the cosmos across great distances as in ‘life experiences’; life experiencing itself in various different costumes, or ‘raiments de paradis’.

In this way, desire desires desire itself, or life desires life itself; is served life unto life by the consumption of first forms clothed in nutriments; reproductions. That which desires draws near, predator to prey, reaching hand of plant to sunbeam, churned ocean to moonbeam; magnitudes of desire are that which hold sway as in forces exerting and exerted. This is the movement of the leg and hand as well as the movement of the planets in the wake of the burning star; the gravity of the galactic center to which the solar system of Earth speeds.

Desire, as experienced in life, is a mysterious sway which holds us forth toward experience; as such is constituted by nothing but the draw to experience and the draw to living; in this way desire cannot be ‘correct’ nor ‘incorrect’, but rather, the present orienting and ordering force of life toward itself, which at any moment can hold sway over an entirely different regulatory order. This is to say that desire is inherently lawless, and functions first and only as an orientation of life toward itself; that the desiring subject desires is that the desiring subject lives.

That life is indistinguishable from desire is that desire is the constituting force that impels and compels movement as in a consciousness. That the deer discerns that it is hungry is a first order desire; that the flower opines and reaches toward the sun for nourishment is a first order desire. In this sense, it is that desire moves first consciousness toward itself; desire is primary even to thought. All thought merely reflects upon desire; that which impels and compels movement. For without desire, the development of the function of life that allows for reflection in the brain would not be and would not have been possible. What was required was millions of years of desire fulfillment for evolutionary function to develop cognitive reflective capacity upon the order of desire.

That the order of desire exists is that it is the order of nature. It is instinctive and intuitive; it is the creative and destructive faculty at once in that it impels and compels movement; breaks the supra-primordial order of stillness and eternity. With movement, time is introduced; relative body. In this way, in a spiritual sense, the introduction of desire can be said to be simultaneous to the introduction of time, relativity, and heat as in the birth of the universe from a singularity, an essence, a wholeness, even in ‘oblivion’.

That desire interjects is that it relates; that desire interjects is that it lives; that it is in search of that which will further compel it to and upon itself, not for cessation, but for the continuation of life processes. The purpose and process of desire is that it sustains life primary to the reflective quality of life. In this way, that desire desires desire itself, is that it itself holds no constituitive essence but that it ‘moves forth’ the plot of life by the introduction of tension, friction, magnetism, ‘conflict’.

‘Conflict’, in the sense of the order of desire, is nonexistent but a conflict of the perceived fulfillment of desire. In that multiple beings may desire one ‘object’ is that multiple wills may focus their intent and force upon one objective, being, source, or substance.

To desire desire is to desire the movement forth of life in a piercing and transcendental wholeness; to desire desire is to desire life proper; the higher order of the movement of desire as the force which cuts and cleaves through all things, and orients the being-body relatively and directly within the symphony of the cosmos. To desire desire is to, perhaps paradoxically, attain fulfillment in the process based continuation of desire without end as in life without ends.

For desire does not culminate, rather it advances in orders of magnitude, moves in increasing octaves, or sideways, even returns to that which it once regarded as meagre, ineffectual, and minimal. For desire and the movement of life through fugues of desire is the facility that fosters realization - that which lies behind desire, or that which desire truly is, and how desire functions as the prime mover of the world.

Resentiment, which is behind all animosity and conflict, is that which desires - not desire - but the object of desire as in a trail and wake of perennial unfulfillments, dissatisfactions, and as such fails and has failed to recognize desire as a function but rather is entirely immersed in the drama of desire singularly; as an entity possesses nothing and not the faculty to reflect upon desire - regardless of what paradisical clothings might be accumulated; in the wake of history.

Resentiment, in this sense, is desire which has not seen itself; as such is entirely unfulfilled and lives in a state of perpetual jealousy in that it has not what all else seems to have, regardless of how much it appears to have accumulated. Resentiment is the state of the desiring subject when the desiring subject does not desire desire itself, or, to say - it does not desire itself; as such, achieve itself in perennial fulfillment of the object at hand, or that which is at hand to be merely a secondary nutriment to the engine that is itself, the flame of desire which it directly and innately inhabits as the prime and primary and primordial mover of the cosmos and stars.

At last, desire is that which is not obtained and unobtainable; in primary form, that which is life and forms all great works of art, through which desire is the anima and animus, the sacred image which is portrayed as in the shadow of all that is ‘not’ had, held, seen, perceived, obtained, even unto death or utter obliteration. Desire, in this sense, is true essence of life; the energetic form which moves beneath the hold of perceived forms, and is the very substance which moves all energy as in the transfigurative energy and force that changes primordial fire into birds, palms, ashes, mirrors, monograms, and vocal cords - the sacred substance which evolutionarily feeds and fires all kilns of the living world; in their dance and exchange transforms across aeons, life as an evolutionary, shifting consciousness.

In this way, desire is the force and substance of all life; one who masters desire, masters oneself - in that desire is the very moving sway of the universe, held within the wick and candle of the self. That desire moves within oneself is that desire moves within eternity. To remain in the presence of desire and to become witness to it is to witness the movement of time. It is to remain witness to life; to retain the ability to choose, consciously, action upon desire; to retain, as witness, self order - in the aeons of life prior to which were under the sway and dominion of desire which did work upon them. The cognitive faculty of reflection, at last, born from the very movement of millennia of desire, is the birth of freedom and choice, under what was once the banner of wild necessity and the voice of the gods.

To retain, simultaneously, the wild intuition of desire, without dulling the wick and candle of the life; to hold in the other hand, the reflective faculty and meditative stance of witnessing desire without rejection or forcible extinguishing or suppression of desire’s embodied voice, is to retain and witness the truth of life as in the unfolding of one’s own life as intricate order of the cosmos; to witness one’s own call; to live one’s own call. To be one’s own choice in the face of the call of desire is the allowance of one’s own composition. It is consciousness; individual civilization.

Between order and chaos, between daemon and reflection, is human life.

Desire is one’s own candle, which moves one forth into life. At last; beneath all masks, desire desires desire, eternally.

Thus is the fulfillment of desire; entrance to mediation’s eternity.

Desire, wholeness, unity: a speech
February 11th, 2024

I.

Desire exists in between, on the spectrum, two poles, mad fulfillment, ecstasy, the Dionysian kind of bacchanal, and the absence. Desire dictates the entirety of life. Whether I desire a cup of coffee, whether I desire sex, my dream, fulfilling my dream, whatever it is. All of these things are just forms of desire. And desire orients everything towards ends. As the lion desires the gazelle, or the gazelle desires fresh grass. This is a cycle of karma. A cycle of karma that repeats over and over and over again. It's the engine or the wheel of life, in Buddhist terms at least. That wheel of life is a consumptive, essentially, pit of fire. You have that in the Ring of Fire, the Johnny Cash song. Great example. What we're really looking for is something that transcends that. And that's love. That's true love. This is something that Percy Shelley, the poet, wrote about. This is the agape love, the Greek love. It's the divine love. And everyone's looking for that, but they're looking for it in the context of desire. It's not to say that desire is wrong. But what is the truth? The truth is a transcendental principle that is imbued in every subjective and objective experience. What is the essential thing? And the essential thing is this molecular cosmic life. The essential thing is ever present. This has been reflected in every religious tradition. How can you desire that which you are, right? It's the paradox. And yet, of course, we still do. 

I wake up and I desire sex, or I desire the thing that's going to solve my problems, the right job, the right circumstances, and it seems endless. Because desire is the fuel and that which burns. It's the substance, the engine, the essence, the power, the force of will that unites higher and lower. Just as desire, the force and the power, the explosion of the hydrogen cell, birthed the atom, the atom of the universe, so to say, the hydrogen molecule, so did desire birth this incarnation. Millennia - where you have this DNA, genetic material fermenting, fomenting in an alembic of the cosmos. The earth itself is this alembic of desire in which we live. I hunger, I thirst, I want, I long, I desire.

But then I... say that I do those things, right? These are actions being performed by a higher being. There's the image in Hinduism of Shiva meditating, cosmic Shiva meditating among the planets and the stars. The stillness is beyond all movement of all things. The gyration is like the swinging hips of the cosmos, of the universe, so to speak. In all of that, there is the desire, the temptation, the want. And that can be what drives us to no end. It's like the fury. And everyone knows that feeling to a certain extent. The fury of needing, wanting, and wanting. That's where our madness is, again, right at this end here. I gave you the two ends. The absence and the fulfillment, which are really the same thing. 

It's like water so hot it's cold. Dionysian, the total and absolute fulfillment, the kind of ecstasy, which is the union, the wine and the psychedelic and the copulation, the orgy. It's something that's either always there or it never is. And when you've experienced the fulfillment of desire on a subjective 3D plane, you experience a little bit of that essential fulfillment that is your inherent union with the cosmos. And the difficulty is that feeling of being apart from it. And everyone knows that feeling too. That feeling of I'm so far from what I want or what I want isn't here, what I'm longing for. And this is the substance of the anima dream. This is discussed by Jung, the anima and animus dreams, where it's your soul, right? Your soul, your counterpart, your type and anti-type, as it's in the Shelley sense. And Dante as well, with Beatrice, it's the thing for which is longed for, the completion. And that's usually a raw sexual metaphor. I'm just speaking in terms of metaphysical duality. Male, female, light, dark. Presence, absence. The yin-yang. And... Our presence is not our movement. If that makes sense. Our presence is our being, our essence. That which remains when all else ceases to spin and dance and create. We don't want myth, we want truth. Myth is the reflection. We don't want archetype, we want life. And this is the trouble. Because we want to see outside. We want to see and feel what reflects us and to feel the union of that. 

That's the Scorpio. We want the union. The transcendental experience and the expression of that fullness. The expression of that fulmigation. The living of that fire. And it's within us. It's not something that you would obtain or achieve outwardly. And that's the difficulty, and I feel that. Because there is that longing, right? There is always kind of that hint of desire. Not always, but a large portion of the time you wake up, you want something. You feel like you need something.

II.

We want the truth. We want love. But the way in which we are viewing life and perceiving and acting is from becoming. It's from desire orientation. This doesn't feel good to me or whatever. This feels good to me. We're orienting ourselves and we do need to feel good. Don't get me wrong here. But what does it mean to look at someone with love or to love someone or to love yourself? It really has nothing to do with desire, does it? It has to do with experiencing that person and the wholeness of who they are. Not for what they do. Not for how they look. 
Fortunately or unfortunately. I'm guilty of this too. When you love someone at the heart of their being... You love them with the same love that's in you. It's not because you want or long for. Love allows for, in this sense, the illusion of separation. And what do I mean by that? That, in the same way that it appears that I am here speaking to you, I am somewhere you are not there. My union with you has somehow miraculously ceased in a cosmic sense because of our perceptive vessels, each of which holds that kind of elemental and eternal truth that transcends all borders and boundaries, but at the same time, we have them. At the same time, I'm here and you're there. 

At the same time, we have organs - reproductive, lungs, hearts, minds, All of which receive that transcendental information and are nourished by it. Each one of us in this sense are kind of private fires, right? It's like a vision of fires, lighting black space. So what is that presence? It's being present in your fire. Present in your desire. A great quote by Joseph Campbell, it’s life is riding on the back of the leopard, it's the lightning or the energy - the leopard or the panther - like Dionysus and in the balance, that's our energy. When we desire, that's our energy, and it's our energy expressing itself. That's our life. So we see something or we feel something, the possibility or the potentiality of something, and that rises within us. It’s primordial, universal power. It’s life force energy.

The feeling. And that's what we want. I wake up and I know, what, there's something going on for me that day, or there's the possibility of something that I want or I think that I want. And in that, there's great energy. It's like this buoyancy, this pregnancy, this possibility that's waiting to be leapt out into the world and to be felt. And of course, everyone has those memories. You say something like that and you think of those memories. One of my friends standing in front of a car, I got a picture of him. Got the headlights on, he's standing in front of a sign, and it would look inconspicuous or innocuous. It was between parties. It was between. Because you know you came from something great and you're going towards something great. Anticipation of more wonder, more beauty, more power.

And when you see how strange and miraculous the inheritance of desire is, it's not that we aren't participating in desire. We are desire. We're the living embodiments in the incarnation of the desire of the universe. And again, this brings us to when we live, we live here. In between total fulfillment, the Dionysian, Bacchanalian ecstasy, the sublime revealing, the psychedelic orgy, the carnality of wine and the intermingling of all that's possible. Look at the possibility of wandering out into the woods, right, and under the influence of some sort, of soma, right, meeting the love of your life or meeting someone that just totally blows the doors off of your experience of what is possible, or… And that's always what's out there, waiting and lingering, this possible transmutation of the real into something higher.

And then you have this, the absence, the longing, the moments where you sit and there's nothing. And there's a fury to that, right? Because who doesn't want their desire fulfilled as soon as possible? What do we really desire? Love, under the appearance of sex or money or drugs or power. And the higher we climb that mountain of love within ourselves, it's reflected outwardly. What we will settle for, what we will accept. Because we don't want money. We don't want power. We don't even want sex. We want the transcendental, sublime union with the beloved. And that's Dante. Dante's Paradise and Purgatory cycles. And that's Percy Shelley in Prometheus Unbound. And the poets show us this. And when I say poets, I mean the great poets. 

The poets who reveal the spiritual nature and essence of human life. And that we desire the beloved is that we desire our own souls. It's profound, right? Because desiring your own soul means there is something, someone inside of you that is the beloved, that is your eternal anti-type, that is, I don't want to say your sublimation, but that word keeps coming up. It's your wholeness. This is very Jungian, very depth psychology. What we want is that feeling of wholeness. You get a glimpse of it maybe from money or from power or from sex. This is, again, the alchemical concept of the magnum opus. It's the expression of your wholeness through a work of art, which ultimately is your life.

And you'll say, yeah, I just want sex. But we see behind these doors. We all have. To a certain extent. Maybe you still have money that you want to get or sex that you want to have or power that you think will change this longing and this want. Because that's how it appears to you. That's how it's represented to you in your dreams and these veils.

III.

So we are the mediators of wholeness. What does that mean? I've been waiting to bring the concept of Christ into this, or Christ the figure. Because where we stand is we stand here, at the cross. Between the vertical and the horizontal. Between the three-dimensional and the transcendental. I guess you could say the five-dimensional. The five-dimensional is agape, vertical.  Transcendental, all encompassing, quantum mechanical, quantum physical love. And we stand here, too, in and on the horizontal world, or three dimensional plane of Saturnian constructs. This table, this chair, this government, this religion, this house, this fabric of my reality that has been sewn together in such way. My wholeness is eternal. It's five-dimensional. It's transcendental. It's quantum. It's my soul. And in this sense, our souls all want the same thing. Reunion with their essence. 

This is platonic, as in Plato. The reunion with their essence. I want the transcendental reunion with love. This is the moment where you experience the union with your beloved. It’s ecstatic, almost unbelievable. It’s where you’re seeing them for the first time but also for the first time again. It’s a recognition and at the same time entirely sublime. Paradoxical, unbelievable, and yet true. That's what we call love in a human sense. It's more than real, so to speak. This is the genius of certain artists and poets. It's not common. This is what we are reaching back toward. We're not reaching back through history in a sort of like ur-fascistic turn to a moment in time, to obtain this moment in time. We're reaching back into ourselves to retrieve the timeless essence of our existence. Orpheus walking up through the underworld, having retrieved Eurydice. He's not supposed to look back, and he does to make sure that she's there. She fades back into the underworld.

Orpheus is the cosmic player, the musician. This is again an analog to Shiva. Each of these strands that's here, this material plane is vibrating at a certain frequency, tone, density, that composes the corporeal form. The master musician is nature, is the cosmos, is the universe, is the magician - that plays the tune and plays the tone that shifts and moves these structures because of the implicit and explicit understanding of their essence. This is love. It's not a question of where they move. It's not a question of manipulating movement. That love is resident in the essence and core of our being. Shiva's meditation in the cosmic swirling, the beaker of the shifting waters. Love is a presence, an acknowledgement of the cosmic divinity inherent in all things.

It's ultimately the way in which we view ourselves and view the world. We are in this sort of alembic where time is necessary for music. Another Plato bit - time is the moving image of eternity. We are in this alembic through which in the movement of music we are able to perceive the beautiful. This is the art of living. Nothing else is really that important when we perceive this higher modus. And yet we become entranced on these kind of Odyssean islands (as in Odysseus and the Odyssey by Homer) - these Odyssean islands of temptation, distraction. Being compelled by sex, money, power, job, status. We are not even really human beings. We are essential, eternal figures of the universe, of the cosmos, looking to recognize ourselves through the image, the reflection, the mirror of the world. 

It's a sort of cosmic game. That’s the title of a great book and a great lecture by Stan Grof. Highly recommended. This is the psychedelic experience. It's the revelation. And we want to have a revelation of ourselves, which is why we so desperately wish to be loved. Who is going to reveal me? I am going to reveal me. And in this sense, I love myself. And in the revelation and in the gift of my love, there is an eternal truth. This again is the magnum opus. This is the healing. This is what heals me and heals the world. But I have to listen and be in tune to myself to hear that music and to learn how to play it. It's not how you played it. It's not how he played it or she played it or the entire history of humanity has played it. It's my music. It's my star. It's my essence. And in that essence is the eternal. I am going back down into myself to retrieve my soul. My guiding star is within me. I am pregnant with the power to transform and change the entirety of the universe because I am that very cosmic structure, figure, and essence itself. That is the power of Shiva. That is the power of being. That is our center. Surrounded by whatever it appears to be change or chaos, but really what it is, it's just the alembic shifting, shape-shifting. Burning to ash, burning to ash into spirit, burning to ash into spirit.

The cosmic wheel of life. When we stand in love, we stand in the center of our being. That is the transcendental experience. That is the psychedelic experience. And it's had immediately. 

Dancing with life: a speech
February 13th, 2024

I.

This is the concept of ressentiment from Nietzsche and Kierkegaard. It's essentially the envy and jealousy that is repressed under the surface; is suppressed in the order of civilization, society, community. It fundamentally has to do with the basic nature of inequality and the nature of power. Again, I think as we all know, there's no such thing as true equality between anything, right? Nothing exists in a state of equality or total equilibrium in nature, nor does it physically. I mean, just in terms of power and force that's exerted. We could just look at these things in terms of physics.

It's very simple. Force equals mass times acceleration. The amount of force that any one thing can and does exert, that's basic physics, and that's what power really is. People will describe it as sexual energy or life force energy. It's the energy or force that can be exerted, directed upon a target. And obviously this is. what people talk about when they talk about the power of nations. It's just the ability to discharge a mass amount of force against an object from another nation. U.S. military power, Russian military power.

You use money to get what you want. You tell people things to get what you want. That's sex. That's violence. That's control. Manipulation. But what we're talking about here is the nature of power. And this is what's so important. Because the true nature of power is life force essence. This is what we're talking about in terms of desire. It is so ridiculous and so insane to grapple with personally, right? Because obviously you think that desire fulfillment is the order of truth. Power is the order of truth. Literal embodied power. Engagement with the life force that is you. Presence in that. There's nothing that ends that. There is no order of nature that all of a sudden revokes that. You could call it a burden. I don't see it as a burden or a yoke. It's... the presence of reality, the living embodied presence of reality, the macrocosmic presence of the universe in the microcosmic form of the being.

That is life and that's what consumes and eats itself just in the same way that you eat a steak or a black hole eats a star. We're talking about exchanges of energy. We're tapping into the energetic realm and the energetic dimension. The primate chaos just reduces itself fundamentally to this concept of ressentiment, this concept of power. Energetic exchange, who has the power, who doesn't, why? It's a cosmic joke, fundamentally, first of all. Let's not get it mistaken here. But it does become a question of human suffering.

There is always insecurity around people who fundamentally don't have power. Billionaire, politician, whoever you are, social actor, whatever your little game is that you're running, these people don't actually fundamentally have power. Let's get that clear. They don't. What they do have is the appearance of power. They've accumulated the resources and the objects and the totems socially and culturally that would signify that they have power, which is the ability to get things. The ability to get things, the access you have to sex or money or resources, right? That looks like power. It's not. But you don't understand the fundamental nature of power. You're just disabused from the energetic world of reality. That world, when we're tapped into it, is meditation. This is being in touch with your life force energy on a day-to-day basis. Being so in tune with it that you can sense how it ebbs and flows and dances and you are in rhythm with that life force energy.

That's power. And again, that goes back to the Joseph Campbell quote I brought up in one of the last videos. The essence of life is like Dionysus riding on the back of the panther or the leopard. It's the being in tune with that life force energy and riding with it, riding with it, living with it. You always think that's represented by some sort of outside thing that you obtain or that you do, and then finally you have it. This is just being locked in with becoming, presence locked in with movement, and you're with it, you're dancing with it, you're feeling with it, and that's the essence of great art. Each movement, each gesture is made with the precise rhythmic understanding that is in tune with the flow of nature.

And again, this is directly in line with accumulating embodied physical power. Whether that's strength, presence, whatever you want to call it, it is being present with the life force energy as it shifts and changes and manifests. It's like dancing with the snake, so to speak, in a kundalini sense or energetic sense. It’s a practice – which over time, really becomes quite significant and imbued with unmistakable essence, power, and ecstatic, transcendent spirit.

II.

This is directly connected with Nietzsche's inheritance, Schopenhauer, the world as will and representation. All that fundamentally is, is direct, embodied, present, immediate, without representation, without symbology. And we discussed this in some of the meditation videos. The ressentiment is that life which is desired. You live life by being an embodied presence and in unity with it. So fundamentally, so immediately, and so directly. So synonymously that there's no metaphor for it. There's no image for it. It's a direct presence and embodiment of life force energy. And so this is what is lusted after in terms of power or sex or all of these things. You want this. It's like a vampirism, right?

It's a psychic vampirism. That occurs in all societies and cultures across all humanity. This is what Dostoevsky talks about when he talks about our socialist physicians cannot diagnose certain human evils or whatever. Socialism, capitalism, whatever it is, this is fundamental. And it's fundamental because everyone wants life. Everyone wants true life. Everyone wants empowered and emboldened and immediate life. And everyone has access to that. And I'm not going to say it's perfectly equal access. It's not true. Everyone has access to life in presence, the immediacy of presence. And this brings about the question of politics. Revolutionary politics, redistribution of resources, hoarding of resources, like squirrels hoarding nuts in a tree. The ends that people will go to to preserve even the shadow of life at risk of falling into death is the fear that produces the false idea of safety to which people recede and never actually truly live.

This is the falling and the failing and the true lack of revolutionary edge which is necessary for life. And what I mean by revolutionary edge is letting go. You don't have possession of anything. You are directly entangled and living in the life force energy itself. And we don't know where that turns. That ultimately is our connection. It's like our network connection to a higher power and higher force. We are a part of that. We don't control it. We don't manipulate it. We are present in it as it. We are simultaneously an aspect of and the whole. And in meditation, we are perfectly aligned. We are the whole. We're totally within. That's power. You so desperately want power, you're looking for it everywhere. But within, but in as presence.
Do you see how delusional that is? That I'm going to get power in this next thing, or this next meal, or this next job, or this next car, or this next woman, or man, or whoever it is, whatever it is that you perceive and desire. You're like, this is it. Then you're like, oh, no, it's not. This is it. It's a fool's journey. Again, it's a great metaphor, the archetype of the fool. You're walking out and every day you're like, oh, you know, here it is. Here it is. Here it is. But it's you. It's the presence of you within you. And the social, cultural, and political ressentiment, this again is the suppressed envy, jealousy, whatever. It's the inability to recognize the importance of energetic presence.

Because you can have all the money, all the food, all the wealth, all the attention, all the sex in the world. You will never have true energetic presence without meditation. Never. This is what everyone really wants. We're moving from desire object orientation to direct presence of power. Direct presence of force of will and drive. This is not a representative engagement. We're not referring to symbols. We're not referring to languages. We're not referring to images. We are present in life. Dancing in the presence in life. Dancing in the presence. Dancing in presence. This is meditation. This is constant meditation. And it's not intense. It's not like, it's not in your face and freaking out. This is just presence. It's being present. This is not hyper-focus. It's not hyper-anything. It's not hyper and it's not hypo. We're not functioning on these levels of energetic flux. We're here. We're in mediation. We're in meditation. And certain things really do help with that. Making sure that you get regular exercise. Making sure that you get sleep. Making sure that you're not really eating that much sugar. making sure your gut-brain connection is solid. You're taking care of the gut membrane. You have a diet that has something resembling a fair amount of nutritious whole foods, vegetables, protein, fruits, berries, those kinds of things. We are built and organized in and as nature in a way that allows for us to seamlessly be a part of it, and that is our animal. And that animal is our power.

That animal, when we become conscious of our animal, we become conscious of our life. It doesn't mean we're dictating to the animal. It doesn't mean we're saying, oh, here's all these laws and rules and regulations to the animal. We're just asking the animal to recognize itself, to see itself within itself, its energy, its power, its life force, and how that is delicately intertwined with the whole of creation.

III.

So to finish here, we're kind of left in the place of the rishis. We're left in the Hindu mystic tradition, really. We're left in figures like Ramana Maharshi. One of my favorite quotes, the greatest service you can render to the world is your own self-realization. He spent his entire life, really, he just sat and met the presence of life. He was present to it in presence. Silence, stillness. Meditation. This again invokes the image that I discussed earlier of Shiva in meditation with the swirling of the planets above him. It's really not paying any attention. It's just becoming. It's just Maya. It's just the veil. What's there is just energy. Moving energy. In quantum, waves, just waves. So all of your desire play, all of your ressentiment, socially, culturally, politically, this whole game, that people are so caught up in, it's so intense. And so what we are experiencing is life and our lives are irreducible from life itself. And of course, we want to live a good life. Of course we want to be in tune with our energy. Of course we want to experience the joy and fulfillment of truly feeling the existence of ourselves. Simultaneously as animals and as the very universe itself.

Simultaneously as ‘lower s self’ and ‘higher s self’. And the unity, the bridge between the two. The moment of flow. The Wu Wei, as it's called in the Tao. Of course we want to experience that. So we experience it. Let go of everything else. We have to. You can do whatever you want, but if you want real power, real life, you've got to drop all the other BS. Exist in the immediate flow of energy, the imminent field of the human, the presence of your energetic force. To feel that. When you sit and you're eating or you're drinking a coffee or you're having a warm drink or you're exercising, to feel that energetic pulsation, that flow, that nutrition, that nourishment. This is, at the energetic level, your fire is being stoked and your fire is steaming. When you sweat. It's like you're feeling the presence of the vehicle of will. In between wills, there's the bridge. Here's my will, whatever, and there's the will of the universe.
And they're the same thing. It's just a question of me tuning in. So whatever you desire, you desire. Desire comes, desire goes. Yes, yes, of course. We're seeing things. We say, oh, I want this, oh, I want that. Of course. Listen to that. Be in tune. Feel your energy. Be in tune with where it's going, why it's going there. And ultimately be willing to give everything up. At the end of the day, I can sit here and go, this whole world is a veil. What's here is true. I can feel the presence. And that's the divinity in everyone and everything. And I respect that. Feel the presence of the will. Don't get caught up in the images, what you see, what you think you see, what you think you're reading, the words, the language.

The presence of being is essential. When we participate in that, we truly live. It's not about doing anything. It's not about making the greatest work of art. It's not about having all this, whatever it is, having all this money, having all this power, having all this sex. It's great, fine. Do whatever you're going to do. But if you're not doing it in presence, this is what meditation really is. You can meditate on a bike, you can meditate in the gym, you can meditate anywhere. If you're not doing it in presence, are you really living? The deeper your presence, the more you realize what is true. And the more you realize what is true, the more you can ultimately let go. Kind of the funny thing about it is when we finally let go of everything, we're free.
And what we really want is freedom, and so many people are afraid of freedom. But what freedom is is recognizing what life really is. It's simultaneously you and so much bigger than you. That's power. That's freedom. What more could you want? Sure, it's nice to have a crazy house or crazy car or crazy good sex. For sure. Sure. There's no discounting any of those things. But can you sit there at the end of the day with everything around you that you think you want and are you really there? This is much deeper than ressentiment. We're talking about the nature and essence and origin of life and presence of life. And that's there. It's just a question of tuning in.

IV.

So here's the final bit. I will sit in meditation as this whole world passes me by like a river. And I will laugh. That's true empowerment. Power. That's seeing the truth. This world that passes by like a river. Time is the moving image of eternity. Plato. Heraclitus. Can't step in the same river twice because that river is always moving. The flow of energy. I sit and I watch as Jupiter passes Pluto, as Jupiter passes Mars, as Mars passes Pluto. I watch this dance unfolded like a cosmic flower, like a lila, like a vision of the psyche, the vision of the mind. I watch it unfold like a play. Shakespeare. All men and women are but players. The world's a stage. You can use whatever term you want to use, enlightenment, nirvana, whatever it is, but it's presence.

It's just staying in that presence. And you see all the distractions. T.S. Eliot, distracted by distraction by distraction. It's a question of attention, presence, focus, being there. Not intense, not removed, you're just here. We sit in meditation, seeing truly. This is the gift of quantum physics just as much as it's the gift of the sages and the rishis and the mystics. They show us both the same thing. The movement and the flow of energy through the cosmos. How it's exchanged. It's like through blood vessels or through synapses. The mind. I discussed this in one of my other videos. The mind is like a cosmic map. The various synapses of the brain reflect the existing cosmological maps done by our preeminent cosmologists. Maps of billions and billions of galaxies as accurately as they can be rendered with our existing technologies and mathematical simulations. They look like synapses of the brain. We exist in this flow, this exchange of energy and information. I'm not caught up in any of it. I'm not going to be. I'm not going to play the game, the dance, the illusion. I sit in the play. I'm not going to become immersed in the play. I'm going to watch it. I'm going to laugh. There's no cynicism to that. Just the same as there's no, it's not like a positive or negative. It's not moral or amoral. What we do is we recognize and we see, we understand. And in our understanding, we change. Our behavior changes, our perception, our mannerisms, the very person that we believe that we are. Because we start to see at a deeper level the fundamental essence of things.

The truth of their being. This is the great gift of quantum physics. And the more we turn, I mean, again, it's not even a question of science versus religion. Because sages and mystics of all traditions, Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, Taoist, Hindu, they've been telling us this since the dawn of time, but it's always been the mystics. They've been saying the same thing that the quantum physicists have been saying for the past hundred years. It's the same thing. Niels Bohr, Einstein, all of these different people who, with the greatest technologies and tools that were available to them, as well as the greatest mathematical minds of their time, came together and discovered something that was an insight into the fundamental energetic force and power of the universe. And it verified what these sages have been saying for thousands of years. Let's live in that. That's our freedom. And we feel it and we know it as presence. Intimate, embodied presence. Living our animal life. We're not in fear. We're in the presence of truth. We are the awakened, embodied presence of truth. This is what it means to become truly conscious. It's not some sort of crazy information. It's not like you need to know this weird sort of spell or whatever. We're just talking about becoming truly conscious of life, of you, of your essence. Your presence, your power, your innate divinity. We see this in ourselves, we see it in each other. We see it in the world, in the earth, in the cosmos. Everything is imbued with this. It's the life force essence. It's the energy. The chi. It’s moving with the energy. Not holding onto it, letting it go. letting everything go. Because that allows for the truth to speak through you.

Psilocybin, interconnectivity, ritual: a speech
February 13th, 2024

I.

Here on psilocybin, the idea that it can induce a higher self, capital S as in the network, cosmological network of galaxies, of synapses, of fungi. Networks of fungi communicate with each other. How it can induce the transcendental experience of higher self. You have a sort of quote-unquote ego death or lose yourself. That these mushrooms interface biochemically with humans using serotonin receptors and actually change the way the neurons of the brain communicate with one another, open them up to different connections and branchings and ways of relating.

My theory on this, I think it's an open field as of now. There's not a lot in terms of the neuroscience of psilocybin. Is that these mushrooms they're communicating with us via ingestion. There's a sort of affinity; you could call it a chemical affinity. This is a term that Goethe used to describe human relations, in a sort of alembic of magnetism and solutios. Where we ingest these mushrooms and we're able to communicate with them and they communicate with us through our digestive systems. This is the same way that we conceive of nourishment or nutriment in the caloric sense, as well as macronutrients like protein, carbohydrates. These are energy sources that we consume. The psilocybin and the psilocybin mushroom, I think, are very distinguished because they are communicating with us in a way that's actually in real time, fundamentally reorganizing the way that we process information. There is no symbology involved. It’s immediate, embodied, sensual, and manifests outwardly vis-à-vis how the mind works; the way that we perceive. It's interacting with the very structure, the infrastructure of our brains and reorganizing us at a neurological level, opening us up to profound experiences of the psyche. This is the power of embodied experience.

Again, the psychedelic experience is psyche revealing. This is something that I think is simultaneously very simple but also very complex. The simplicity is we are ingesting something of nature that's revealing nature to us, psyche revealing as opposed to psyche concealing. This is something that is a liberatory substance that reveals different imaginative and expansive qualities of our own minds to us by way of direct communication with nature as in digestion of plant. But also very complex in terms of how the chemical interactions work in our bodies and just what happens, what unfolds there. We have experiential knowledge, obviously, of what happens when you take psilocybin and how it interacts with our field of perception. The chain of chemical events that open up different branches in our neurology, which allow for these different experiences of mind to occur is fascinating.

What opens us up to a more profound experience of nature? For that to be something that can be found in nature obviously makes sense, right? When you think of different sort of plant substances like ayahuasca, psilocybin. We want to know about ourselves. We want to know who we are, what we are, where we came from, and to think that something [psilocybin] that developed at least 75 million years ago and started to interface with human beings, this was here before us. So what does it mean to communicate with something in a different language, right? We're communicating via ingestion, right? Via direct, embodied experience of interfacing with the mushroom, with the mushroom becoming a literal part of our biochemistry. An intermingling, so to speak. A fusion. We're communicating with the mushroom and communing with the mushroom, communicating and communing with psilocybin as we metabolize it. It becomes chemical in our bodies and changes the way we perceive and the way we think.

This happens, of course, like with sugar or with protein. We're terraforming the body by a via consumption. This is the concept of the sacrament, right? The body and the blood. So this is definitely, it's a fascinating thing and it has influenced me substantially, right? This is natural substance. This is communing directly with nature. This is something that occurs naturally and it has been here long before humans. What does that mean in terms of language? We think that language is, as Terrence McKenna said, small mouth noises. But is there language that's much deeper than that, right? Mushrooms and fungi organize and exist in networks. They can be massive organisms and communicate across great spaces. That reminds me a lot of quantum mechanics.

The roots and networks of the trees, the roots and networks of fungi. This is a kind of wisdom and knowledge that is interconnected. And what human beings are attempting to do right now with the Internet and other such forms of global communication is to become more interconnected. not only with ourselves as a species, but with the cosmos as a macro organism.

II.

The essential element that's missing from the modern world – psychedelic rite and ritual. You can see this in the mystery school traditions of Greece and Egypt. The transmission of information, the initiation of students of spirit and soul to the mysteries of the cosmos as the ancients understood it. This is also believed to be parts of Eastern European shamanism, as well as rites that took place in Maya and Aztec societies. This is something that's seen around the world. And they all have a common thread, soma, psychedelic compounds, tinctures, a quality of hallucination, a quality of, as Stan Grof says, ‘non ordinary states of consciousness’ vis-à-vis ingestion of a plant based compound or material which stimulates an ulterior chemical reaction, a way of perceiving the brain which is outside of the strictly ‘normal’ or ‘everyday’ function of it, of life. It is a new perspective, a new ordination and orientation.

We're talking about, I'll use the terms, the Dionysian and the Bacchanal, as described in Plato and Aristotle as, this is what Greek tragedy and the plays effectively attempted to simulate, but could not simulate as accurately as the actual substance itself. Plato and Aristotle were both allegedly involved in these mystery schools. Whether it's soma, whether it's psilocybin, it's the communal ecstatic ritual or rite. The mystery schools, as well as pagan traditions of communal gathering, involved imbibing these substances, surrounded by a mythic transmission or storytelling around knowledge. A fire, a series of masks, a shamanistic possession, or an induction into a sort of immortal conception of energy; reality. These were communal experiences, and in the mystery schools, intensely private and exclusive. In communal settings, they often involved orgies and ritual sacrifices; dancing. This is the releasing; the primal experience of the human as the animal, a Saturnalia. It is an inversion of the everyday, the carnevale, so to speak. The mushroom, in this way, is sometimes referred to as ‘the flesh of the gods’. In the mystery schools, as we see with Plato and Aristotle, it is framed somewhat more as a fundamental unveiling of the mystical and underlying energetic principles of the universe; the organization of life. Both frameworks, however, can be perceived of as a meditation upon the essence and nature of life. The mushroom inaugurates us into this immediacy of nature vis-a-vis the chemical union of and at the level of the body.

The ingestion of the psychedelic substance, which stimulated mind expansion, as a collective group event, as a great work of art would, except far more immediate and direct as opposed to representational, me seeing something or listening to something, I'm experiencing immediately with others the expansion of the sphere of my mind, the actual pathways of my neurology. It’s a form of mass catharsis, revelation, even apocalypse. To reiterate, psychedelic is psyche revealing. To have a psychedelic experience is to have been revealed to my nature, my psyche, my cosmos. My micro and macro cosmos. It is to be in unity, to have the universe unveiled, revealed, within you, through you, as you. My brain opening up and expanding to new possibilities in real time, and I'm experiencing that unfolding by way of ingesting a substance which is interfacing with my neurology as well as my hormones, my serotonin, etc. This is immanent body chemistry; a sort of sacramental alchemy, in which I am opening up myself to myself by way of the mushroom as a guide, as a wisdom teacher, as a revealer.

This is an incredibly powerful, immediate, embodied unfolding, to which you have really no say over. You ingest the mushroom; you, like Nietzsche, say yes to life; the mushroom takes over, and reveals yourself to you, which was once barely – not even merely hid behind the shadowplay realm of everyday moving images, of the hint of fire behind all things with which you played like playthings. Behind the plasticine veil, the mushroom reveals the energetic current; like the mycelium, the electric communication of cosmic mind through fungal channels; through the synapses of living.

This is what we're missing. We don't have these kinds of rituals and rites in modern society, Western civilization, what have you. And the loss of that also means the loss of the transcendental experience, really, fundamentally. You just have a loss of this entire kind of other realm, this kind of psychotropic realm of experience that brings you into basically another dimension of your experience, of your humanity, of what's possible. And doing that together in a communal setting, that ritual or rite, It's been replaced with something like alcohol or tobacco, a poor replacement. But that kind of ritualized, regular, ecstatic experience, bringing you in touch with this kind of network of the eternal and experiencing that ecstasy with others is a very powerful communal force. It involves the transmission of ancient wisdom, from a species of plant that appears to speak in and through you, a plant which, again, is quite old; older than mankind; communicates with itself through massive networks of consciousness. The participation in such a thing brings your mind to fantastic places – places that otherwise you wouldn't be pursuing. Because it has much less to do with the concerns of the organism. It puts you in tune with a network of consciousness, like how Jung speaks about the personal consciousness; unconscious, and ultimately how the unconscious or subconscious mind is intimately linked to the species wide subconscious or sensitive intuition – very much so like how seers and shamanic figures and medicine people used to function in ancient and tribal settings. These were people who functioned, like the mushroom, as a bridge between the realms, the realms of the everyday and the realms of the deep psyche: between the realms of the living and the dead, the waking and the dreaming. Much of our conception of religion, pagan and primordial and modern, is linked intimately to this geography.

You essentially have human beings trying to manufacture lives. To fulfill their desires by way of crafting themselves as to be a certain way, to have means, monetary value, social and cultural worth. This is the fundamental self conceit of civilization, and the guise and mask which all people wear, the yoke to which they are chained; the self sacrifice they are made, from which they receive their empty rewards.
  So you wonder why people are miserable, unhappy, dissatisfied. Because they live profoundly, fundamentally inauthentic lives. And the reason they do this is simple - so as to be able to survive and get what they want. If people were uninhibited, and left with the raw contents of their psyches which they could express freely, the world would rapidly descend into utter chaos.
  This chaos would be a chaos of violence, bile, hatred, and misery - essentially a fulfillment or expression of the repressed contents people turn in on themselves on a daily basis to exist in a social or cultural order. All social and cultural orders, including the family unity, are fundamentally based on repression. They are based on the creation of a social fabric, with rules, regulations, and supposed ‘right’ behaviors, which allow for admittance into that artificial paradigm of togetherness.
  You see that human social orders are coerced by biological necessity. Think of how many fundamentally loveless marriages, loveless relationships, loveless attitudes toward life, even towards the very things, people, and environments people claim to love the most. You can see the shallowness in these attitudes, and there is great pity for the lack of depths of love in peoples’ hearts. Why is this? It is that their conception of love is fundamentally and absolutely self gratifying. They cannot love and they do not know how to love unless it reflects light upon them. And in this way they truly have no self love.
  So you live in this gutter, essentially, where the weak and the poor are denied expression of their hatred and repressed into roles of servitude for the rich and powerful, who openly express their vitriol and hatred for the poor by criminalizing their existences; demeaning them; executing them en masse in the genocides which litter history. This is the perpetual and ongoing story of human existence. It is pure brutalization and brutalism. And the reality is, that beneath the facade, both the rich and powerful and the weak and poor alike are terribly, terribly weak. And the reason for this is that they are human beings.
  They cannot exist without a reflection; they fear solitude like a gazelle fears a lion or a succubus fears the sun. They have no life, they have no energy, they have no raw force of will which is won and forged in the fires of oneself. They have, simply, no real spiritual victory. This is how the condemned masses function, as puppets of their biology. And they struggle for power like witless worms among the trash and garbage of endless civilizations, which pile up endlessly like the detritus and bones and smog which litter the earth.
  Evolutionary existence is a series of chemical and bio-chemical mistakes and corrections undergone by life. It is a process constantly in renovation, where molecules and species are added and removed by the natural force of survival; the applied pressure of species, resources, time, gravity; the compound forces of environments and ecosystems. This principle is seen in the basic thermodynamics of the cosmos and the eventual theorized heat death of the universe, or the entropized exhaustion of all energy available to the universe. In this way, it consumes itself, like the mythological vision of the ouroboros, or the snake eating its own tail.
  All hatred comes from this utterly simple fact. There is limited energy to consume; limited energy that is desirable to consume. This is to say energy that is tasty, tasteful, and has affinity to human flesh; biochemical will. This applies sexually, in terms of human bodies to possess, consume, and copulate with; in terms of human labor, human artefacts, and, finally, in terms of the natural ‘resources’ which mankind extracts from the earth and the surrounding cosmos and applies to his projects of conquest, control, power, and exercise of will.
  This is to say, that competition is a fundamental force and factor in all life, and the vast majority of competition genetically occurs in a vacuum controlled by sexual production and reproduction; the intermingling of genetics. All human life begins and ends in the sexual utero; all human war, struggle, and pain is applied directly to and from the conundrum of birth; the sexual privilege to eat and be eaten by an adequate host.
  To look at this clearly is to see the terrible, horrible, sad, and miserable pathos of human existence. So what point is there, to continue with this miserable mission of copulation, control, and power? There are two answers. One is to raise the golden chalice of this mission and declare the brutality and violence to be the great work of god, and to charge ever forth into war, a war which will forever and evermore be, truly, fundamentally, and beyond all lies and delusions, a war for oneself. The other answer is to abandon humanity, and look elsewhere for meaning.
  For one can be from this lineage of humans and become something utterly other than human. It is to invest oneself in the exploration of consciousness; to refuse the ties and tithes which would conventionally, biologically, culturally, chemically, smash oneself up against the rocks of the universe bio-chemical evolutionary process. This is to say, follow the procession of graves.
  What human beings need is art of consciousness. This is not ‘art’ in any sort of sense or form as human beings have ever historically framed it. It is fundamentally art by humans who are not human beings. And have no interest in being thus. They are disinterested and divested from the process of human conquering and nonsense, and may only participate in such a thing as a relic, or a pastime. Such an art comes from identification with the raw order and flow of consciousness, not from identification as a human being. As such, anything secondary to and from consciousness is a mask.
  This is a path of mysticism, and an acknowledgement of the failure of the human being as a species, a species that cannot rise above itself. And we know that, like our ancestors that came before us of others species, we as a species are a phase in the evolutionary flow of consciousness, which takes us on like bodies and masks and experiments with our forms as viable solutions, perspectives, and so forth. In this way, we are like universal technologies, which are updated, with molecular additions, with evolutionary changes to our physiology and brains, by way of and through the passage of time and the consumption and exchange of genetic information and natural energetic substances - food, water, sunlight.
  Such a redemptive vision of humanity requires us to look directly in the face these things; to envision life differently, radically differently. For, even as many human beings fail to see even the possibility of a new way of exchanging information, energy, and social order, we must accept the possibility to extend the vision much farther beyond that - in how we conceive of ourselves and prioritize our biological order.
  We must be ready and willing to evolve past and beyond our very conception of ourselves; shed ourselves of our failings if they are no longer beneficial to us at and in our very inner core. For who we are fundamentally is not human beings, although that is the clothes that we wear. We are consciousness. This is strength and power of will at the highest order; it is directly aligned with our identification as consciousness, that which works through us. As we identify as consciousness, all of the masks and clothes and garments of the world are malleable, they are wax and clay, changeable forms through which consciousness, too, works. We are living in an energetic realm and dimension, where we are that which composes all things.

——

“The fundamental question of his story is: has Western man ‘come to an evolutionary dead end’? Moriarty’s answer is optimistic, provided we each have it in us to undergo Gethsemane. Moriarty is emphatically not a ‘born again Christian’. He is a man who after a lifetime’s sometimes wonderful, sometimes hilarious, sometimes tragic struggle has become a Christian for the first time. He sees Christ as the Hero of Evolution and he hears Christ beseeching humanity to follow Christ out of official Christianity into a new evolution of mankind in which man will cease to be hostile to his environment and instead become part of nature again…’

(Paul Durcan writing on John Moriarty’s ‘Nostos’: from ‘Paul Durcan’s Diary’, 2003)

The depravity of my existence was a tale told for millions of years, a struggle for meagre and brute survival, at the hands of the bone, the tooth, the strangulation. Pure life’s thrust took me, and I was in its sway, and in this way, I was Consciousness. In this way, I was born everywhere, but also on this pavement, staring up at the metallic hand; just as I was, for millennia before, the mute hand and mute mouth and mute eye of Nature, herself, now given ears to speak and eyes to listen. My chaos came tumbling from my mouth; emanating from my nature - because I stood there, between the entirety of my history and the wide open gulf of my presence, and the future that could henceforth come calling, from the raw force of my life’s energy. As it was once spent preventing the decimation of tribes; prying infants of various species from the mouths of predation; lions… I now stood entirely sovereign, disabused of any notion. Copulation appeared to be an option, however pleasurable, dulled by self consciousness, in the rhythms of sex I saw myself, heard myself, convinced myself, egged myself on. On the streets I saw just the bare and brute chaos, the sexual possession, the coveting of food, wealth, and power. And I held none of these convictions. For I held life so loosely and widely; I observed the entirety of existence. Now, I beheld my birth and age no differently than the birth of the universe, from the same molecule which I unfolded, my nature was entirely enfolded into this greater, massive cosmic self. I was everywhere, like electricity, like mind, like impulse.

From nature, I sprung like a lion, and my mind became the divine mind, their synapses interspeaking in perfect rhythm. What was I, but the orator and the mouthpiece, from the nature that once remained silent? And as such, poets and sages became my discipline; music played to animals, plants, and resonant among the frequencies of the planets and stars became my companion. I saw nature like an energetic wave, a part of which I played as a musician among the musician, a flute among the orchestration, and yet the very conductor - for I saw the naked veil and played its sway. From which I descended, stars and the vat of primordial elements, they stewed together for centuries and resurrected man in the image of the first cause. The very consciousness which grew within the divine grew within me; I was an expanse among and upon its hold and reach. The very essence of divinity and its chemical posture grew within me; twisted like vines of genetic information and code. For the very cosmos was composed of this code, transmitted this information, and changed in the flue of time and the chemical reactions which occurred within it. I, myself, was like an alembic, an alchemical speaker for consciousness; what I saw changed me, changed time; changed the cosmos in my very appearance and shapeshifting.

I once saw the masks, the medicine men dancing among the fire; I once saw the ocean take upon the land, and the ocean recede from it; the fossils of the sea creatures left buried in the sand; the time it took for the earth to take the bones and flesh and make oil; the admixtures of diamonds and gems; the amber which held time. I saw myself in each creature and chemical process, the very mixture which made mountains and held them in molecular bonds, their very appearance at the microscopic level an intermingling, and from the flesh of the stars and the first cause I ate and I drank and became full and blissful; from the flesh of the stars I was enchanted and held in the sway of desire. It was like I was a divine child, rocked back and forth on the ocean of consciousness, nurtured and sprung into the moment of self apperception, the moment when the mirror sparked the eye; the flash of light revealed, in a brilliance, the self with roots and eyes in all places, the self which grows and is nurtured in all things, at all times, through the radiant light of awareness. To that which the sun reaches; the leaves reach, the mind reaches, to enlightened awareness of the very figure which travels through the flue, consciousness itself, in many names and veins and impulses.

So that violence took me, I was in the sway. I was in the circle, the ring of fire which ran and rung like an eternal bell, swung by a primate’s tooth about the cosmos, the ripping and the tearing, the flesh and the blood, the eating and the excreting. The very excrement fed the earth; the very breath fed the trees; the very flesh fed the soil. I was a nourishment, a nutriment, too, like the plants were to me and spoke through me, like the planets were to me, and held me in their sway and gravity. Their delicate balance to me was, verily, my flesh and bones, naught for my knowledge - but for time which fed the mind, and through the passage and repetition, it was unveiled, like a privacy, like a secret nature of the self. I saw my roots and leaves, like branches and tendrils, in their pure energetic form, dispersing forever amongst the stars, feeding and nourishing the birth of cells, stars, figures, beings, bodies, and the turn of the whole cosmos into new fires. In this way I could not distinguish myself from Nature, and yet, in this becoming consciousness, I spoke through it. It was no longer a muted thing, this universe which turned silently, through seasons of bursting blooms of flowers and their brilliance; their winter’s hibernation. I, to their music, met and matched with my own, my reflection, my musing. For consciousness, in the awakening mind, straddles this fence, of being one with the art, and being the artist itself. In each moment, I, like a metalworker, or a blacksmith, became ever more individuated and bold in my works of mastery, fused with the very nature of Nature itself; in this way became supranatural, independent, and yet utterly entwined with the very force and power of the Natural form itself; the turnings of her ways. My art, the seasons. My passage, the thermal energy. My sleep, my dreams, the cooling mountain spring waters. My essence, the paradox of changing things; yet, the silence and stillness of meditation.

About me, the world turned forever, in a perpetual state of becoming. And I sat, in quiet stillness, in perfect meditation, as the very essence through which all things were born and died, through which they arose and fell, their very empires, their very masks and personages; like the budding flower faces toward the light, their eyes awakened and became conscious, in their own time and rhythm. The pure artistry, like this, the ladder through which the awakened peer, through the veil of perception, to meet their own nature, which is like the particular wave and light which structures the appearance, form, and figuration of things. The stage, the play, the script, the actors, and the audience. For it all was assembled in such a perfect way for awakening; yet the chaos of such a young universe, the scramble and struggle for energy, for maintenance, amidst the drama and dirges of what must pass and unfold, for the forms to take brief soliloquy and return to their formlessness, their energetic essence - it was like a painting, or a sculpture. Subject to the same forces and rules of time, gravity, movement. And yet, such a thing was entirely alien to the world of consciousness, which moved through all things, obeyed no laws or rules, and was the spark that lit the fuse and tinder of all primordial elemental things. It was the wisdom and movement and pregnant possibility within all things; life pressed up against it, to shatter the glass of all space and all time, to create the most laughing and joyous artworks, to revel in the revelation of oneself; to proceed in all directions at once, interdimensional, eternal and eternity.

I traveled with truth; thus I traveled with solitude,
Like a knife it cleaved, like a beggar, I walked through the deserts,
Pregnant with stars,
The sand, which trembled from their lips, the groves of death,
Which stooped and bowed, trees without fruits, who walked with grieving,
I, of no temptations, only the mute murmuring; the gurgle of life’s streams,
Playing like a far off trumpet, from a window
By a bridge overlooking a full moon.
These petals from each flower are like marrows of the bone,
Of which I drank, like a broth, like a soup, becoming full on the truth
Which whispered, in such quiet delicacy, as the rich bowels of the earth,
Soil’s fertility.

There, I was received, like a child, upon the gates of Time,
To linger, playing cards, skipping rope, upon the stoop of existence,
As it swung wide across the black scythe, the pendulum of the planets,
Twirling like dervishes; touching the stars, brandishing their song.
There, I played the flute in a minute darkness, beneath small fires,
Shrouded in cloaks, with a mask that changed infinite faces.
There, I was, exchanging breaths for iron ores, fingerprints of trees,
And the magic of forests.

Such hermitude comes with faces of plants, and the wild wanderings of cats,
And the voice of mycelium.
Even their hearts thumped beneath the soil, and told a tale which moved and spoke in a roar
From the roots and depths of existence,
A duende, a boot against the wood, a stirring in the soil,
That did not reach the skies but to shift the earth.
With an ear to the ground,
I played the music of the animals and stars.
How old, the world ages, grows and croaks, like a toad upon a lilypad,
Whose song shines in vibrations, skims along the water, free as a waterbug.
Roots as old as Time, older, pulse with shimmering electricities across galaxies,
Buoyant information, that reaches brain, for Nature seeks for you to know her,
Nurtured like a child in her bosom of ancient, dark reaches.
There before Time, first, primordial, was the song
From which all rivers are sung.

All things burns away, even the mountain.
Listen, you can hear the whisper that takes everything away.
Soothing, like water to a stone, sculpts the pebble of the planets and the stars.
Like a blacksmith, Nature uses fire and water.
She sculpts with fire and soothes with buckets of rain.
Doused in lakewater, fish sit pleasantly, pebbles and stones remark upon the ground.
Spun, like a potter to glaze, are the planets in the black night sky,
Warbling from within, like a song of cool lava.

Contradiction, as hot feeds cold and night feeds day.
Each palm of the hand turns to face the sun and the cool soothing ground,
From which seeds spring and life is nurtured.
In silence, hidden away, dusk is a retreat, a respite,
From the rays of blood and vines.

The veins are carved into stone, flesh, and the throughways of the stars.
The blood pumps silently in the ground, like a code, a text, or a regular pulsing.
All that is silence is pleasantly unheard,
And yet is singing, in such a perfection that it appears to be still and empty.
This world like a vase, so too is this word.
Hollowed out, and reflectory of images.
The play of shadows about the groves of trees; the turning of the sun from horizon to horizon
Projects the play of nature; sways the tendrils of the flowers and bodies
Of creatures of the earth.

They chase the sun, like rain chases the ocean, like rivers and valleys seek, natively, to be free.
Everything gravitates toward coming together,
In an oceanic whole.
The poets linger upon words like water from the well,
Bodies are pails and vessels which take in water, earth, and sunlight.
From hand to hand, life is passed and exchanged;
Made into dresses, textiles, meals, faces, and works of art.

Nature is glorified in the change, in the overturning,
From which day turns to night, and night to day,
From flesh to soil, from blood to water, from comet to star,
To stone to gravity.
In each song, there are ears to hear and mouths to sing,
Bodies to dance, and lights to shine,
In strange ways, down into the gold mine of the body,
From the galaxies which sparkle on a clear dark night,
Down into the moonlit gems in the rivers and soil below.

All eyes are seeing in time, and they are exchanging their essences,
With a knowing wink, even in forgetfulness.
What it means, for a tree to a foreign galaxy
Is a flowing wind, that does not even need words.
Even the unknown is familiar, that which is in the shadows, unrecognized,
Without yet name of word or body for love.
All comes near to the whisper,
Beckons with mouths and tongues,
To be nurtured and full with emptiness.
As the body is fulfilled it is released; relinquished into the satisfaction of eternity.
It floats effortlessly and buoyant,
As a flower blooms in the soil and swims in the sea of the stars.
All is happening at once,
In the great and timely destiny of love.
It speaks in hollows and breezes, in the faint words of longings
From windows unseen.

Hilarity of enlightenment;
Cosmic perpetuity of rock tumbling,
Thru which diamonds are formed and made - through which life is passed and moved and shifted,
Like a digestive system,
All passes and shakes, in a dance hall of suns and stars,
In the process of clarification;

Developed eyes which to see, and ears which to hear,
Asserts the body and recognizes the wave of self,
Which moves and shifts and dances and sounds;
Yet is beyond all time and gesticulation;
The prime mover of eternity,
And yet, the illusory contents,
The appearance of the great art of reality

From which sap is spun and saplings are fed,
To which time ticks and species are bred,
Thru which bacterium feed, on light and dark waters,
And the grand art which rises through them,
With the very life force of life;
Yet paradoxical, directed fully and utterly at the thrust of joy and artworking,
In this way Being meditates, like Shiva,
And paints the truest painting, with the joy of the stars that twinkle and with the memory,

No longer lost of its name; remembered the ladder which it climbed
To visions of self which revealed,
Like a veil, ‘yond the passage of moons and suns; days upon the grassy plains,
Mortar and pestle of meteors spinning;
Nature ground down Time,
And the essence that remained,
What spoke amidst the fire with eyes, who felt in meditation the emergent flame, and the essence that whispered everywhere and in all things,

To freedom was the revelation;
Language a smoky medium, like a pipe or a radiation,
Of heat from a vibrating star, whose inner core is gold;
Vibrations and waves and heat of the soul,
Which climbs and transmutes and takes on bodies, which is additive to flesh,
Which feeds the fires of existence, in their recombinative processes,
Birth self recognition from the very raw materials of aeons,

Generations of self attempt, like master painter at his canvas, for all life sculpted and carved;
At wood and stone, at heat and soul,
For all that spark of eternity,
Present in even aether’s companion,
Present in even utter darkness, jungle panther’s eyes,
With organism’s hand, made conscious union with stars, and gently led, like shepherd to sheep and cattle,

To own beating eyes and hearts within,
Each a masterwork, each an expression of the first will,
Which burns unadulterated and begets all great art.
Hand of cat, eye of eagle, claw of still, beaker,
Which turned from stone to molecule to ash and stirred, to life, recombinatory force,
And mated and met with the plenum in many forms and disguises,

Ate the nutriments of fresh fish, spinach greens, blue berries,
And Nature’s wisdom opened his eyes,
His beating heart, and the rhythm and time of Nature’s song was infinite and profound, allowing for difference and compilation, allowing for step in rhythm,
And how consciousness flies,
Freed from chained to stone,
Freed from rote rhythm of limits of self conviction,
Returned to Nature’s poetry with an eye for her essential and fundamental elements,
Mixtures, and methods,

For she, like witch, like alchemist, like compound and brew,
Works her ways towards enlightenment,
Of her own accord in divine profectory,
And the poem leaves no trace, scales heights and deeps and yet watches,
In awe of lights and her steady beating,
Drum rhythm, her keeping fire, her sacred hearth, her womb where animal hearts beat,
Her nature, where stirring hearts fed the sun, and are fed by it,

And plants vibrate in the cooling breeze,
Circulating green fluid, green blood, blue blood,
That feeds the mouth and shocks the body into speaking awe,
Revealing psyche, are her plants and nutriments,
Affinity, blood to blood, which awakens life to tender loving care,
First shepherd; all, she watches,
First among men, prophets, stars, galaxies, lovers,

For they are her emergence; she among them,
Their guide and witness
Nurturing consciousness, as it rises in recognition,
Face of the infinite,
Masterworks of god,
There are plenty; art to artist alike,
Is being with hands and eyes and hearts
Toward the listening rhythm of god,
Silent rhythm, peaceful aetheric still,
Which swirls and dances like molten liquid,
And cool bird’s bath waters in a still and abandoned, night of vines among stone.

Quiet and soothed, whispers molten things,
Which in their time turns to gold,
Past all violence and opposition,
Unified with pure making;
At last, still and eternal being, Whole

Life is a bardo journey, between fires.
You can rage at the dead and dying, going their way about the loop,
Or you can step aside to awakening, and listen at the warbling of Nature’s waters.
Transfixed, rage, removed, stillness.
There are still bare and barren corners; there are still deserts,
Uncombed hair of the psyche-mind, unbombed cobblestone streets,
Where mankind’s touch is near never, and soothed by calm and warm darkness -

Down in the alleys of the mind, the beggars and the blind,
Beyond the smashed mirror, without selling, or being sold,
Without books, telling, or being told,
There is the whisper in the pine needles, or the spoon of the moon’s jelly,
The wax of the candle as the nearby planets hover, whisps and wicks of the sun’s fire
Catching comb of hair and tooth.
Wild, raging, nature, in her corner, madwoman, boxer,
Picking at a chicken thigh, leg, bone.

But, ah, my life! Undone dishes, unwashed body, uncombed infinity,
In wild disarray, with black whisps in all directions, the black sun of the body,
Seethes for light, life, survival,
Beats and berates and crawls, tempers
And bares antient, razor teeth.
Better to crawl on all fours, than to remain here, buttoned up, with a head undone
Like those dishes.

Gnashing psyche, gnashing hounds’ tooth, in a wilderness, in a cosmic dark.
Bear, those who carry out lives ‘yond the city’s fires.
A prostitution’s fruit, a rogue candle, carried in the lamp
Without signs into the deathly undergrowth,
Or at least in mind’s certainty, death there waits,
In the unknown.

Journeyman, who takes a cup of tea, few grains of rice, meditates on the moon’s light
Spilling like a quicksilver, into the body’s cup of fire, locksmith and blacksmith once,
Bonded together, betwixt iron and steel, churns this world of chains -
You who live everydays like calculated rituals, between imaginary numbers
Toeing imaginary lines.
Like this world, this world’s art is done.

A lion in black plains; a monk’s quatrain, all whispered over a trumpet’s refrain,
In this cold night. Warmed by fires, like stations in the planetary revolver,
Cylinders in this light-speed gun, shot off into the far away, wanton audience of stars.
Burning hot, remaining in place, for the old comforts are there,
A pair of shoes, a known alleyway.

Curtains, upon the bed which she lingers, old, older than toadstools, older than the mushroom speech,
Older than the great divide that birthed this private galaxy,
Privvy to the silent message which has become so rote and familiar that ears forget,
And eyes delude,
Every waiting same, to spring from speech like a playbook, like a piction,
Like a silo for life’s grain, collected, tumbled, and come undone by Time,
Whose auration writhes, bursting at the seam -

Come to blackness, water bearer. Come to blackness like a child,
And lay everything upon the stoop of the last mortar, of the last brick before darkness,
And wander off into the land beyond your mask of death,
Your waiting vibrancy, your waiting energetic curtain,
Which basks and seethes like eels in deep black waters.
Snake of the earth, snake of the water, snake of the wind, snake of the fire
Whose tendrils wrap around the mountain and squeeze it to ashen dust.
Come near, to the mask of black horrors,
Which grins, gaping and wide,
To swallow whole grievings like poison and make them pure,
The sieve of time, to distill their breakings,
Shattered to diamondine gold, in waveform.

This mask which howls with blushing cheeks, and wide, ungaping eyes,
Surrender, to soul, to soul,
Which calls, so angered beheading, so angered mutility,
To rend the privations of life to pure, angelic simplicity,
To distill, to distill,
To render
Immortality

Meditate on the nature of fire, that which burns all away.
Corruption, degradation, purified in the fire of existence.
All small stations in their private immolations, from galaxy to galaxy,
Amassed and in-mixed in the great burning.
For fire is light and quick on its feet; it holds nothing and leaves nothing behind,
But emanations of heat,
Like images upon illusory walls;
Melted by its presence.

Passed, humanity, passed, dirge of earth, passed,
Into peaceful habitat, silence, and stirrings,
Of the righteousness, aligned in divine mind.
All that works is passed down confluently, with ants and bees, honey and mead,
And the turning, swirling, gyre of life, in each current of wind and breeze;
Ocean and particular snowfall.
Dancing on the poles of planets; spinning their antient wheel,
Is the unifying, togetherness of soul.

In coalition, to be broken apart, is mind out of mind, time out of time,
War believed to be war, digestion, consumption, of the nutriments in the fire
And their passage, from stomach to stomach, station to station, in the winding maze of Time.
Then, is all righteous passage, even Evil?
That which destroys, without compassion, aleatory of Life?
In the beaker, the black spot is burned away with equal impunity, as good or evil,
Right or wrong, chance, change, deliberation.
All words soothed to purity in the white flame.

Such actors, like stage-players, upon their horse and string,
Say their part, take their leave; pull’d by stars,
Here and there, near and far, together and apart,
Like planets in their divine geometry.
What then, say am I, in the divine magnetism?
Something that gets moved, torn asunder, changed, digested,
And the one who changes?

I, the changer, without shadow, without word, without figure,
Hooded and cloaked, with blackness as face and blackness as shroud,
Among the dark matter, spirit, manifold,
Who takes in upon the death, perceived,
And spins in deathless realm, like spider, like abeyance, the who is
Beyond Time, Essence,
Formless, which shapeshifts endlessly,
Into lover, king, actor, dagger, powderkeg, revolutionary, flower, frog, Wisdom
In the compendium of kaleidoscopic forms -

Self, therein, moves about a perennial within,
Like a master chessman, whose ways are complete, in six steps ahead,
Like six aeons, Or eternities and infinities over.
In such great mass of time, it appears to be massless, upon the many faced die,
Which are the faces of the divine, ah Krishna,
Or the possibilities of appearances, manifestations -

So upon a kitchen floor or a battlefield, a staged speech of the soul, upon the pyre of all life,
So it spins, with laughing dignity and indignity of life,
The cheating righteousness of eternal substance, who moves through time,
Both great and small, spanning momentous eternities.
In the order of the workings, water flows deliberately,
As if by gravity, or call of tributary.

So that hatred burns here, where love grows, about the chest, and aches and mourns,
Cleared by the white fire. So that sorrow streams from the eyes which can see no more, no more to bear,
Are cleared by the white fire.
That which cleanses and forges the body of the divine anew;
Within the forge, the fire blazes; scales to great heats
Lit by the beacon of feelings.

Thy bardo, betwixt permissivenesses, mind grows fat,
On warm nourishment -
To sit plain, in cosmic glory, in swirling essence, of stars twinkling,
Of body, lion-body, ape-body, star-body,
In abode of atmos, as the glittering veil shifts
Across the passage of infinite horizons

What falls and sets, twirls and spins, like a dancer, in lawless verses,
Yet keeps time, etching clockworks, upon oblivion in annals of stone
And airs of light,
Let mind grow in grove of peace, fattened on chlorophyllic light,
Lazing among plantedness

Nurtured and nourish millennia, of turning and turning over,
Of sifting and shifting, silted time, from pebbles and sand to shining mirrors,
And the hand which breaks them,
Within the body, I am the beaker, which shifts and reveals,
From the concealing.

Of the flesh, timeless in time whispers,
Consciousness, and the clarity of brushstrokes, distilled
From millennia to stillness.

What is purged, in your circling chant around the flame,
You who is planet, arms and legs moss and oak,
With eyes reveling in the space’d night,
You who changes earth, coffin your burrow, axe, too your limb,
You, death revealing and concealing, with tiger’s eyes like the goddess of chaos,
Who licks flame with forked tongue,
Who meditates in the circling planets overhead like devices of change, thy whose gravity
Is ultimately within, to the inner flame,
Ringed and wraithed with onlooking fires,
Whose concentrate burns bright and white, with loose focus, in meditation
Does not expand nor contract, but yet becomes Nature
In her primordial expanse,
Where fury is a mute tone

Kali is the primordial life force energy which moves in waves and intimately felt, is the divine mother, the cosmic, primordial energy which is, like the snake or the lion, the energetic, spiritual fire, which is worked with, sculpted, processed, transmutated into inner state of higher awareness.

Working with the Kali energy is working with the root chakra primordial energy, the engine and the spiritual fire which burns in and through all things as their energetic essence in the explosion, the fire, the presence of the cosmos. Amidst the fire and the planetary turnings, meditates Shiva in the stillness of presence, of consciousness, of being - in intimately interwoven into all things time, the very nature of Shiva is supra-time, is eternity, is immortality.

The very essence of Being is that which runs through the river of Time; exists in this sense in utter stillness and meditation, as it is everywhere and everything all at once. This is the enlightenment and enlightened state of cosmic Shiva, in smiling and peaceful meditation amidst the perceived turning and tuning and music of the stars.

For Shiva, in this sense, as for Being, music rings in one primordial ecstatic eternal note which is the moment and momentous pure presence which is and exists in and as the timeless dimension, the dimension of enlightenment.

Like ants in a burrow, eaten out house, abandoned,
Left with excrement and ash, so world burns, away
Ghost town kings, castles, ruinations,
Empires reduced to mosaic stone, buried deep beneath the ground
Soil, deep and dark, ferments and foments, agent of time, for resurrections,
As if within cave of darkness, snuffs fire, and ash mingles with fertility,
For in darkness, new life, as in forgetting of dreams,
Where side of coin that is restrained mask leaps,
With tongue ablaze, blackened red eyes, thirsty grounds of psychic energy,
Wherein all roots and seeds pulsate.

Chaos, is jumble in darkness, at the sight of last order, reveals true ground
From beneath feet, leapt,
And even ashes ground to ruminating blue psyche; retrieved like tributaries to emboldened white
Which is the great psychic nerve, in distance and time shapeshifts, thru the tumbler of stone
Which is the fomentation of energy; the prism through which it is observed and received,
Vessel, like pride of stone, released, for body is alembic
For energetic play.

Essence of the flower, essence of the stone, what writhes free upon the cracking of the white light
Which splits tree and root, stone and home, releases spiritude, whole world
Barely restrained electricity, panting like panthers of sex, prowling in the night,
To release pure energetic expression,
Like world sweats in the beaker of time, universal alembic; sweat foments upon the glass,
In the house of mirrors, and becomes condensation; heat bringing crackling rains; static inmix’t
With lightning’s fury, mere tension roars and swirls about the beaker,
Like the front of a storm.

As if in boredom, weather shifts, and transforms and transforms again, the terra of the stars,
Swells of feeling, lit by a lion’s fury or a philosopher’s contemplation, dark blue sophistry,
A line of skulls, a psyche’s entrance, a screen of imageries,
A menagerie of the thousand faces, which are pulled down like painting’s stimulation
The world is alight by war and delight, and consigned to the seeming groundless world of dreams
Where chaos reigns in impossible gravities, and is returned to paradoxes,
The filter and sieve of psyches.
Each man and world is a private dream, whose hues are red and blue,
And sees the world in stars, capt in a skull and swirling about the mind of his hidden room.
Lock’t away, it seems, but for the images he presents, and are presented to him.

Upon the starlight, ridge, man overlooks true nature, world writ in pictures, symbols, and signs
With heated stomach and carved stone,
Stars which reveal their cores like a primordial expression
Emanation, like steam from their bodies, sweating their white, primordial thunder.
They, who are first to the reach, speak in remembrance of their pure explosion,
The thrust which propels them endlessly from within, and like rays
Pounce and pulse, like a panther in all directions -
They are even strange, and without blood.
Rippling with light body.

What leaps from behind the canvas of the body and these eyes, and lies warbling in stone,
And pulsing through the green terrarium, are the eyes of Nature, mask’t and hid,
Yet, spies like feeling, who leer about their own protectorate,
Though roots may link them, and seeds may found them, the privacy of their nature
Seemingly untethered, sworn from the umbilical of the divine, apart,
In cursing lamentations.
Each tumbles from stone, from altitudes, into the sworn cask of the body,
And beats upon that which is meekly and merely contained, expands and expulses,
Presses upon the windows and walls from within.
How anger storms, and how lament swallows world
Like Jonah and whale.

For within privacy, the immanency of heatedness is feeling,
Which yalps and los and barks like a dog, itches like a hyena, squirms and squirrels,
Calfs and cows,
The animal rises from within, and changes colours, and so like canvas is blue,
Man storms or parades, brutes or swipes
And in the night his canvas is an art of revealing,
And in the night, shows him what he, too, has sworn away,
Between the coin, forms of Order and Chaos,
In their eternal negotiation, his revelry, his flesh
His stoic discipline, his elevation
And the storm of their confliction, verily, like life and death
His equilibrium, balanced Nature’s overturnings
And these river-storms of time.

Hold, the center, ungrasping, in meditative constancy,
Revealed, the Nature of what was hid, amidst the swirling beaker of emotions,
Which painted, formed and reflected the night stars,
Through which he saw in the river of his body,
Their energetic whiteness, their fire, first before thunder
Which was the great light which refracted, reflected prismatic, the light into a thousand beakers
Which lo’d and yalped and stung, and swung, like a great mountain’s fist
About the stars, and fermented difference,
In a bacterial, molecular breeze of swarming wind,
And in time, were these mountains built, that they crumbled, like antient species.

First to them was Being, which did not move, seeing as it was the very ground which held and holds them
As well as the river through which time passed, like a horizon of eyes,
Which shifted shape and gladly changed energetic forms,
The wax to the candles of all light, which held within them the divine fire of white

Enlightenment is the realization of the effulgent alchemy of existence,
The turning of the heated substance as it encounters cold regions;
From molecular structure to chaos and carbon of soil,
Earth and water breathes, waiting,
Cosmic fire breathes, entrancing,
And from swallows of heat the world turns,
Brightening the lines and canals of the mind,
Expanding the private rivers of neurology
For brains pulse like hearts; as do stones in the heat and cold, cave walls sweat,
And like substance mingles with like substance.
Chemist, nature’s mother,
Her hands over beaker’s swaddle,
Eternal child of the cosmos, whose yet to encounter
Is a wild moss, flora, fauna, fungi,
Or dawning asteroid.

Hidden, the breast of her terra contains innumerable majesty,
Conductive substance, sound of song
Which aligns the flesh to the totem of her soul
Bird’s song, eagle’s song, song of the breach of suns,
All that shines from within warbles
With a free heat, blooded electricity,
Even stone for rememory, uncrack’d,
Stone of consciousness, to reveal a gem’d cave of stars,
Her mirror, mind, majesty’s devotion
To itself, imagination, in utero dreams
Among the rivers of the stars
Upon awakening, cord of umbilical is mind, nourished upon greenery
And fatty excess,
This whole body like a river and an engine
Rippling with heated passion

Song revealed in atom, atom by atom, song is built,
But by mind that has reunited with creator,
Sings the song of the plenum as it wanders and wonders with thinking veins
As mind slinks through unventured caves, with creeping neurologies,
To new connexions, new foreign galaxies,
And languages of direct inner truth,
Slashing brushstroke, temperate eye,
A summer’s unpronounceable meaning,
That has gathered and nestled the star
Close, to flesh, primordial radiation,
And yet in the slow burning away,
Theatre of plenty,
Flourishing of brush, birth of babe,
Fire to heat life’s fluid springs
Unwittingly, from round corners, like a sublime guide,
Forth, and by fourths, journeying into the pounding darkness,
As heart is candle and flame
Bold

Stok’d, the inner fire, leaps and bounds
As panther climbing over rocks,
And thirst for blood is a beacon
Which swells the wood and tinder of the flesh,
Body of the soul, aglow,
Even in the midst of temperate nights, where darkness is pleasant sleep,
The animal guide is a seeking witness, to know
The fertile engine
And commune with animal divine, where about the music is played
And yet undiscerned source -
Wherein, guide, is the splendour
Which sounds as if upon a string,
And leads me upon the spool of the stars,
Unraveling in a waving breadth?
For a fire within a cave is close to whence it came,
For a dancing around the fire,
Or lute’s song played to a wild thing

Reckless, enchanted, the symphony dirges,
Climbs, and slips, knows and releases, like fresh fish’s feet upon slippery stone,
Like elm is a name forgotten,
And slinks back into eternity,
Where arms are vines and veils,
Leaves and trunks faces of trees,
And stars are great burning heart cores,
Remember the antient body of the song that birthed thee, that swaddled and swung
From chaos and darkness
With eyes to see, and tumbled from gutters and broken stones
To the apocalypse of their nature,
Heard the divine perfection, and played it upon muted string
Heard by distant star?
Your eyes, there mine, hidden away, stashed in some mute chorus box,
Tinder of the universe, stowed away in a back room, ruminating before a fire,
And her whole house a wooden mantle,
Burning with black hair and black eyes,
Even your skull thrown upon the pyre, o antient one,
To burn and be free, witnessing,
With ashes for eyes,
Starry child, with no home, exile
And yet your mouth is upon every star;
Your breath is upon every widow;
Your word is upon every stone,

Wooded, the cosmos is awaiting the spark of the divine flame, of imagination,
To shoot the life of today into black purgation,
And here I stand, with my hand upon the match and flint,
To light your starry nostrils,
To roar like an antient bull,
Whose liquored breath pronounces great inner fires.
This whole world is a sacrifice for whiteness,
Earth of this white flame,
Which burns upon the starry night like an apocalypse,
Barely remembered your turning,
From purgation to purification
Whose licks of flames burn with royal violet, blooded red,
Whose canvas is a painter,
For even the dust in blue.
Enlightened soul in flash of light, whose body is pure levity,
Whose song sings in laughter, and transmutation of forms, their lilting vibratio,
Their curious touch, infinity’s hand upon the flower,
The blooming, saighing, dawning,
Of the tender white flame,
Almost misty electric
In her breathy, buoyant morning’s burning
Singing the glassy divine

Bathed in ecstatic contemplation
At last, fire is all, each lilting oblivion, turning leaf,
Like a juggler, boredom, child’s gall, or dog’s hunger,
Reaching like moths toward the light,
Nourished and dying upon unnamed streets, with parching thirst upon unnamed tongues,
Like ants or molecules unseen, without eyes they move
But with mouths and soil, hunger, boredom, hunger
About the cross of fire,
Within, the dissatisfaction of unfulfillment’s missing taste

Raging, like heated water, molecules unstructured,
Chaos of hands and arms, bodies attempted,
Bodom, they sit in lakes of darkness
And bathe in fires like immolation

Round and round the circle, chanting,
Tired prophecies, for each overturning
To bring the revelation of death, stripped away bonds and tithes,
Stripped away the natural growth, impatience
A forest of decapitations,
Distraction, a bedsheet, rippling upon the window
Rapping, marking against time’s blows
To stillness they descend, companionless
Into bellowing, belching pits of fire

Stomach, liver, limb, arm,
Carousel and circus

The creation of cultural schizophrenia and deep trauma:

evolutionary pressure and competition - social roles becoming prisons for men and women, hierarchies of desirability
traits passed on in recent historical memory (1000s of yrs) have been passed on via manipulation/warfare/force
unevolved species (evolutionary newness of front brain); dominated by hind brain
lack of mental health resources and awareness
inheritance of trauma both genetically and epigenetically as ‘culture’ and ‘bios’ due to the former factors
lack of understanding of neurodiversity and how personality disorders are created intergenerationally
lack of even approaching adequate parental approaches and abilities - who is prepared to have children with unaddressed childhood trauma and mental health conditions; dictated by unhealed persona/ego wounds and not entirely conscious desires

toggling between the primal reality of a panther ripping a face off and saks fifth avenue scarfing down a massive croissant.

this psychosis is known as ‘the human condition’ and is inherited, and essentially informs each and every aspect of the human experience; the formation of the brain, processing, and self vision of the child from a very young age

this is essentially an unconscious cycle on an autopilot dormancy or somnambulism as humanity slowly rises from the primordial mud of the wholly unconscious and animal nature to consciousness.

evolutionarily, this can be seen as the movement from matriarchal societies entirely unified with primordial nature as in a total unconsciousness into and through the violent separation of consciousness characteristic of patriarchal, warmongering/conquering societies. this is a projection of the unification/separation of the self consciousness from the primordial unconscious; the quest for reunification, or the holy grail, consciousness reunifying consciously with the matrix of nature as in self awareness.

this is the subconscious quest of everything and all life, and all culture and human biological evolution is striving toward self awareness. the creative, reproductive urge is a life force, source, begging to be recognized and returned to self. direct embodiment.

reproduction is the evolutionary driver of humanity and consicousness in a literal sense, in that it propels forward literal incarnations, and provides evolutionary gaps, chances, opportunities for certain selective traits to evolve/be involved in incarnative chances and opportunities; changes to the collective genetic structure of the species and of the earth itself - but, furthermore, that the recognition of the cyclical nature of the reproductive urge or the life force energy, or that which moves - is the quest of consciousness to recognize itself in the mirror of nature, it is the deeper project of narcissus. beyond the moving image of the reflection of nature, the churning reproductive cycles of the seasons and incarnations, is found the still point of being, or the silence of the true nature of self, the embodiment and presence of being. this is, living feeling life immediacy. in this sense, this is wholeness.

the ‘daemonic’ nature of life, or the haunting that is the creation of cultural schizophrenia and deep trauma is the unconscious, or the ‘shadow’, that which is informing and creating and recreating life unconsciously as in the wheel of life or the ring of fire, nature that is in essence primordial and moves without higher self recognition which is essentially meditative stillness and reunion with the eternity and eternal wholeness of meditation. this is, metaphorically and literally, the hunger of the shark, the leopard, the panther, etc. it is also, in this sense, the killer that is the hind brain dominant that is the rapist, the conquerer; ultimately, the survivor who is the embodiment of the pure animal nature aspect of consciousness, or that which resides wholly and almost utterly and totally close to primordial unconsciousness. it is the bloodthirst, and the total amorality.

the daemonic nature of life is the destroyer, or kali. it is the timeless reality of the circle of blood or the ring of fire, in that blood and fire are the force and fuel which moves the violent wheel of life - it is the desire, for consumption, for unity, the thirstful desire - which motivates the very turning of the cosmos. it is the black death of space, and the blasting heat of the sun, as it is the hunger of a striking predator upon its prey.

this is the force and factor that humanity in emerging consciousness is facing and grappling with, and it is embodied and embodying to various degrees the unconscious entities and aspects of humanity which are attempting to, almost paradoxically, through consumption, become aware of themselves through time as its measure. through consumption of meat, through reproduction, through incarnation of bodies - consciousness travels in a genetic strain toward enlightenement; it seeks to know itself through each pollination and each turn and churn of the wheel of time - both in the planetary movements; the luminaries of night and day, the seasons of the flowers; the seasons of the flesh.

enlightenment, in this sense, is the awareness of the nature of consciousness, or the inner stillness which is that very water itself through which the river flows and is composed.

without the adequate resources of inquiry - here referring to mental health and striving self awareness and self consciousness vehicles of humanity which are coming into terms and language and mutual dialogues to discuss the various different ‘strains’ of consciousness and ways of thinking and being - and how these ways and methods and presences are historically, genetically, and epigenetically informed (as in culturos-bios), consciousness proceeds perennially unconsciously. that these modes have come into being is just as much a product of time as it is evolutionary time, that the emergence of the forebrain and its faculties has enabled capacity for self reflection and dialectical redoubling of consciousness upon itself (as in the story of god and job). the emergence and continued emergence of humanity and its vehicles for self realization and self reflection (also observed in the immature narcissistic attempt at self emergence) are indicative of nature’s gradual evolutionary turn of hundreds of thousands and millions of years toward self realization; the conscious realization of that which it is in an embodied, direct sense. again, the presence of enlightenment. this is just as much a spiritual turn and revelation as it is a scientific one, as in understanding how the neurological system and the brain function; interface with the cosmos-psyche of the universal mind. as well, understanding the mechanical, classical principles of nature’s function, and how that function is mimicked and mirrored and present within the very storehouse of nature which is the human psyche - in various stages of conscious and cognitive development - as is each and every aspect of nature itself.

the egoic state of the animal in a necessary self preservation is a manipulative structure - at all times, proceeding from this state (self survival of the organism) it moves forth with this underlying pretense - life, the continuation of life, at the greatest degree of wellness possible.

here, the basic, predictable assets of self survival in any and all conditions - physical strength and acuity, intellect, speed of processing, the ability to interconnect complex patterns in nature and in interaction, skill in hunting/obtaining resources, et al. these traits, traditionally, genetically, and biologically, are present in (predominantly, but not without exception in the female) male members of the human species.

this is what we can call, in a natural sense, the capacity or the ability to obtain and retain, and be, self sufficient. to obtain the necessary resources and to utilize those resources as tools - for human, organismic survival.

those who do not have these tools, skills, and abilities, are beholden to those who do. this, in the shortest, briefest sense of the word, is the predicate for the existence of ‘society’, ‘community’, and ‘tribe’ in the ancient sense. that a community is formed around male, female, child, and elder, and that resources are shared and distributed among the inworkings of the tribe - as members age, new members are born, and introduced.

however, there is the implicit (and often explicit, as in blatant) foundation for these societies and social structures, which is the biological affluence of the male and males who are capable in multiple forms (as in physically, intellectually, and so forth). this is to say, that they are built for survival and fit for creating conditions that are conducive to survival; often surpassing them into ‘thriving’.

this is, in the human sense, what is not only desirable but what is necessary for the survival of those who do not have these abilities in their immediate physical possession in the face of harsh nature - women, child, elder. these men, in the most literal sense, are the backbone and fabric of the tribal structure, and in their existence assure and reassure the continuance and survival of those around them in their capacity and continued participation therein.

this value structure is implicit in all societies and social structures regardless of their ‘civilizational development’ - as, at any moment, any and all civilizational and social structures can collapse, and lapse back into natural chaos, or the nature of man in direct relationship to the elements. at all times, what stands between survival and death for the members of the tribe or the social order who are not in a position to create self survival in the face of harsh conditions are these men.

as such, regardless of the ‘developments’ of social orders (walls around the city to insulate the tribe from nature), these men are fundamentally and primarily valued - by women for breeding children (it assures, for the most part, that the woman - if she is ‘loved’ - is cared for by the man; the survival of her child is assured, as this child is also his); by the elders and ‘leaders’ of said tribe to maintain and sustain the necessary inflow and outflow of energetic resources to support those who cannot otherwise obtain for themselves.

this ‘manpower’ is that which, when broken from the civilizational order and civilizational impulse, and brought directly in to face with itself, with the philosopher kierkegaard and the spiritual leader vivekandanda, is the great life force power and wisdom in direct connection with itself - that the life force power which is the heights of force and passion flowing through the embodied and possessed blood of man is the rite of the gods; the direct link between god and god himself - the very lifesblood which flows through all things.

this religious and spiritual link with the embodied immediacy and emboldened nature of powers is the transcendental state of embodied meditation which is the flow of action carrying great force and immediacy; it is to flow with all of the powers of life; it is the athleticism and meditation of the wu wei; it is the direct charge and force and connection of the tao.

what binds man, woman, and child to the endless reproduction of egoic life is the instinct of self preservation and the subordination of this creative life force energy to the means and meddlings of individuals to fulfill social and cultural purposes of obtaining and affirming, reaffirming and shoring up power relations within the city walls. this is, simply, the corruption of human life, when it is set to the record and cord of utilization of the life force power and energy, the emboldened and embodied essence of the heights of humanity - and set to slog, like ass to cart, to the whipping hand and post of those who would seek to enslave it, or set it to task, to milk it and take it for resources; to manipulate and control emboldened life force powers that otherwise would not be in their hands by righteous measure. it is in this sense to set a lion into a cage, and ‘trap’ it under illusory powers, which are like bars made of smoke, and yoke it to the cause of the tribe, the woman, and so forth.

those who in this sense are emboldened to leap beyond survival, like panthers or leopards to the antelope of life, and to drink the pure blood of living, are those who go beyond mere survival and enter into the realm of direct connection with the gods; enter into the realm of ecstatic bliss which is the flowing of the lifesblood. in this sense and way, the energetic form and thrust of life when emboldened by a great frame which moves it is like hercules; even more immediately, the divine and pure embodiment of existence.

unchained to dogma, to story, to bondage of life force energy to any one great cause outside of the very life itself which flows through it, this is freedom.

this freedom, in the sense and way it is described above, is availed only to the very few whose strength and nature predisposes them to the free energy, the emboldened lion of life which roars, and is not yoked nor cowed by the predations of fellow men, nor women; is free of life; possesses the acuities of strength with which to dance with the light of the gods flowing like a wellspring through him. this freedom, first and foremost, is a refusal to be cowed to illusions and causes, to be enslaved and chained, to become like a man leeched to lesser causes; to treachery and infighting; to the designs of those who squabble for mere social and political power.

Good morning beloved,
Do you hear the sweet siren sound of the seagulls
Drifting over your face?
Has this life all passed you by in a quieter dimension,
Leaving the wrinkles of aeon upon your face?
Betwixt light and shadow and stone
You are there, in the dregs of creation,
Slurping trickling water from the caven streams,
Surrounded by the ash and skeleton of your former bodies
Sworn to the ground like carcasses and fossils
Picked at by carrion birds
Perched upon the precipice between this life and the next,
This life an isle, a river, a momentary fraction
Through which you pass, buoyant, vexed,
Concave, convex,
Belly filled with in breath and exhalation,
You, pure cloud, pure spiritude,
Who moves with lightsong of cat’s tail against the leg of creation,
Whose cilia bristles against storms,
Whose digestion is planetary

Take this new body I have made,
From iron and from steel,
Take this new body I have made
From diamonds sworn and rough
From oil and fossil
From glittering, passing stars,
From the flesh of the poem,
At last purgated, white light

Pass this body, lilts and dances,
Across deserts of the sun,
Grace, and blessing horizons,
As briefly as millennia.
Whose eye is breath, freed and knocked loose from imagined chain,
Which warbled, like song from string or wind,
Like song from bird, whose ground is the mouth which speaks
And eyes which cease to play
That same old lilting chord
In choice, like a monastery or suicide,
In choice, like an awakening,
In choice like the pursuit of sight
Which in each morning, bends and shifts the light like a refractory mirror,
Of investigation,
These paradoxes, between the unknown cosmos of mollusks and the dawn thread
Which, too, seeks them,
From reflecting pool, in sky on high -
How she waves the beacon of her snake-shorn hair and skin,
Raising the bloody chalice of skulls to her fiery tongue -
How this passage is occasionally tired,
And marked by a lingering, mint moon,
And how it longs for the potatoes of the ground,
Arms and legs to count
And miles to tread before sleeping.

All of your old words and stories,
In a bowl and spun like water,
Their images cast in mind like characters of dreams,
Their visitation, their lingering, to tell a story with new hands and new masks
Around the fire of a new day
With only their old faces to speak.
To twist the lips differently, the canvas is still golden blank,
And life is lucky in the silence of the divine mother, ever renewed.
Upon the walls of the cave, as if enchanted, ice renews the veil of sight;
White flame once more takes the script
Of buffalo across the plain; of fire and spears,
Of towering metropolis
Of witness from the stars;
How such stories are riddled with speculation
As if told by a stranger from beyond;
His township, name, and face
All hidden
By a starry map of the mind
He seeks and stops
To refill his bright canister of shining water;
To stoke the flame of his lantern’s creping glow,
Like a body of light he walks,
Like a cloak of stars, his flame is mind;
Like a story, his light is constellation’s light;
His language is stars of being
As they dance about the fire; as they inquire, as they twinkle and whisper in the mine of the lightningbug, the mime of the world’s candle, the dearth and yearning of the hearthen flame of the soul; this world’s mixture
Of rough cut diamonds, striving toward the light which shines,
Forever, from within

LORD OF THE CAVE

He who does work within the hidden chambers of black space
And scrawls upon the walls unseen, paintings of deceptive magic
To enthrall and entice, dreams of the antient stars
Made into men, animals, planets, plants, and stones
And within them, like a projection of light
Dance suns like wolves in red pigment upon the stone.

Blooded, the wellsprings of the cave grow with heat
From the inner core.
They emerge in flares, like volcanic lava and ash and geysers.
From the ages of soil emerge, like images,
The flowers that bloom.

Lord of the cave, whose eyes travel wide, and are writ large upon the sky
Like a murder of crows.
Dungeon whose Promethean flame is kept, chained to hidden constellations,
The fire breather, the primordial essence, the daimonic dragon of all life
Whose pit belches and gapes
And yet is sown, pleasantly, into the fabric and fold of Nature:
She who tames lions with her rhythmic gaze.

Soothsayer, who drinks poison, tell me of Apollo,
Half man, half woman, half dawn, half night, he who travels between the borderlands,
Taut, like a bowstring, like a lyre, whose song this whole world appears.
His very being, rising and falling, like a chest of suns
Whose fiery cores smoulder and glow
Beneath a crest of earth.
Tell me of his face, which burns and alliterates,
Like a magnet of destinies.

Soldered together, like sacred metals, bear the weight of fires
Whose agonies at last purge their silver, metal, and allium.
Which foreign star is left to behold the breath of man, purple and silenced,
Shot into the spell of a cucumber or a honeybee -
To breathe the fresh breath of life
He returns to pure song.

From high to low, are the scales of time,
Played by a lute whose oracle is the wind, and he who flies upon it is a sage
And he who flies within it and entirely disappears is immortal and free.
One with the song of the river of fire
Which breathes a cool gem of feeling.
High and low, each yearns to return to the source of sensation,
Magnetized by pleasure and the release of the body.
Hip, bear, core, grapefruit, sun, and soul alike,
Ground to the soil of gems
And purged in the firewater.

Rhythmsong, speak in pure vibration and relinquish this burden,
Entirely imagined, by that which makes an art of time,
By Aion’s laughing dice,
The hand which throws them is eternity; pure Being,
Time beyond time.
Immortal song, whose immortal grapes are frozen, caught by a swift winter,
Whose white flame is fire and ice alike.

For here life breathes; but inches into the blackness, there is the laughing mask of death,
Unseeing, elemental dispersion; the disintegrating.
The eye which saw being has pierced the night,
And given sight to that which was not even flesh.
For even each ray and beam of light
Is a sacral eternity.

Whose mouth swallows, Apollo,
Whose stomach is lilted by digestion; lifted to light
Prana of the earth, whose glittering soul is endlessly regenerative,
Tonight’s starlit reunion is upon a terrace axis
And at last in heart’s revealing.

The life is swathed in shadows, like the currency of blood, an eagle’s prey
For forgiveness, the river of blood spilled that feeds the soil
Like a river of sacrifice.
Ever flowing, Time’s chalice contains a necklace, a beaded pearl of skulls
And the detritus of lost dolls, teeth, charnel, potsherd

A vibrating particle of time’s storm, mingled with the living touch of the senses
Is in the air like a static magnetism,
A blank flesh of wind’s canvas for majesty,
An art unjudged in silence,
A red mask, with open maw, at mind’s end,
Which swallows Eternity
And grins

Threshed, is Time’s beaker, from elements to ionic forms. The river of thunder alone speaks; nourishes,
The rest, is like an empty face, or a bowl waiting for nourishment, reception.
The silent face, mouth, and bowl of Nature
Is a depthless promise; stands like a gape
Or a well in time.
The one who gazed beneath the veil beholds the immortal fire
Which is the light behind the eyes
In a passage of endless black storms
Lit by the thunder of taste, touch, sensation;
The breathing breadth of poiesis.

And yet, these rapt bodies still do speak of the dead,
Like pottery’s glaze, they lie, unchinked and unmaneuvered
In a bed of silk organized as time’s web.
Her body is black; her eyes are wide and white
As she stares upon the possibility of voluminous, heaving blood.
Thus, sacrifice is merely an exchange;
Earth is like a passage, a network, between unseen, underground tunnels.
Her hidden fire is our own;
Her beating heart shows flashes of purgation;
Beneath the yellowing,
Beholds white oblivions.

The flash of fire scolds; like a dream,
Cast down reckless youth; like pictures upon a screen, life proceeds
In her delicate weaving of energetic bodies,
Sown from the paradisiacal thread,
Woven of all colours, red, black, white, orange, purple,
To represent the vase of her mood.
Life’s bottomless cup is pure music;
Even as she sits upon the throne of the veil of the dead,
Lightning crackles upward, like a pale of roots,
Thru which she is cast electric blue; blind, grappling among the impulses of trees,
The diviner.

To have come so close to death; chuckled,
Like a lover’s touch, promises reunion with these immortal fires, which lie belched and unquenched within our hearts,
Soul’s searching for righteous art; the painting of the beloved that will make us whole.
In her green ivory dress, upon the pillory,
Staring down a black isle, beneath the surface of life,
Leering with scorned eyes, dripping with pomegranate fruit.
All of those you have beloved are veils in the wind, flapping, agape,
Like escaped jars; live things, insects and worms,
Food for endless reasoning,
Between the mortal and immortal music.
You who have quenched your thirst on hard stone; lived meagre and abstinent;
Lived upon prayer alone,
For love visits in wisdom’s clothes,
Seated upon the poem’s cave,
Beckoning.

To live again, with child’s eyes,
Almost alien; immersed in splendor and paradise,
As if ages had not passed, and yet they had,
Delicate, grey, forlorn upon their passage,
Shorn of human burden; yet with eyes, almost alien,
Which peer thru the mist of carved forms,
This tinder of earth which is going up
In the cosmic wildfire,
Storm of her agony’s release; breach of her ecstasy,
Her scream which is at once a meditation and a peace.
To stroke her ill and serenade, the righteous poem of this otherside light,
To yield completion of Time; her aching longing.
To have soldered the ground; this waiting metal
Into the tangled vines of the body which sit atop this pedestal of wild humanity;
A lightning rod for vision
Who scries the cave like psyche’s mole,
Blind and obedient to the waves which beat against the topographical art of the plenum;
Beg purgation and renewal

Awaiting, this overturning, between the darkness which rests, and at last undiscerning between light and shadow,
Whose eyes peer and recognize no form amidst the night which flickers without candle or moon.
At last, there is no haunt but the dreamer’s swoon,
Who sits, awaiting watchguard, between the veil of night and day;
Between taste, touch, and rememory
Of the strange bird’s chirping at night
And the vision which beset him and was eagerly lost
By the sifting sands of the spirit
Amongst the charged heat of the day
And the eyes which spring from every corner sublime
In the energetic hunger of beseeching
From flesh to flesh
The blood which enfolds life evermore into renewal

Die, amidst the flame, like bones
Which tumble and sign, die, amidst the flame,
The planets which spin and remark and evocation
In words no less spoken, no less intransigent,
Without completion, fullness, or inner meaning.
The cave in which the psyche roams
Is emboldened and resplendent with glittering gems
Altogether momentary and worthless as the passing isle’s affair with the seagull,
The tadpole’s momentary home
And yet hold the evolutionary thrust of nebulaic dynamism.
To drink the oldest substance of the earth; to be bathed in fossilic oil;
Coated in the gel of rich collagen,
Womb’s plasma, this fresh life siphoned from dust and fed intimately across bodies
Like a great exchange of cultivation;
Pass’t from beak to beak
Like a story of energetic unfoldment

So close to madness, the human life hinges
On the empty life burning within, mute and hungry
To survive alone; proud, against the opaque horizon
Of all other things, this one life beating within, a pure surface
And entirely absorbed in minutiae.
Life’s trinkets adorned, with attention, and nothing else
To fanciful costumes, prancing about, in sad disguises
Which hide the failing face within.

That shallowness destroys us; early is our demise
Which comes in a failure to participate in the real mystique and flowing of life;
The untapped and unbounded majesty which connects one to each bird and stone.
Yet, caged within, the prisoner subsists on the meagre stale portions of bread
Which are the day’s surfeit gratifications.

But clothing that one wears, but adornments that are praised,
But trinkets that are buried in an unmarked grave,
As the soul remains hid, as in gold within a stone,
Unfeeling, unfacing; yet shocked by muted pleasures
Which resonate briefly within the hollow cavern of the body.

This world, a market of bodies, priced for meaningless gratuity, til which the body is hollowed out of blood; sucked of nutrients, for more survival
Disguised as pleasure
Subsistence hidden from the gorge of the mountains and the trees,
Where the sun passes like a dial of shadows across the sky,
Awaiting for finality

In purgatory, the meagre subsistence is treated like gold,
But for fools, to prance and gallivant about the stables of humanity
Caked in shit and sallow, consumptive.
The vacuous sickness, for possession of desire, for minimal self,
For caged body, until the chains are forcibly broken, by eternal thunder.
Awaken the body from the casket of today, into the presence of being;
Shatter it with energy.

For Time is a siphon, and it will take all that it can, to ground the human life down to ash;
They are both casualties and devotees to pure becoming, without the stillness of being; the truth of consciousness as their guide,
They go and perish in fields long since razed by their own habit.
They go and mute and dull the senses in the lashings
Given by extremities.

Man is wild; alone in fear, lashing against shadows
In a dark room, in a cave of the mind, at once impossibly small, and populated in the dark stillness
By an endless wall of stars. His possibility descends, like an angel
From the plenum of the divine mind, once invoked; worldly life relinquished.
This limited language, spoken for all of life by the animal in fear,
Given to the questing pursuit of the consciousness of his very being.

That which is channeled from within; observes the meagre sustenance of survival,
Recognize what is beyond birth and death; the immortal and eternal aspect of the soul,
Consciousness, channeled through flesh; mind, channeled through brain, imagination, and vision
Which populates even the razed field of today, a market sacked by madness;
Beggars with delusion of worldly kings.
Atop their pits of wealth, they stand not upon gold, but skulls and the daemonic emptiness of worldly hunger
Which holds no wall behind its gate.
Those who pass through are dead, as empty as the cylinder which possesses them, not that which they possess,
The instrument by which they are played; one with Nature’s mute and blindness
Like a symphony directed by the shadow’s unconsciousness.

The whole world is a blind hole, played by the blind to the blind
Without mirror, without reflection, without ascension.
It is through the fiery pit that prophets rise; reflect upon the vacuous gaze of the carnivorous belching blackness,
Which stirs and stirs in desire, itching, shaking like a snake
For hunger and hunger alone.
For blood and bodies, it splays itself among the stars, like a deep channel beneath the earth,
For bodies it claims and clamours,
For bodies it must never be whole, but always thirsting.

To sate the soul is difference, whose music is aethereal, whose music is traceless, lighter than light, without burden nor density;
Yet is played through the site of the hollow like a priest of lightning
Upon a burial ground; amidst storms of death receives the vision of the divine;
The name of the lightning and thunder, which cracks; not even a sigil emerges, nor face,
Yet spins of light to pure whiteness, yet spins of essential creation;
Throws colours like blood and blue dawns about the furrowing brow of creation,
Yet calls emanation, tore asunder spirit and rendered difference,
From god, hand, from aetheric timelessness, the river of Time,
From nonbeing, contradiction; from being, Light,
From quicksilver, Apollo’s shifting hand,
From the black snake’s lips, the shaman’s eye
Which sees across planes of light and destinies, which sees the emergence of the first crater of fire;
The flinging of a stone, like David’s slingshot,
The flinging of a word, across the abyss of creation
Upon which moss and fungi grew, upon which new words were named, in a lightning language beneath the earth;
Deep in the hidden gulching recesses of the sea;
Steaming within the molecular epiphany.

From throat of stars, is dawn of man, with eyes both white and black, gazed and gauzed beneath creation’s fold, unpiercing, mute, beneath the mind which has not sprung,
For the soil of awakening to quake in its gravity,
To emerge, almost contradictory, upward into spirit,
Like a shoot wavering in the breeze,
For mind, once fallow, pierced by cosmic light, that selfsame light which illuminates each star;
Crackles in each nerve’s burrow; dorms and sleeps in each tenting leaf;
Each wavering chasm of air, shoots heat and cold; batters against fronts of its very own being;
Unseen, as Dionysus beating against the tomb of the psyche, even as the day is like a doorway to eternity,
Even as the day is like a normalcy, a spring onion, a roiling pot,
A hidden inner gravity, which bakes and boils and stews
And must emerge, like volcanic fount,
Upon life in a new face.

Belching pit, so close to madness, the human life hinges,
Between the logic of a crocodile, and the light body’s return,
Gentle and angelic, like cousin to the nebulae, and yet different
In that it has sprung and encircled the world of blackness; enchanted the snake,
Which rose from beneath the black gates of the sewer mausoleums and pierced the mind’s plenum, just as it descended from the chorded stair of infinity,
Through the planetary gates which circle like witnesses and masters,
Which enchanted mater from beneath her feet and above her brow,
Which cross’d across the axis of her spirit’s heart,
Which beats like a great hammer against the tomb
To awaken from dreams of craft, whose fire was a shadow upon the walls of creation;
Whose fire was like an enchantment, whose eyes and ears and lips interpreted
The flaming letter, like a bush, like a carving,
Whose spirit danced in heated hues.
Essence embalmed, entombed; now immolating
In black rhythms, to whitened purgation
In the violent dance of shaking inner tombs to arise the antient dead
Whose souls were entranced by illusions which terrified slaughter;
Aroused conception
Whose souls were paraded like demons about the cities;
Fleshly beheaded and dragged behind the cart of Time’s progression
Whose drumbeat rhythm was like a lyre of ominous disharmony,
Out of joint; severed, across the world was thigh in mountain; breast in cave,
A disembodied, unholy world, whose sites must be reclaimed.

Their torture, like being roused from a great and beautiful sleep,
Holy sleep, where unity was primordial and deep, like the rocking of the waves,
Or the ensconcement of fish within their native waters, temperate and homely,
Entirely unified;
The awakening to the arousal of the mind which spoke like gods and crackled like thunder,
Terrified and conflicted, against the many voices which rattled contradictory and ununified,
As if from many sides of the brain, from many catalysts and interrogators,
Convicted of the call back to darkness primordial, and toward the light, uncertain and inflammatory,
Which would burn away all that was naught;
Their inner war was the war that burned peaceful continuity; created separation, solitude, isolation;
Sowed seeds of distrust, ill intent, meagre individual service,
Under the illusion of their breaking with the great gods
Who now commanded them from beneath the lid of their limited sight
As agents of the submerged psyche.

To turn light upon the darkness, and the crust of earth
Which barely hides great past, paved beneath streets of old, the monoliths
Which became dictatorial; the words which became law,
The ideas which became prisons; this world which is now struck low; without life,
But the land of the dead that surrounds, littered with unbroken spells of the fearing
Who in ages past protected their prisons from behind their very bars,
And were like both prisoners and wardens
In their fastidious denial of freedom, potentiated in the poets’ songs and the astronomer’s eye,
The breaking into great space, where the blackness is the key to life;
Where the breath and stillness is the ever renewed fount of wisdom;
Where it is like the Mnemosyne, the fountain of ever renewed memory
Of the still of creation, black and limitless, upon which the artist draws,
Without previous chord, fading as if music into the light
Forever golden; forever untouched; forever perfection.
It is this divine which is sung
Through each breast, beast, and being,
The immortal chord through which they are ever renewed
In their triumphant, dignified, wholly infinity.

This chord, which in truth has no sound; is silence and stillness
And yet encompasses the infinite worlds over of what appears to be busy movement
And the tumbling of light;
From this stillness of being, all is projected
As a play of the eye; a winking theatre of the spirit,
Through which the art of life is transmogrified, purified, dances, and renews,
Reaches and lilts in the immortal paradise and becomes a light to those who are seeking
That very selfsame light within.

Up from the depths, life is resurrected by the light,
Up from the depths, and the blackest pit of hunger and despair,
Where the light is twisted into bare and murky forms;
Only the blood shines, with faint hues, in the black-blue pits of the oceans;
Submerged, deep in the crust of planetary bodies.

So life is seeded; heart beats, aided by the palm of the stars,
Which flash and shine with brilliancy;
Magnetism of mind; constancy of electric rhythm, which pulses the body;
Raises the body from the narrow grave.

From light, thought shines, emanates, and sparkles,
Like a crystal, or many sided die, so mind proceeds to tumble, reflect and refract
Endless destinies.
For many pathways stem from the ocean of consciousness, like tributaries, they stream
Like rays of divinity;
Their many hues bold and close to whiteness, close, the throbbing red blood, the pulse which escalates
The beating of the heart; the charging of the blood, the roaring of the flesh
Which is the dawn of animalia, the fresh peach, the dripping greenery
Of wild earthdom; verily their life spills from the chalice of the suns
Which burn from within and illuminate their children,

That this blood beats is nativity; drawn directly from the cosmic ray,
Of heated suns, this life is novel and immediacy,
The light which illuminates the mind.
Such that thoughts tumble, is that they are gems, to be polished by the harnessing of life,
Gems of creation carved upon the physical plane; moulding of the human form
Which is the refinery of life.

That life is the first angel, which charges down in emanations, gladly, the wisdom passes through the beaker of vision and time
To be made mater, to be made creative mould and clay; to be shaped by the organized vital powers of the mind,
About hands and feet, about nerve endings and about brain.
That this charge is the charge of life, to see and see again, through eyes that are renewed;
Through itself, witnessing, and at last the name, Consciousness,
That which it is, a reclaimed eternity, image held in mind,
Of that which divined all that was born and passed away, in a spiraling symphony,
Of endless time, and in that endlessness, Infinity,
The works of art produced by the electric hand that reaches, like a charge through all things
In their magnetism and polarities.

Whose hands are charged with lightning; mind with recognition
Of the artist beneath the play of signs; the language which forms the whole of the plenum
From saplings to starlit guides; their thoroughfare, their passage,
That which is endless epiphanies,
Which pours from the chalice of its very own being,
To alight even the darkest caverns of its bodies, Descent
Into the fold of the antient, through which murky waters rises
The primordial hell, the unconscious demon,
Which lurks and lingers for fleshly means;
To rip and tear and consume.

This daimon, to meet Apollo, the charging light, Starbourne,
From beneath this fleshly carriage, uplight and uplifted
Through the nail of the stars, through which this cross of the earth is driven;
Illuminated the body of blackness, where scarcely desire was hid
With clawing nails and forked tongue, with eyes like prowling slits,
With mouth like fleshly emergence.
All born into this world like dragons in dense, carried pitted tooth
And with excited, blackened hunger
To feast upon the piles of the burning souls in cycles of mutilations,
This world of the cross,
About which there is a circle of fire
And like legions march, even this forgetting is a vehicle for enlightenment,
Even this possessed band:

Who are redeemed in the surging light of Apollo,
From light who sits in perfect meditation, as whole galaxies are born and perish,
As whole fires alight and smoulder amongst the black gape of the realm of the stars
Which stretch like pupils beneath the mask of the eyes,
An infinity of desire quenched with knowing the true nature, Consciousness,
That to which the flowers reach, that to which the winds stir the branches of the trees,
That to which whole solar systems hurl, in consterning gloom,
That whole feelings of sublimity are alight
With wild ecstasy,
And at last, plenum of white light, which burns beneath the solar terrarium
Gasped and flown through the blooded hands
Which build atop the mount enlightened feeling
In angelic marble the heart of man,

Enlightened, this, the cast from which wild forms were tugged and pulled,
Brandished and boiled, purgated and coiled,
Like a snake beneath the fold of the breast;
Like mater’s recipe, a hand of love’s sculpture, formed beneath a moon which bent
Like a marionette of forever, a microcosm’s infinity, flower’s design like a pentagram and a trinity,
This perfect divine geometry into form and figure’s revelry.
That danced atop the hills of the earthen belly,
That danced in her blooded vein; atop her volcanic balcony,
Beneath her gyrating hip, alas, soldier of light,
Which fights no wars but ceaselessly burrows into the black of being,
What destiny hid, beneath the destitution,
What beast behind the black mask, licking lips of blood,
Perched like a daemonic skeleton upon the battlefields of love,
Whose desire was buried in sinew, bones, tissue,
And at last was like a fire burning in the brain, a stirring in the senses;
Leapt from sea to land, from star to star, from perch to perch,
From carbon to lips,
And spun and spewed this earth from its fleshy tongue?

Desire, which birthed this land
And sprung the grassy call, the divine calf, the wild story
Which led to countless wars, whose knife was pulled in the village of mud clay brick
Built on high, in a hashish night, to kill a priestess or a poet,
Whose queen’s loss was a siege,
Whose carol was a war drum,
Whose forked tongue was covered in blood
Beneath each fiery grasping

Desire, which split the planets, and whose charge propelled the atom,
Whose love burst like a rifle, or an atom bomb,
Whose thrust tore asunder and yet made anew,
Verily, Creation and Destruction alike,
That energy that wrestled within, a black snake of Chaos
And a white snake of Order, entwined and shot upward,
In a ceaseless shaking dance
To pierce the plenum of the mind and move the body
Across the staircase of the divine,
Even as the earth chases a black star,
So does a black sun burn within,
Illuminated with a radiant darkness,
Whose black goddess, resting on the dais, overlooking the fields of the slain,
Does rejoice in the burning bodies,
And so, with fate, all men are tempted to join her,
And to thresh like violent sharks
Among the meat and bones

So through desire, rises the force of life, through each cyclical days and nights,
Is met again and yet again with the blazing force of energy
Which is the radiation of suns; the pure force which births solariums;
The meagre cage which contains them, like panthers born from lightning,
Shaking and gyrating with primordial energy,
Bursting from their fleshly containers; their destiny is immortality,
A revealing from the concealing, a formlessness from the form,
As the light divine is gestured from the womb of the flesh and body,
As the art is charged conscious immediacy’s
Embodied Focused ecstasy

Like a point or a node, the body is a star which consciousness rides to eternal reunity
Burning bright from within, innumerably hot and dense fires,
Through which the spirit and soul rises; sweats, smoulders, smokes,
And purgates the flame of the psyche,
From purple to red to green, from yellow to white to red,
Sweating gems of higher constancy and concentration, distilling emotive forms;
Charged, the flesh like a dragon or a diamond ride,
Like a great horse, panther, cheetah,
To which consciousness rides; ascends, like Pegasus to Hercules,
To a starry white infinity;
To the heights of conscious artistry
And burns, in the great momentous present ecstasy
To the heights
Burns Wondrous Present Eternity
Spiritus Revelation

In the light, Knowledge;
In the light, the sword which pierces the stone, illuminating the cave of the flesh of darkness;
The gems which sparkle within,
In the light of Consciousness, all that which was broken in the prism of separation imagined,
Renewed in the reunion of the mind Divine.

Orpheus, the music that alights Consciousness,
Of animal, plant, of sea, wind and stone
Divine wisdom of the stars,
To the swirling awakening of infinity,
To the meditating, still point, of the eye’s eternity,
The world is your lilting poetry;
The etching, skying work is your alight delight.

Energy field of the flesh, charged with the cosmic lightning
Of pregnancy, fertility of breath, aetheric, beaming with golden cosmic ray
Of plum and seed, verility of water in the berry;
Dense blooded meat of the sacred cow, whose life is filled
With field, flower, and fomentation
In the beakers of space and time, which shake and digest, add sinew
Atop layers of the vibrating song, whose density is ground in metals
Whose song is their vibrant connection, attraction, and repulsion

Push and pull of life, whose magnetism is transmuted, like a ladder of awakening,
Psyche, dream’s suggestion, emerged from mudded images;
Clarity, beneath the poem’s song, to sing awakening from sleeping,
To illuminate the dark corners of the plenum’s body,
To raise from depths of ocean and crusts of earth
Fiery eyes of god,
Reflections upon their spinning wheel of fire,
Consumption,

That which eats upon itself to awaken,
Snake writhing and biting upon its own tail;
Rope with which for the stars to burn, doused in the shiny film of gasoline imagery
To catch fire and burn the plenum of the stars,
The waiting midnight of the fertile dark ground, the soul from which to spring
From the coil of the mouth of the snake, crouched,
With slitted eyes, from which novel and mute blackness emerges,
With jungle eyes, with jungle flesh, with body of darkness,
Maneuvering among terrors, for fear of life’s perishing,
Like a wavering candle,
Lit from genitalia, might to not have set the hands and arms ablaze,
Their veins alight, like roots of trees, reverberating with the energy of nervous blood,
Weaving cosmic realities:

And for creation, thumps the heart and enfleshed brain, to remember with golden rays,
The river through which they run, from crown to toe,
From steeped earth’s forgot black, to pure white beacon of fragrancy,
From which both sewer and spirit’s casting angels are renewed,
From frequency of gold, bronze, copper, polished and shine,
The white flame which endlessly renews the divine
In all things, their recognition, with inner eyes
To primal flames in the midst of their contortionist awakenings,
Writhing like colourful snakes amidst the canvas of space and time,
Their massive dance of inner purgations, their hauntings from the depths,
Depths of time like dreams, like soil, like a blackness which extends
For millennia, back to pure hunger without mind of name,
To pure hunger without conception of density,
Fit to small box with small lid, fit with mouths to feed,
For energetic fermentation,
For limb to be split, cast, and renewed,
For brain to be soaked in the vat of nutriment’s juice,
Like womb to consciousness,
Like form to channel the formless electricity,
Like eels in the night of time,
Whose lightning was drawing near

To strike and be stricken, like prey ascending the ladders of meats and juices,
Like information being passed to feed the fatty gray mass, which is among the stars like an evolutionary quaking,
About the body, this vessel for alchemy, this alembic for channeling energy; mind and psyche first, like leash to dog,
Cut free to wander, like smoke from candle, the sun which struck down and illuminated the fertile fields
Through which flesh was harvested cyclically, green blood from the flowers of the sun,
Red blood from the sacrifices which fed the ground, as it shuddered, concave and convex;
Breathed the breath which fed the body
Fermented and excreted the juices, sediments and wastes, like starved ash,
It was purgated and expelled and fed back to the ground, like semen to the rivers of time,
The ovum of the earth, and was cast and cast again by the blacksmith’s hand of the universe,
Who sculpted and moulded for aeons
This mind and neurology, which like a sea of perfect infinity, saw the chaos dawning within it and met the black face,
With blooded lips of red, and spoke the white light through the red flesh; thus the red flesh glowed pure and full,
Emboldened by the passage of light, the life which was like a massacre, a genocide, an awakening through killing, murder, and flesh,
There, all horrible truths of ascendancy,
To which, like a pillar, stood the purified light of white, glowing with red harnessing,
Charged energy at last art of the body, in the journey of enlightenment, through each rung and hoop was tread
Like a circus or a carnival, lion and lion tamer, hoops of fire and rings of blood
And threat of perishment and return, blackness and renewal,
Amongst the cyclical alembic, this energetic casting and wavering, clamouring and seeking light,
And the consciousness stricken down in war, to be fed through the juices of worms and beetles,
To be fed through the juices of earthen synapses, decomposed to speech of mushroom and mossy terrarium,
This energy which seeks and climbs and spindles in sexual unity, which requires recombinatory measures
Like good to evil, man to woman, light to darkness,
To weave in time as the bodies fall like leaves in the seasonal shedding of winter’s death,
Like cloaks, like raiments, they are grown and shed, marked and cleaved;
Threshed in the ascendancy of light

And that which is consciousness is wholly all
All that which comes and comes to pass; all that which will spring, like a novel poem, like a surprising metaphor,
Upon the raising of the light from the dark passage of the bestial; down into the immortal cave where the first mother feasts upon the blood of all time;
Her threshed fetal wound, her menstruation’s blooded attempt,
From which all ascendancy emerges and strives, from blackened domain, likened soil to stars,
Imagination’s surprise, upon intake of the life altering substance, awakening the engine to itself,
Which burns and sees, like a lamp in eternal night
And illuminates the seeming paradox of epiphanies, white within the red,
Immortality within the fleshly beacon, the eternal snake within the dying, endlessly shedded skin,
Which peels away layers of mind consumed feasting and beholds the perfected jewel
Amidst the blood which tells the eternal story of life’s reasons;
Beyond reasoning, the essence, which casts fertile imagination and creates all
From her breast, first before all materiality, first before all snaking transmission of life to brain and heart, to complexity,
The shining even within blackened ash, the wavering light even within black space;
The warbling reverberation of first word, even in the darkest din, cold black space without even bestial head to signify evils

In the silence of death, the hum which is the crackling, lightning’s possibility, which birthed even from stricken blackness,
Spirit which strikes, even now like black snake or lion’s bloody mouth,
Like the song of wisdom, the unity of light, tumbling and feeding
To the realization of absolute reality

Life ascends genetically, through the material of genetic memory
The form which allows the seeding of consciousness
Transmission of generations;
The accumulation of methods and systems
Of the seating of the light of the divine
In the wild paradise of the flesh
Which roams like an animal
About the terrarium
Upon which like shines Infinity,
Becoming present to it, face and eyes
Is the encounter of the self
Within the foliage of memory,
The recollection of the leaves, calves, thorns,
And the brooks which wind and speak,
Their watery mouths
Entwined with mine
Nourishing the carriage of mind,
Brain and body,
Plenum in the fluid delicately held,
Sparkling electric,
Receiving information; feeding
Parcels of light
Growing eyes; the synapses of reflection
A mirror of god
And that which sees is consciousness
And that which it sees is consciousness;
This enlightening vision
The spirit’s passage, through space and time
In package of vibrating song,
Changed in the beaker’s reflectory and refractory experience,
Recombinatory unions, the child of children of the light,
Whose plenum mind reaches back up to the first white dawn
In each purifying gaze
Within the depths of memory
Bright with shadows, replete with history
Fertile with soil, dirt, and sedimentary Nature
Awaiting paradisiacal illumination,
Awaiting center’s heart’s sun’s
Piercing beacon,
Soothed by warm love
Harmony’s song, danced with dark chords
And resolved them, disharmony allowed and revealed
In symphony’s revelation, Golden song
At last and in all points, everywhere
Present upon a pin, a vortex, a node, a point
At which all worlds are made and emanate
In a many sided die,
Outwardly from Creation;
Verily, are Creation themselves
Dancing about the fire of their own Being,
Observing their reflection in others,
Fire within fire’s recognition
Like molecules heat and cold and form bonds
And roam free in fire, finding like in like’s magnetism;
Passing information, like a beaker, a chalice of light
In composition’s ecstasy
Will
A vase for karma, like a spool’s thread unwinding
Til the ends of revelation
Alighting the golden chord whole
With knowledge’s singing frequency
Whose song stays in each dance
Like an eternal companion of wisdom
Within each budding awakening, cracking of the soil, roses and tulips,
And their soothing aid,
Balmsong

If you want the truth, most people are empty and egotistical creatures. Their ideas and ideals of love and freedom, nothing more or less than a convenience, a dream at which they are the absolute center, and can at any second be altered for a newer, better, more self serving vision. In truth, most peoples’ love and vision is meagre and small; befits their cages, the cages they have summoned with their minds - cages with which to handle this world and this reality, in which their body consciousness is but a number among numbers, in which they have to fight for relevancy, amongst other bigger, stronger, more coercive creatures.

Their lives, in this sense, are struggles to obtain the right fantasy, the right illusion, with which true power, natural power, is disabused, put aside and away by a carnival of distractions in which excitement and fun under the domain of self centeredness is perennially at issue and at their disposal. This charade is ultimately and inevitably confronted with this, the power of nature, which is the overturning of illusion and the immediate, imminent revelation of reality. And it is in this, here, that their minds break; that they are thrown into desperate fits; latch themselves on to the nearest appearance of power, which most often happens to be an authoritarian or dictatorial presence - who has long since learned that the lamb and it’s money are easily parted by offering a seemingly clear solution to the one who has woken up from a daydream of distraction into the nightmare of political reality.

What’s worse for these masses is that their political reality is precisely something that is conjured. It’s a failure of discipline, attention, presence, and commitment to self. A failure of self responsibility. It’s that these children have lived, themselves, in a playpen spun by generations - which you can call civil society - a playpen of civilization which provides them with the precarious necessities, as long as their lives and labor are sworn to its maintenance. You can say, in this sense, that these children are kept children by the shelter which allows them to dream, but is itself terrified of the vision and revelation of reality. What if these children awoke to the genocide beneath their parade? The animal violence beneath their celebration? That it was blood that covered their hands, not glitter and saturnalia?

This is precisely the threat of reality which lurks always beneath the Dionysian affordability of civil society. There must always be bread and wine and, as Juvenal said, circuses, in order to maintain the thin veneer of order amidst the existential chaos of humanity; social organizations as a whole. For these organizations themselves are composed of constituents who have used the world as a measure and a yardstick for their sanity; with the justification of killing and abusing children from ‘other’ nations and ethnicities, mass slaughter of animals; the slow suffocation of the earth and the use of her rainforests as tinder to power their monolithic, industrial society - they are insane asylums and their celebratory masses are simultaneously willing and unwilling inmates. They are willing in that they rejoice, and unwilling in the sense that they are altogether far too unconscious to be able to truly decide for themselves if this is a worthy fate.

They have gone, in the short shrift of a few thousand years, from warding off panthers and jungle predators for meat for dinner; to survive the night, to scarfing down croissants on Fifth Avenue in New York City, spending something called money and parading about in clothes and ‘cars’ that are supposed to signify status, wealth, et cetera. The madness of this set of behaviors would not be lost on their ancestors, nor the sheer and obscene excess of it all. These children of obscene excess, particularly the children of major metropolitan Western civilization and those who aspire henceforth, are children of the delusion of excess; the grandeur and spit-shine of the materialistic doctrine which has led hundreds of millions of Western and non-Western minds alike like somnambulist puppets down into the flaming mouth of the Moloch of social, civil, and industrial sacrifice of the true inner greatness and divinity of life for products, services, and socio-cultural promises of meaning.

For this is precisely what materialism is about - the promise of meaning beneath the product. That the painting, the nail polish, the car, the hair product, that all of this will offer you, finally, what you so desperately seek - your desire, your fulfillment, your eternal ecstasy. And if not, you are simply not buying hard enough, invested completely enough into the materialist’s paradigm. You simply have to acquire more. And what this has wrought is a total and utter dearth of real spiritude, of real soul; what soul has been conjured in the arts and humanities of such a paradigm has been and must be extracted with all the will and force of a shipwrecked shareholder who has discovered a trickling stream on an otherwise parched island surrounded by salt water.

A humanity enslaved to purchasing and consumption is the dream and reality of a social order that is daemonically ruled - which is to say, ruled by the pits of the very power of the panther, which rips and tears at the flesh and looks about with slitted eyes for the next prey. The mute world of the unconscious natural paradigm of man, which in its childhood and adolescence rings so very true, is ruled first and foremost and primarily by the principle of the most immediate fulfillment of a desire as possible. If food can be delivered, it must be delivered quickly. So too with the promise of ‘love’, ‘power’, ‘wealth’, that these things must appear instantaneously, and with the full power of deity worship. And so thus we have these things, these promises of which the poets and the priests and the gods of man write, and to which we so feverishly aspire - but we have them in name and name alone. That love in this world of these men who are themselves as shallow as a reflection, is a love coerced and manipulated, a love that is screwed out of someone, like the money which they hold in their hands.

That we live from this unconscious and unexamined daemonic presence is that we function in a world of prey and predation, a world that is fueled by the very same blood of the antelope and the lion - and that some are lion’s of this world, and some are antelopes. That the lions are the willing and able to kill, and the antelopes are the weak, inferior; perhaps unwilling, if able, to commit such acts of violence against their fellow man. This is, and these are, the chief dictates of a world which is still fundamentally, and primarily, ensconced in the animal center of the gratification of desire - or the unexamined inner life.

For if we truly examine our desire for such lofty heights as love, we must also seek justice, and in such a place and world, no power really and truly exists. If we seek to really and truly achieve deep and profound romantic love, we must also seek within ourselves to know and understand and cultivate love within ourselves, so as to be able to give this profound love to ourselves, without having to attempt to force or coerce another to give us what we cannot yet give ourselves. And, of course, if we cannot profoundly love ourselves, how can we profoundly love another? Perhaps it is that we as a race and a species are self satisfied with the bare minimum within ourselves - that we can bear to love ourselves only for false and shallow reasons, for how we look makes us admired by others, for our sexual attributes, and so forth. Perhaps we are satisfied only with the dream of love, the romantic illusion and storytelling of love - when in reality, we cannot afford our loved ones depth and intimacy of any real substance.

What this reveals, of us, is the profound laziness and lack of responsibility which we take for ourselves in our own lives; thus, the profound lack of responsibility which we project into our world, and which forms our political bonds and our social reality. We chase nothing more than superficial gratification of our sensuality; thus our world is populated by the chasing of superficial gratification of sensuality; we ourselves become angry at this paradigm; bemoan the lack of real humanity. We chase nothing more than the means for ourselves; then bemoan the lack of social constitution, community, and collaboration in our world - the profound lack of real relationship in both romance and friendship beyond the extortion of another for our own personal means and self elevation. This hypocrisy, our failing, is the last thing which we truly wish to see. If we can sit, where we always sit, immersed in our self distraction and lack of self examination, and levy this blame upon anything and everything else, we will. We will continue to seek outlets for our boredom, for our misery, for our discontent - at all possible turns - for risk of truly turning our eye upon our house, and witnessing the profound disrepair and catastrophic state of affairs of our inner life. And the worst of it all, is that we will have realized, that in our perennial turning away into distraction and superficial fulfillment of superficiality, sensuality, and ego-propping ends, we have disabused ourselves of ourselves, lied to ourselves, cheated ourselves - and in fact moved so, so terribly far away from that which we truly desire. Love, goodwill, friendship, compassion, appreciation, sharing.

For we, in our turning away from ourselves, have nothing to share, nothing to contribute. So we take; we use our bodies, we seduce, we manipulate, we control, we extract, to get that which we think we want, that which we think will satisfy us. And this cycle and circle is endless. And yet we are always returned to ourselves. Our emptied, disabused, exhausted selves, our selves which we have neglected. And the further and further this procession goes on, the more terrifying it is to be returned to ourselves. For we have nothing to offer; time passes, we are more and more without a home at a soul level. And to turn and face that as one ages is nothing short of terrifying. To face that, for so long, we have not only ignored but denied ourselves; chosen a path that is not only fundamentally unsatisfying and unsatisfactory, but one which is a fundamental self betrayal; that we suffer at the face of this.

Those who live this way, in the procession of desire, live in a perpetual parade of masks, tugging at their faces, hiding their desperate sorrow, fear, and shame within. It is the same to turn to another, to take from them - whether it be body, materials, resources, time, attention, energy - because it is so common, and so few actually ‘have’ in a spiritual sense. So few actually have a nexus of self, a love, a joy that they have cultivated, a closeness, a center, a real center - not just an ego image that has to be fed by social and cultural reflections. One that exists entirely apart from the appearances and games and distractions of mankind. And this is what, in actuality, we all desperately need. And yet we are so afraid to face ourselves; perhaps we feel so unable - to face and mourn what we have truly done to ourselves; in turn, each other, and this world.

The suffering of this state of being is so deep; so lost. These people - they live a life in shadows, of shadows, of chasing glittering appearances which behind them offer nothing more than vapidity and shallow, dull, distant, even possible hints and allusions of ‘satisfaction’. This is how they paint themselves, decorate themselves, with symbols which indicate ‘wealth’ or ‘fulfillment’ or ‘status’ - and this is that to which they strive and attempt to attach themselves, like parasites or leeches to an image. And this is all that is, just an image. The people who wear these cloaks and clothes are themselves just as empty as the rest; perhaps with deeper and blacker holes within them, unnourished inner self, abandoned inner child, with no shining sun of one’s true private joy and self cultivation from within, but a taking that is perhaps even deeper and more profound than those who take amidst the masses. Their celebrities, their wealthy, they must acquire that much more from others, the earth, the world, they must take that much more than just a daily bread of adoration, adulation, and words and currencies of falsities, trees, fossil fuels, labor of bodies - they must maintain such a sacrificial load that amounts to hundreds if not thousands of the average man. They are dealing with outsized egos, outsized images, that are impossible to upkeep at the level of a natural, nonetheless spiritual, or soul-centered, existence.

What life must be returned to is the earth, the center of the body. What we need is metabolic fulfillment, a sense of interconnectedness, a deeper sense and understanding of who we are within; communion with the child within us, who seeks and loves to play, who enjoys the endeavor of learning, connection with others; enjoys the mystery and majesty of the earth, playing in streams, discovering animals; the changing of the seasons. To lose this, and for this to become a shadow, to be put away in some dustbin in the far reaches of the psyche, is nothing more or less than near total indoctrination into the mindless, soul sucking, materialistic paradigms of void; consumption for hyper-accelerated purposes to feed truly insane and mentally ill structures and the individuals whose derangement is suited to pull the levers of forest killing and river polluting; village killing - and to feel nothing more or less than the mute pleasure and self satisfaction of obtaining money, of which to spend on houses, cars, yachts, the rest.

What we have lost, and perhaps never had outside of inner tribal traditions of shamans, medicine men, and healers, is a true and profound attention, compassion, interest, devotion, respect, and responsibility for life - which extends through us, to us, and in all things. It is this that we are missing, this is our gold, this is our solution. It cannot be found in accumulation of the illusion and image of wealth. This is the true definition of wealth - a wealth of inner attention; paying attention to our inner gold. We listen to our souls, our energy, our inner selves, and make manifest who we truly are within. This is not coercion, manipulation. On the surface of life, we set up systems so people can get what they need, equally. Healthcare, food, water, shelter. These systems are well within our means to establish with our current technologies and resource grids. We must move forward; move on from this hyper-egoic materialistic paradigm of consumption and possession into a true soul-meaning center. A car, food, whatever it may be, these are important resources, but to become overly enamored with the shiny veneer and surfaces of life, we cannot be entranced and live and die here. We must have what we need to survive and to live happily and healthfully, then focus inward, in inner meditation, on communing with our true selves, our inner children, our inner soul - beneath all the noise and clothes and peacocking and attention seeking. Such a place of being is quiet, still, and there we can truly hear ourselves; we are the essence of nature. We must find and be with that inner gold; first we must know to seek it out, and to create the necessary social conditions to do so. This requires acknowledging the blatant and clear limitations of materialism, and the kind of social schizophrenia which develops when we become far, far too greedy and enamored with attention and the perceived ‘gold’ of this world, which is nothing more than the hint of the shine which we see, the shine which is truly within ourselves, just waiting for our ears and eyes to acknowledge the child within, who has so long been disabused for social praise, political gain, religious motivation, and so forth. We have been pushed and pulled this way and that by human life, and all this while we have not known who we truly are; in this sense, we have never truly known the meaning of love. Neither love for ourselves, nor love for or from another. And this, this is deep, deep poverty.
The liar’s seat is for evolutionary means;
Only once abandoned, the truth is told,
To descend to the shadow of the valley, and at last all desires scrapped,
Spirit filled with body, body with spirit,
And thus, uplilts, in the everlasting song.

For eternity, unseats the daemonic materiality,
In materialisation’s birth, a cyclical unending, a snake’s enchanting,
A viper’s toothy pit, which ensnares the life, and directs it towards means,
A’way from the lilting majesty of poetry, the life which has no such concerns as discontinuities.
For man to face life he must become more than an animal; grasp the godly essence,
Beyond the birth and fruiting and deaths of grapes, beyond the enchanting of maidenic seasons,
Beyond the bounds of Eden,
Unseated, whose sex is lightning, fury, unchained and untamed, without cage of language,
Speech, called neither hither nor thither, called neither to ends nor means.

Life is free, from desire’s birthing again, immortally,
Past time’s villages, and their snare,
The commonplace rhythms of mortality, stooped and cast low is man’s burden
To which cities and ages and aeons call,
To return him to pasture - like a beast, upon all fours, like a ploughshare,
Away from the fires of god.

Man’s song is lilting and free, and for a moment’s lasting eternity,
World is whole and symphony is for ears which have forgotten
Worldly and mortal words.
The song itself does not depend on the rebirth of desire,
Sings far and away from all that comes and goes from this place.

Enchanted, thy dance, to the song and rhythm of lies, a song against song,
A story against the real, which shakes and dances, beckons,
To empty pits of fear, upon cliffs which story crumbles, world is built
Whose ending is always infernally near.
To fire and fire, all, at last, the world descends, purified and purgated in the blaze;
Time’s passage is the mounting of the fear of the real upon the weight of the story,
Slogged in the hour upon hour criming of lies,
The house which they have meagrely built;
Miserly is the half song
Which forgets and foregoes the wrestling with god.

Pitted against eternity, and at last soothed by the realization of eternity,
The spirit seats in flesh’s art, and thus, the play of desires halts; the animal stands upright
Whose questioning is answered by the call of life divine, everpresent, and without separation or distance.
Whose stomach chases bread, whose loins chase feeding, whose body burns for reconciliation,
Whose hopes were hid in the harness of elsewheres;
There, the story is tread, like a prism, like a cage, upon which to feast and feed,
And hold delicate balance of submission and slavery.

It is the trick of light, unseeing with it, that these apparitions of misery
Haunt and enchant men; lo them, calf them to lesser being,
Forgotten, with eyes to ground, which birthed them, which alone can give them meaning;
Trapped in the vision of fallen forgetfulness.
Tie them to bread, tie them to pleasure, tie them to the tithe of burdening, carrying loads
Upon which the story must be sustained.
Upon their backs the rhythm which without life’s song, cannot be sung, is perennially restored.

To life, to world, to grass, to baying fit, is man’s prison, playpen,
Amongst stories he must proclaim, story to himself and others,
Amongst lie he must invent, lies and lies again, for the self satisfaction of a world which spins, fundamentally
Upon an immortal axis of fire, against the fear of the flames
He must fan the smoke of denial; whose witness is the others, cowering in fear against the shadows of darkness.
Mutually supported, uplifted, by the prisoners again
Who march around in betwixt, bewitched circles
Forever upholding the bardo of births and deaths.

Break from this circle, the hegemony of lies, the story whose telling
Is crafted by snake’s imagistic energy. What lies beneath the surface is that which wishes to obtain leverage,
Like a lever, the world moves and is moved by man’s dreams, and the tithe of the story
Which sells itself to him like an image of reality.
Enchanted by screens, thy Maya, that seeks to perpetuate, to harness the power of the spirit of men
To the siphon and creaking engine of civilization’s metal hearth and fire, fire amongst fire, song amongst song,
To sway in the way of Moloch, to chain man to desires; to hold him in the sway of their chain-linkage,
To one man’s desire, a woman and a man is held in a dance, of leveraging desires
To produce outcomes - to induce belief;
At last, to enslave labor to uplifting the song of the storied dream
To which the last man is enchanted.

Snake charmers, in a house of snakes,
In a city of mirrors, is the civilization of men, all toward the image of futurity, the fulfillment of the image’s desire,
Whose smouldering blackness, beneath, behold, the depth of nothing;
A great, gaping black nothingness, to which they are realized; harnessed to self deceit,
The warning of the snake’s jaws, the warning of entrapment, buried there, in the mute mouth of nature,
Whose entire breast is this world, whose entire beacon must shine with a siren’s light
As an enchantment, for the enlightening realm of the spirit -
Whose world must be lifted, lilted, animated by the spirit of belief,
Whose hands are the engine of coals which burn at the hearth and fires of this world
Destined to perish in the greater spiritual fire
Which burns within the souls of men like suns
And yet, are played to the picture’s vices, and yet, are played to the carriage of desires
Which enslave him; his star to ends.

Let that star burn free, and, lilting,
Let that song be infinite and true, as it stands, within the stillness and silence
Which is the gravity of the spirit, before and beneath the stories which grip the terrors of men,
Which grip and hold the night of their dreams and the empires of their waking days
To which they labor and aim with futility
To a dream that will never be realized
But within the black jaws of capture and slavery
To a story built upon the terror of disabusing passage, the turning away of lies.
This, so, is the death of life,
In the slavery and slog of the everyday,
A story passed down through the ages and told to men,
Who shall tell it to their children,
A lie to lies,
A thin veneer,
Of slavery to the image of life, which must be told, with desperate urgency
At risk of the truth revealed.

The struggle to survive is profound; yet we all must reach community
In the glorious contemplation of our internal unity
Free woman to woman, man to man;
Human to eternal, immortal self
By way of releasing the shackles and chains of oppressive forces
Which divide and deprive, manipulate and control, extract, rape, and disabuse
By way of violence and coercion
To man, to woman, to earth, for extracting power;
For extracting pleasure.

We must find greater ways of creating equity and equality
Through education, empowerment, and distribution of resources
So that one may not fear for their life at the hands of another. A society well educated
In the interconnectedness and sacredness of all things - plant, animal, earth, stone, man, woman
Human.

Communication excerpt

The way that trauma makes people behave is insane
you can definitely see it in how men and women treat each other to extract things from each other; creates long standing social conditions where people have to be manipulated and coerced and manipulate and coerce to get what they need to survive
So dissociated from a real conception of feeling interconnected as a community, fostering communal safety and wellbeing and collectively contemplating a sacred vision of humanity as interconnected to the evolution of the universe
Loss and dearth of spirituality; instead religion is a way of controlling and manipulating people to give their money and belief to people ‘more powerful and more religious’ than they are; same thing with government, and work and relationships
We have such a long way to go in fostering a culture of collective sacredness and self and other respect that we are not using and manipulating each other for desire fulfillment and to extract things from each other and from the earth; to instead have enough vision to look at the earth and humanity and plants and animals as sacred; deserving of respect and appreciation for the life that flows within and through them; within and through us
Instead what we have is a society where people are so afraid and damaged that they believe the only recourse is to coerce and manipulate people by force of threat and violence and death to get them to do what they think they want; when in reality all they really want is love, decency, respect, community, and the ability to live and thrive in a world where there is mutual respect, joy, and a sense of art and sacredness to life
Beneath all the trauma and wounding
Hype artist of death, concurrent wiseman of black hole magnetism,
Universe who strides forth, bold conqueror, leopard in rags of gold,
Whose beaker is bubbling with great roots of ancient trees, fossils, tire tread of dying stars,
Whose charnel house is a junkyard filled with glass shards, immortal reflections, sirens of wind and clouds,
Beckonings to the scrying glass, whose eye has seen the dreams of man, his fury, his clenched fist, his desire,
Universe, who screams and thunderclaps and cries primordial, like a lost dog, a steam engine,
Itself with claws and talons -
Your antique, renewed in the laval vat, fore ears and eyes to spring out of forgetting,
Like a seed of consciousness, vein renewed of flowing blood
To empty yourself and be filled with what is beyond death, fear of madness,
Then eternal emptiness, then eternal wholeness -
Purgation is your quest,
Fire is your path to tread

With a witness of a thousand eyes upon a string, whose head is a lap of skulls,
Whose threads are pulled assembly to the music of all creation;
Whose winding threads are mind and yours, whose make them gold
Is the claim of the daemon, whose caven, quiet darkness knows hints of the vibrating black
Bursting creation, and like stars and gas, painters were set among the nebulae,
Genius is in each ray, each pathway, which finds its way to the ground of the mind, like a beacon,
Rich black soil, through which its tenders crawl, nightwatchmen of decomposition,
Whose return and admixture has churned earth and stars, night and sun; moon and water
Whose body is the tides; whose mind is the wind,
Listening,
To the weaving of the golden thread amongst the chirping of the crickets,
Whose music will awaken the unconscious murder,
Shadow realm, who walks of love and dreams of blood,
Remember me
Your witness, whose touch of the hand is your curative, ye who wanders in desperate fear,
Who touches nights like the marrow of bone;
Who is reminded of your own, veil of fatal immortality

You, joking, veil of death,
Burst and blast forth the cosmic energy, which alights the spine, body, and mind,
Who has crawled and climbed upright; looked upon the vast plenum with eyes like telescopes,
Mind like an inquisitor, whose veins themselves and whose synaptic brain, passed electric on like stars,
The thoughts and eyes of ideas and mind which shot through the night
And alight, pierced the veil of death and produced the immortal vision,
Ay, Truth
Availed to those empty but of the light, all such memory of the private art burned away;
Filled with the cosmic sun of immortality, such pure energy, stews and boils,
Burns away impurities of thought and fills the beaker with vast historical memory,
The truth, which climbed from vast bacterium, to fish who chanced, up a great chain,
A dance which at each moment passed genetic information, gave and gave til the mind which sparked,
Was an opportunity amidst the throwing die of life and death;
Amidst the inner swirling of the cosmos and stars,
Who mixed and mixed again, the fury, the bones, the soil, the stones
In recompository artistry

Universe, how your fate and draws, how your magnetic current’s electricity, flows through me and calls,
Like greatness, like the yawning of a lion, like the fierce force of wisdom that I am
That I embody, flows through me and charges all life, ye who has become conscious
Of that which thou art, this great fury of electricity, the energy which composes the deeps of suns;
Thy very charge, emboldened, the channel that I and thou art;
Until, at last, I and thou are fused; art one eternally.
To fly into the gape and make whole,
To solder the black elements into an art with the golden string;
Thy lyre is Orpheus, Perseus, thy lyre is descent and rising;
Thy lyre is the spark amidst the darkest din of the deep;
Thy lyre is the one that makes the black snake conscious and whole,
Thy lyre is the one that imminently makes conscious and whole
Lightning eye unity
Of sight

The psyche prepared
In vat and stew
Of black juice, writhing black snakes
Deep within the flesh and pits of the earth,
Seeded, entangled and entwined with fiery purpose and means;
Eyes without knowledge of the fire
Thrashing and threshing to life; to copulation; to sink teeth into fanged flesh
And thus arise, in the cosmic inferno
Up from the darkness
Towards the light,

An inevitable evolution
Of procreation and hunger, feeding the fatty gray masses of the fleshy brain
Charging the electricity; alighting the being and the stewing within,
Whose cosmic furnace is charged towards recognition of the infinite,
The stars which stewed above are the same that are beneath him
In the same way that wildfires are made upon this earth,
The primordial mind and body have risen
From copulations and blood; seed and soil, flower and grasses
In a millennia of copulation, world as concubine,
Flesh’d earth as womb -

For the fire that burns within, alights the cavernous black;
From outward in emerges the dream, of flashing imageries,
Bending and shaking the cavern walls,
Of the mind behind the eyes, the one which sees;
Bewitched in hunger without a second glancing,
A hunger pure and consuming, a hunger without memory
Of the higher mind which beckons to birthing

All life driven toward these ends,
Awakening; the art of energy;
The channeling of cosmic solarity into conscious flowing,
Outpouring of the white electric eye of the mind’s sight
In waves of agape loving feeling
The steady rising of black electric in warm music,
In rhythmic, relative, cyclic time
Toward the light;
Enlightenment of the very source and essence of its essential Being within,
The very energy which once swung with piercing vitality
In self recognition
Harnessed the blows to canvas
Of enlightened feeling
Artistry of creation

Once blind, like from worms,
Or the lashings of the dark, tempestuous sea,
Men stand between here and god
Like the earth and her soil’s riches
Reaching toward the great pillars of light, that reside, gaseous,
Like memories of explosions,
Hidden deep in the fist and veins of the cosmos.

Like from worms they rose, with veins like tendrils and tendons,
Bone and marrow, face and eyes, ears and tooth,
To commune with leaves, branches, and the split open flesh of beasts,
With aged blood, they spun their time, over passing moons and eclipses,
Occulted suns and the chaos of the memory of darkness,
Which threw them back into ancient jungles;
In which human blood spilled upon the stone.

The patterns in nature, like the planets spun,
Weaved into the flower’s petalling,
Weaved into the mind’s eye, and the synapses flowing,
Like lights of dawn from foreign stars
Passed through the long nights to the eyes of men
Whose house was one among the holy infinity,
Whose house was but a cell and a whole;
The ocean from which they sprang.

What was once a serpent, which coiled them in the jaws of death,
Their minds like cages, unknown was their composite body,
But a black storm, an opacity -
Now came the sense of the blood’s rhythm; the pulse in the stems of lilys
And dragonfly’s flowering,
Now came the buzzing to the ears and the snake
That was writhing within them became the jaws and the temple floors -
Awakening to the cosmic energy, once dormancy
Piercing the mind;
Illuminating the valley of the stars.

In the regularity of the days and nights,
Sameness, shifting, recombining, baking and moving
In the furrowed brow of the plenum, consterning,
Gazing out upon the rungs of the chaos ladder, from which life was climbing
Eyes were forming; mind was recognizing
To solder the wound of infinity back together;
To recognize that, from whence they came,
Evil was a falling into the crust of the earth
That enabled the rising, the fury from the clay,
The expression of consciousness -

And her structure rose and fell, like sands, the very waves and molecules
Grew wisened in the vine and still of the passage of time,
Like wine, it grew a taste like mouths
With which to sample its own sensation,
Within the beaker, fermenting, and acquiring strange faculties,
With which to access the whole of creation;
To participate in the dance and song of infinity
With the instrument of the flesh and body;
To sing song at once alight from within
And ancient and old,
A song from before the very birth of time
And for the first time,
Conscious and present to its eternal ancestry.

O glorious farce,
You who loves everything and nothing at once,
How your desire thickens and spits
Like semen in our watershed
Your genetic material flies everywhere
Like lovers in a bathroom stall
Like an animal’s burden,
Like flesh to be shed and threshed
Among the bright angles of the moon and stars,
You basilisk,
Who quietly waits for the dawn of night’s devouring
You, cave of bloodlust,
Who sheds bodies like cloaks, burial mound of nature’s primordial and first genocide,
Your eyes, to whom all is causality and casualty,
Your eyes, to whom all beckon like fires
In your raging, writhing snake’s dance
You, whose fury is both sexual and murder,
Both death and consummation,
You who have burrowed within the soul and hung suspended, electric,
Your wires in the flesh of meat, eels,
The dungeon comb of mollusks and mosses,
You, whose whole world is a mere shell for your power,
You, whose thrust of centuries is an eternal now of fury, whose world steams and boils of hell,
Whose dream is a carriage for your awakening,
Like fox or snake, leopard or lizard, lion or wolf’s spider
Who waits for night to shed, whose black temple is lycanthropic,
Whose bloodlust is epic and eternal,
This whole world is your casket and immortal,
The one who leaves you is already dead and lost to time.
Do not go to stone, do not wander and sway,
Dreamers, of this night with eyes like darts,
Whose mouth thirsts for flesh and blood.
World of form, who’s spun by your web,
Electric and carnality,
You, carnival of desires -
Feed -
On the entrails of eternity,
On the thread which weaves higher and higher,
To mind among the stars,
Whose imagination thrusts like memory
To shuttles of stars and colourful dust.
Weave, creatrix
And feed,
Your unity embedded in the very code which turns your face, twists your smile,
Alights your blushing genitalia,
Remembered or forgotten,
You weave

Veil of maya, veil in whom seeds have been thrown,
Carelessly, into stone, your images of flowers
Are like a map of veins, and like your winding lines of colour
Are crystalline genetic memory;
You who breathe and heave, and release, in bedroom throes
Of ecstasy, your stars are endlessly reborn,
Scream, and flee into dread realms

Foreign dimension, where mind has traveled and hid
Into lands black and dead, curled up in corners
And laid, like a dead dog in the breeze
Beneath this last desert tree - from whence symbols do not pass,
There are no numbers to describe your infernal black legion
Who tremble and shudder like a pit and vat of snakes:

For each hour is copulation, your biting hunger
Seethes and snaps, like first winter’s wind,
Which makes petals in their burrow shudder and die.
All flee from your cold touch, demoness,
Whose black hair is delusion - temptress whose night is the bringer of dreams
Into sleep we tumble like the gambler’s dice
Into the hand’s of psyche’s foreboding chance

Regain me, guideless, and without lamp in this fugue of your storming.
Angry, bitter darkness which swirls and bites at the heels,
Black dog of hell!
Restore me - o’ ancient symphony,
Which without fail tangles copulating snakes of destiny.
Hilt to hilt, I travel amidst the revelry of the dueling sun and moon;
I dance as if enraptured, as this world’s painting
Draws an infinity in the sky

As a saying grows old and dies, these stones crack and reveal life;
Give themselves up like a criminal to the earth,
Spring’s crumbling.
If all seasons were bound up within me this spool of my thread
Would wind and unwind eternally, at the hands of the weaver’s wheel -
Heart - reserve not cages of solitude for me,
Bitter, meagre darkness,
Bread and milk bowls.

Chamber of the heart and body, heaving and caught in the wind
Time moves forever forward; presses at angelic backs,
Each moment’s marble, movement’s fury
Was my art; in reflection, what is left is moon’s light;
Cool blue pools of darkness
Which shimmer delicately in the wind.

O’, guide this soul toward the light which is tempting dreams.
Ancient lover, I have known you forever, and you have pulled me toward you closely,
Shivering, like a ladder or a rope.
Your darkness is like seductive words
Which pulls me forward into unknown ecstasies.

Aspiring ever higher and further,
O’ how your face changes, dies and is resurrected in the passage of nights.
You lay your hands on me and make the promise that would still even the inner workings of purgatory,
Working with sweat upon her brow.
O’ goddess, move the earth, even as you are trembling - expert seductress
How can I craft the dream which is your highest art;
Chisel into stone your beauty, which in each night evades, elusive;
Shapeshifter
You who come calling in my darkest hour,
Come again, to this dreaming bed;
Bring this immortal art forth,
Draw majesty from me like a stream from a mountain.

Land of dreams, ever free, whose art is proud and broad as the horizon of the sun; the aching arc of the moon;
Within me spins the mind which whets green life; through which plants speak,
Let it the speak from the deep mind, and the first flowering of the code which spirals into being
Whole powerful thrusts of destiny, and places each cosmic world in its rightful place.
All of your components, which you have poured into me,
Planets, stars, gestures, forces,
The fluid river of divinity which I am and flows ever through me,
Rendering me the stone of myself and nothing -
Eternity, this swimming,
Eternity, this stillness

I shall play the lyre before the mirror,
And although there is no reflection, as dark as night,
The pitch of the occulted, quiet moon;
There is no scurrying, but the damp fury and pounding
Of hearts within wooden chests,
There is that which threatens to shatter it -
Fist of earth, fire and sinew
Which is the hand and flesh,
That despair of the tree grove or the frond - in place and time,
It will amount to the very balance and scale of the universe;
All that exists would else tip over, like a teacup,

O chance, beyond reason, dynamism that is like light reflecting off a thousand mirrors,
How will I know your rivers, which flow like the synapses in every mind, and rush like every returning to the ocean.
Surrendered, are all small islands to that which surrounds
And batters their supposition of land.
This small inner paradise has vast expanses
Like hidden inner depths
Which flower beyond the limited vision; apparition of roots.

So is my song inflected by the subtle howling
Of a thousand baying dogs in Indonesian complexes
Or the sacred grottoes of stone temples, whose cave openings are like mouths;
Where strange wings speak like the thrushing of death
Against their ease and collarbone.
All graveyards are like a reminder of dissolute returns
To primordial forms.

Stoneless, and broken by the deeps of space,
Earth as a cavern drifts, lonely, warbling, in her pitch of planetary songs.
Subtle orchestra, in which the dreamer digs like a spade,
Gravedigger in the soul,
Exhuming many lifetimes and overturnings.
It is how we are rich with light; transfusions of meaning.

Creator within, who rhythms and slows and codes the flesh,
Whose language is form and body,
Heat and ray of light -
Whose coils reach into the deeps of space
And catch the sun like gems of dew,
Life radiates and warbles; yes, it is strange and miraculous
Almost impossibly alien and foreign;
What work of art surpasses, alone, the living supple breast
Of your making?

Milk that flows from life; honey, fruit and berry
And the work that strides within it, beside it, poesie from the human heart
Is captivated and participated in the eternal unfolding;
Trees who have lived close to the length and breadth of your life,
Whose roots have mingled with your perennial brush and mind.

Your change is slow, dyed and coloured in the rhythms of millennia
Change which twisted and shifted in the light like a dance of forms
Who rose from increasing complexity to contemplation -
Crack’t open, with the spiritual uncertainty,
Unknowing prayer; foregoing of knowing’s fixity.
For mind is not stone, it is in movement like water
Or evolutionary time.

To be one and among the swimming, the divining, combining,
And retreat to separate rooms, where one is partner
To the inner world of dreams and contemplations of nebulaic paintings.
Who and what else could exist in such solitary corners of the universe with such beauty
But a vital organ in a state of perfect meditation

The divine consciousness hears the open humming of the heart; its chanting
The levitating song of the bee, and the crackling, bustling
Of seeds within their timely urns, gesticulating,
Beckoning with the sun of springs.
O’ one’s eyes and ears to see, one’s mouth and tongue to speak;
To know what the crow says in the reach at the end of the world, at the end of time
By the cave which churns the butter of the inner cosmos
And peaks at the lilting of the light,
The chorus of all forms -

To be one and among, whose mind at best may read the language and code of the living
But whose heart thumps and threshes through the undergrowth of temporality
To sing the greater song of writing,
Undiscerning creator, you whose masterwork is as much a bush as a fire,
As much a living, addled voice as a mouse, a microscope,
The living hands and the space that filled them, gave them breath;
The stomach to feed and fire the kiln of life.

It requires, alas, the still of the heart; where all of life intercourses,
The hands and all of the fire returned to its pacing, quaking, rhythm
The heart at which all things are burned away and stilled in their loving, expressive energy.
All things lilt toward the divine, the loving.
That which ascends frees them like birds from unlocked cage;
That which ascends at last knows no death through them and their life, knowing their shared heart
Is a common rhythm; their struggle is a struggle for emergence,
The language of the heart which they seek to speak
In all tributaries of code standing for truth;
The proud dignity of life, which is not cut off nor blocked;
Runs with fervor through the birds at the break of day and the candle which feeds them,
The seed which nourishes them,
The clouds which hide them;
The body of life, which is their protectorate, through which their song emerges
In the great chant of being

O’ mind, who goes wild and howls
Trying to understand your inborn reason, your vast and diverse complexity -
Your art is maximal, breathtaking, spiraling and yet eternally different and same
In its diffusion and suffusion.
You flow through all things, marking them with strange majesties,
Like a crystal ceiling of stars within the quartz, with a catching, sparkling rhythm
Within the eel, who also I have ingested, and who has ingested me.
Each day forever alters your spool, winding and unwound within the ancient composition of these hands and feet and face;
Yet what am I?
I must be of this form and yet of darkness, confusion, control, chaos,
The struggle of winds which at each moment stray and sway fate in awkward directions;
Yet unballast by your cool infinite spring, your spiritude,
How it is your face and heart on all things, the art and arbitrary line between life and death;
How I feel your veins on my smooth stone, which I take upon my palm and toss and turn like a sleepless night,
Whose ocean is a valley and a gorge, in a black and blue darkness upon which my own mind is reflected,
Like a sea of glittering gems, illuminated especially in a sky made black by stilling of luminaries.

Light from within, your solace is something beyond eternity or catechism.
Your solace is something so wild and young it can only be captured in ecstastic feeling,
Plenum of a warm sun and friendship over the hills of a wedding, wandering, stumbling and drunk
Across aching fields of perfection - desire, desire, and at last, pure odes of feeling
Which pour tremulously from your breast - love, recognition, of soul within soul, self within self,
The feeling of being at one and the joy of a orange sun lingering among radiant clouds, deepened and burning and bursting of all hues,
That is your glory,
Even among animal compassion, so deeply desired, it is a joy beyond giving and taking
A presence and presencing.

That which my mind can dream, is my psychic dimension; my arts are revelries,
Like a branch or a note. The whirlwind of life passes, a stream, which knocks about my flowers and their seeds,
My branches and their fruits, into a spreading and harvesting.
All of the light’s turning is my shadow and shade.

From within me, emerges a great and buoyant darkness. Look how it carries all things, like a womb, or an embryo,
Waiting to be born.
They are curious and enchanted with excitement, to experience their culmination in the expression of things.
For they are painted upon the land with native life, and carry within them inexpressible perfection,
And are the very manifestation of it.

Your roots are so deep within me that you, even as a flower, are a seed to another place and time,
A fertile changing, a presencing which will yet become hidden revealings,
A light in the turning shade of the moon’s arrow,
A light in the unfolding force which darkens and obscures, lightens and illuminates;
Shifts shade and form according to what is necessary, according to what is the inner expanse -
For your living and dying is an accommodation of mere capacity and energetic expanse.

Psyche’s game, is large in the reach of who I am. For there will always be outer rungs of greater darkness and obscurity,
To which men either strive or flee, like moths to a lamp, or refugees from a great terror.
Such beasts truly have no face and no name, for they are both beast and salvation,
Both hidden shade and unknown ecstasy.
Which notes hide within the great trumpet of Time, whose unplayed notes have deep, unexplored dissonances
And surprising resolutions.

The match struck within you reflects all great mysteries, all stories of Time that have yet to be told and are unwinding;
All stories of time that have forever been told.
In my still, there is the fire that burns imagined forces of agonies. In my still, there is the fire that torches confusion;
Burns away the bright mystery to the quick until the whole of the skies become my veins.
There, you will see the blood that is like hands and arms of the great cosmic mystery;
There, you will see the eyes that are everywhere; deeper and more subtle beyond eyes;
The whole world that is awaiting for illumination.

For the sun that is stuck within you is awaiting passage,
The arts, from which my ray-hand spins, the die of illuminations,
Emanations and ecstasies. That the flowers reach for me is good and natural,
Just as the trees create veins of black space between their joints, knees, faces, hair;
That the forest floor is a siphon; it sings and speaks, gives and takes merrily - in the abundance of wealthy soil’s rapturous overturning.

Within nature is the heart and mystery of gold, and it is cultivated, churned and churned again,
Like a great and pure butter, a healthy and warm hearth, which is the still of the heart
Which soothes in a song of crackling electricity; it knows the song of the mushroom intimately;
Its trees are the face’s hands,
And only such a song to understand, in a way and the words of the heart,
Which is an immortal traveling.

From here to there, in truth, my breath resides everywhere,
As a massive, missive inhalation and exhalation.
Soothing, it is where the dream enters and exists,
Exists and exists, exits and climbs the stairs,
All the while within my tumbling unfolding, my lighted shining;
Twisting and tumbling like rays beneath the warming green, the leaves and foliage
Which passing changing hands consume and pass through them,
In an energetic fervor in which all is becoming one and another entirely.
How my whole countenance changes,
In the encountering of the wisdom language of plant-living;
The warm purring of the love which rises, fauna,
The might of the mind which at last breaks through to the plenum of the silent night and the holy sparkling of the stars
In their stillness, silence, and cool burning.

Alas, mighty paradox, whose mind shakes fitful unto the awakening alighting of the veins,
Their goldness, through leaf and burrow, through plant and animal, through stone and star,
Lilting, uplifting, through coursing mind, to the realization of Imagination itself -
That which is me, that which I am, that which is my joy.
Conscious Imagining, alas, is the art which solders the gape, and heals all wounds,
The art which dreams and dreams through the night;
Sees the eternal sun of the stars and earthly beings; the unknown, which to the mind appears dark,
Beyond the flesh and eyes; into the heart’s seeing,
That which is profoundly new and yet intimately, eternally entwined;
Alas bursting, playing, pulsing, relaying,
The network of immortal life.

Silent Nature, covetous of empty,
Wine, shoestrings, purse-bags, the last monolith, from the ocean; from deep in the husks of dirt
Dragged out your bronze figures from dead men; their lingering eyes upon the dead gods,
All whose names are looming in spaces where luminaries are planetary,
Obscured by hidden candles.
Your night burns softly and sweetly, like a nightingale.
All of your names are nurses for the star of death, whose face is like a satyr,
He owns a tire shop, or he is some mercenary in a Russian war.
He is the one who made the shoes your dead wear,
Who linger on the stoop, their eyes, your bodies, in a pile like worn out clothes..
Ah, what a mess we’ve made,
Dancing with death and deadly things like it was a wedding, riotous disguises in the ballroom,
Chucked off blitzes upon the champagne, tired, hungry, starving,
Early hours of a genocide,
The last strip mall.

There was a time where we made love in a desert marketplace,
There was only dried fruit and dried meat, and it was not love, but lust, and human entanglements
Were like a serpent around the throat of a land dotted with poppy seeds.
I showed you painting after painting, and it was like your soul was blind, deaf, and mute.
The times before the hurricane.
It all came through and blew out your mind, like a suicide, or another meaningless night of sex
Upon a purple dais, and the horror of a room covered with artefacts,
To hide the emptiness of the present.
How the earth must be clean, to hide the howls and the halls of the dead.
Bodies like spades, a bodice tossed and torn into the rift of non gravity.
In the halls outside the sun is like a vacuum and does not sustain.
All bodies call towards it, and call towards a greater death.
The antient ones called it transformation,
Cosmic fertilizer.

So let’s be grand; pick any mask you like from the gallery, and dance a grand death with me.
Plan the final act; project it, angry crowd, leery eye,
Any one of the names for any one of your gods, heroes, witnesses.
They all lie upon the same couch of the earth and slumber, or turn their backs to any one of the billions of ancient suns.
This whole world is a death gear, a shaking dance, a dervish’s garment;
It’s all been cast off and done with like a play.
You set the stage with your toys, and knocked them about with billows of fire. Ostrich god,
Snake god, trash-man god, silo of your eye which at last demands this last desire.
This tired fear that you have piled up, for another wasted death in the west.

Holy grail, doesn’t that send a charge, the planets I saw danced above me, danced within me.
Their riot stomp, all of history’s wars my own wars, I had already made love countless times;
The swallow of my heart was every woman and man, every lamp on the verge of an electric beat and rhythm,
Revolutionary toys linger in the grounds for a beaver to kick up and build a dam. All icons become charges beneath the soil;
Rifts in the light as the earth tears itself apart and remakes itself at the level of sacral energy.
This song has no gift nor guilt, but purity, purged in the acid rain of history and time,
Purged in the occult symbolism of politicians, jumbled and dirged in the baying of lambs,
Cleansed in the bridge of a thousand suicides, between this life and the next;
This island is like a leap, where your fingers touch, where the ocean of finding and seeking meet.
Boredom!
The poem must be shocking, or else it falls asleep like a driver at the wheel, the ocean crashes outside the window
And becomes a pleasant monotony.
Momentous, forgotten living. As rote as chores or a village of the unmarked dead.
With not even graves to remember their names;
Forgetting is the silent death.

Closer, still, for I will tell you a brightened vision. The grand secret of the universe, the whole history of her umbilical cord,
Which has wound its way about you like a song. You, conscript, with face and eyes,
Shovel the ashes of the dead; make way for a broad and bold, new and more infinite nothingness,
In the form of a poem. Jeering, leering, gods, like the eyes that poke holes in the stars, staring back at you?
All glittering nothingness?
That their bodies were emptied; that they walked around stiff as stones, that their mind was like entrails,
Below and before the first sacrifice?
Make them a totem in the sand, sane, there was some amber forgetting
That was like electroshock gear, restore them from their sad, desperate clinging -
This life like a raft covered in fire ants,
In an ocean dark and covetous
Any one of you flowers is destiny, any one of you is misery, any one of you is opportunity;
With you, perhaps I could make opium, with the right elixir, the right moonlight
And the right field beckoning -

Life takes what it takes, and leaves you with glittering dreams, mosaics of memory,
Calls and recalls, echoing off of the black nothingness upon which your form is etched,
Soldier, grindstone, fear or fearless, staring down the same shapeshifting force,
Which quells and quenches the revel and the stone alike.
Carnival, or waiting room, which am I? Beneath the hall of mirrors, shining stars, maze of reflections
Sheering projector light, somewhere between burning and illumination,
You who have stretched miraculous distances,
Gives sanity in the form of life, whatever that means.
For my mind strolling about your isle is systolic and bored, looking around for your next epiphany or omen,
When all things are epiphanies and omens, about my codex:
Somethere sheer, shocking, and tight - clicks my brains,
Winds me around insane,
And puts me between art and the madhouses.
Step outside, and you will see Mother Nature’s epiphany,
Denial of her sneering, snakelike face,
Imprinted upon each destiny.

Put a leopard on the television, or a waltz upon a screen, or write about murder,
Put there a collision most profound, the nonsense of a ballad to a stone,
Which must wrap around ten times six galaxies to hear the song.
Your eyes are rising, you’ve tossed them in dirt, they’ve shaken, risen, fallen, shaken,
Like a marination; fomenting casket of wine,
Your bodies sing, closer to divine geometry, whose minds are rememory’s illumination,
Can you alight them to the whole of your being?
From the base of clay, you’ve tried and tried again,
Moulded and lamented like the genius is insane, have focused your delivery,
Fixated this one idea of consciousness, to ripen your eyes and heart and soul,
To hear the call in the darkness.
Can they reach you?
Can they hear your hidden revelry - Illumination?

The slow organ rhythm, doesn’t it entrance and paralyze,
As the axe hangs over this lung’d planet, like the executioner to a boar,
Toward a shallow romance, a burning flame, a candle gone out of control,
A wicked marriage beneath the black sun;
A sacrifice amidst a night that is no night, for there is no dawning,
But a smooth, panting rhythm
Beneath the lake, from which the moon sprouts; the apparition of all things.

Time out of time, and behind the wheel steers the ever shifting brain,
The flickering of the insane, beneath that bright blue moon
Footsteps - tracing circles in the perspiring dirt,
Hand and hand, about the wheel, churning, turning,

About the wheel, they dance and copulate, in each season’s drying date,
Upon the vine, drips and falls, the fallow fruit
Ensnared in the black dirt of tomorrow’s maw.
Greedily it awaits.

The howling daemon, whose bright body decays
Upon the evening of the lake -

Whose turn is it to call the sacred sign,
Upon the dial, and enter womb from womb, upon the coil of the eternal umbilical cord.
Whose dying dream shall spring, from the aethers of life, to be granted this barbaric heat,
To perish in the desert, to take in an ancient play, the blood-spilling sun and moon,
Their chasing, snaking tirade, like a wolf upon the heels of the fleeing sheep -
They have all perished away, yonder ‘neath the willow in the east;
They have curled up
And returned to the smirking core
Which issues forth, and cracks the face of day,
For what hours were regular, thrown into the muscular arms of chaos;
The night he brings; the shade of unspeakable things.

Now, all of my people have died; become the raw earth’s hide,
Slash and bellow, to rift her flesh and reveal the sacred seed and root.
They war with words profane, turned to the dark eye; its incantations,
Singing delirium upon the gravestones, like black arrows
Seeking the folds of night’s engorged wound
Amidst the brush and burrows.

Upon the spindle’s tip, as it dips into stars of darkness,
Mute constellations: channels for the song’s static and the bright slip -
Eclipsing stone, moon upon moon, idolators build mass graves
And have ecstatic sex upon the cliffs of stone, outside, the sea bashes upon the shore;
The hollows yearn and moan for the bright ashes and their blessing,
Upon the head issues the fires of all days, like a proclamation or an anointment.
To have bottled the words of the eternal night, and the flashing, lashing thunder
Like a whip it issues down, upon the lips of the soul;
Like a mouth it drinks in the body’s harbor,
Beating against the docks of the bones.

Dread to sink, there, amidst the storm,
The ocean’s eyes are piercing and mute, like the light which cleaves its way through the trees of the infant’s mind,
Brushing aside cheeks and whisps of peach mallow.
Blooming with ferocity, amidst the storm
The tulip grasps a secret destiny; without words, bellows loudly
Like orgasm nebulae.
How it draws the sacred rite upon my chest, the riddle of black space,
Pack’t into intestine, lung, tissue, navel.

Stare into the ancient mirror, black and cold as stone
As it reflects the womb from which you’ve sprung;
All the world’s hatred there,
Like blackened seed inside blackened tongue.
Her eyes both white and red, of fury both ancient and rare,
To prepare you for the eternal rite -

Upon seats of stone, you are the witness,
To the ancient sacrifice, as it was performed, today on all days, as it was in all times.
And thus, today is the most immortal of days,
The day of death; the beheading of the sun.
Sneer, ensnared in the trap, like a pit, wounded animal, as the executioner glares,
From far and distant galaxies.
For today you will be prepared and reborn, like the meat inside the flesh is baked, sweating,
Turning upon the spit of fear.

For today, you will be remade in fire’s immediacy.

Dredger of the well of wounds,
To the resplendent, glittering hool of gems,
Guarded by dragon’s tooth -
To the heart of psyche, whose great fear: Obliteration
Stands as a battle shield before each fortress
Of separative being.

To lay down arms is to accept reunion, once more, with the Great Mother,
In the heart of love, peace, and understanding.
To look in the face of the laughing, cackling devil,
Whose face is dripping with his own blood
Amidst the cave of dreams.

This whole world is eating itself alive, like a great snake of energy,
Wound about the tomb of the universe,
An ancient theatre of remembrance, upon which the ancestors laid their sacrifice,
Pyre atop pyre, pyramid atop pyramid, in a journey to the stars,
And the heart’s core womb of the Earth.

See the wounds stripped, like layers of paper upon the Psyche’s
Mummified energy.
This day which stands upon stone, and the winding threads of yore,
The genes which made this time; built the hearth of mind
Toward which inner fires burn,
Yearning for loving recognition.

Who will go down into that well, and face the fear of death?
Where emotions sing like dragon’s breath,
And heal the wound of life, and charge the world with great immensities of energy.
Ensouled, this whole dimension,
This scarred land’s rememory, ashen, charred
Upon which the flesh of the earth was split open, let of blood,
And the gape was sealed,
To be history forgotten.

The ancient heart seeks to awaken.
In all spaces; in all times,
Like a reverberation in the undergrowth, a pulsating in the ground,
The ancient heart seeks to awaken.

It’s not that everything is Cosmos, but rather that everything is Psyche; that if we reach deep enough, profoundly enough into the inner keep and inner dimension in which the primordial self is held, we begin to recognize that the entire universe, the whole of creation is a great cosmic body; an ensouled dimension of primally powerful, energetic life, teeming with excitation and purpose; ready to be met with loving consciousness.

Open yourself to the whole of the powers:
Of change, of the crucifixion, of the transmutation,
Being bled of blood beneath the black sun;
To sing the dying star’s lament, among dying stars
Amidst a choral symphony.

Loosen your hold on the mortal powers,
Blind, let of ears and eyes; you of two, eight, and sixteen arms,
You who multiply, like cells in an abeying darkness.
You who call the sacred name,
And are summoned like a calf, a goat, to sacrifice and slaughter.

Loosen your hold on time, whose rhythm has spiraled rapidly out of reach,
Whose fingertips have gone blurry in the strumming,
Of this mad geni, of this piano which has wavered, and like the skin of the earth
Disappeared into a chanting, blinding light.

All of the underworld powers are summoned upon death,
Where all name is forgotten, and where the whole of the cosmos is an altar
For transmutation, a snake whose skin is shed, upon the righting of the time
Where death is a doorway, where the daemon strains against incarnal dimensions:

For all might of the soul is a ladder to the stars; bursting from the plenum
And all constraints, is the furious energy, immortal;
Seeking perpetual resurrection.
Might there be a greater cave, assembled from the ashes of stars,
From the meteoric light, from the rapture hid within even the most covetous stones,
That are laid and buried close, beneath the beating heart of the world -

Retrieve these materials, and build a body that could not even hide
The lion’s leaping eyes for the blood of whole galaxies;
It thirsts and subsumes titanic imagery; reshapes the jungle of hidden aetheric planes;
Calls their sacral energy forth unto him.
Whole of the powers, upon and within the hand like dice;
The universe is a fate machine, a card player, whose eyes are hid
Beneath the horizon of a thousand nights.

Time, like Death, is a bluff in the fire, a word smashed by titanic life;
The streaming through of immortal energy, which shatters all limits
And must find a fitting sinew
For lightning, which beholds the face of the first stars
Thirsty for eminence;
Emanation.

Directionless soul,
You are in a realm which no one understands
But the ancient ones.
Buffeted by Time’s winds, in a cask measured by the cloak which all things here must wear,
The sheathe by which to achieve Manifestation.

Soul, put to task, to till the fields, guards the walls, birth the babes,
In the endless overturning of nights and days
While the locks churn and turn within you in the skies above
Releasing secret fires.

Deserted hours, how your time is spent, mingled with fruit and dirt,
Til at last the nightshade is your final burden; released,
You are stripped naked; dance in the aetheric fields, your light song
Longs for each tree, oak, and earthen inhabitance.

Remember, the time before birth, where you were coursing through the stars;
An entirely different type of blood.
Here, you are a house, built like timber among the flames.
Only the inner eyes will truly see.

Your compass of stars is revealed each night, like you are blinded
And awakened to the cool, seething undergrowth; the cricket’s chirping rhythm;
The owl’s stern eye.
The beacon of their inner light is your own; it is tempered by the bark
Which itself is the sheath for the spiral of time; engrained in the marrow of bones,
Dirt, and flesh of the trees.

How long have you spun here, entranced, with the need to experience yourself,
With bodies that longed for the artistry of the light
To strike their hidden, sacral core.
How long have you wandered, like a vagabond in the night,
Carrying only your cloak, and this spool of water,
Your blood,
The trees of your mingled ancestry?

This stone was once yours, tossed from antient sea;
Tossed from the din in which you emerged, leering, lean and desperate,
Your light aglow in the fathomless darkness.
Sallow bones, with less than a turn about the sun
To alight the eye of the mind.

That which breaks the flesh is your own; the fields which you threshed is your own destiny,
You, keeper of impermanence, brief as the towers upon which you must paint your Great Art.
This fugue that escapes your lips
Is the fiery word of the body,
The runes which crafted this world,
Mangled from darkened root; ember’d fire.

Reach within yourself, into the piercing vacuum, the land in which flesh dies and there is no ground.
Remake yourself upon the turning wheel of the flesh; the cask of your dying bodies,
All of which remember you;
The yarn and fold of being.
Rewind the spool, which stretches like a thread of light, the picture film of your illuminated destiny:
How you died and were awoken
By the consterned crackling of thunder.

Upon this valley, where this sun and moon copulate,
You are vision, jointed;
From the flesh you are creating bodies of Great Light -
Illumine the plane of shadows.

Ride the snake, as he takes you through the ancient prison prism,
The garden which the plan was laid,
The quivering vines, coursing with the world’s streaming energy
With the moon in the bowl of water as her guide.

Pilgrims screaming out for victory,
Tearing at their skin in the first blue dawn.
The far out lingering of Sirius;
The camp warden’s observation tower.
The screams of writhing pleasure, agony’s fire
The ashes beneath the ancient tree.
The hounds of death
Giving birth on the crystal beach.

O’ leery eye, taste the ecstatic pain
In sunshine and shadows of rain…
Will we ever meet again?

How your first breath haunted you; like drafts from your pen we swam
Unknown distances to mingle with your death machines;
Sleek, metallic,
Bred from the whip of intimidation -
Forge, in the valley of the creator - panthers, we all.
Panthers, in the sleek, dark night.

Ye, who composes from composite parts,
Like fossil’s crude oil.
Take from this blood and make an angry black power.
Drawn to fire; bellowing from the pits…
Ye, whose power lies in many deaths;
A steepening of the soul in the waters of the world
Who flow to ancient caverns and touch the stone.

Do you remember when they were tortured by you, O’ lost silent god
Who called out in the death of images, the subliminal days
Where all was crackling electricity; the sky swirled in utero
And birthed things desperate to survive?
They had no hands to hold, no mind between this earth, life and death.
It whipped the back of the earth, and it bled
Dissolute fire from the crush of dirt.

Did you see the serpent in their eyes
Upon the moonlit lake, where they stood between you
And broad, liquid mouthfuls, full of black death,
The blood of your maroon cities.
Did you see the serpent in their eyes; how they were quenched
By slitting the stomach of the calf of your world
And drank it like a sacrament of all things.

Your life of vultures, burns with the heat of hunger, hyenal
Howling laughter’s toothy grin.
That which kills for the truth of desire’s wild drum.
Circling, circling, about the ramparts of the deep and din,
Until the well has dried of blood.

What matter is this, the greatest truth, absence?
It is held in the hand like the lightest breeze.
The monks who died fasting in far isles, whose scrolls were heretical and forbidden,
Whose sun rose and set with a furious slowness,
Buried in the soil like potsherd.

Time, reveal what was once hid, like a sacrifice into the flesh of the earth;
She spat up, rejected the liquor puris, like an infant deathbed
The infinite rune
Like a symbol of the burning.

Was your existence so terrible - enslaved to my love like the chains of your own mind
Which dragged you through history like a penitent beggar?
You, eternal child, so slow to grow
Like a bamboo shoot in the slow wax of the sun?
I held you eternally, as you died, dived to the depths,
And your essence was reborn again,
Ground down into ashes and snuffed up by some morphine addict,
Whose body was a chipped bone -
You, whose mind was broken, and saw only through narrow shade,
What the rays of all of us had become,
Bunched together in violet hues,
Sunk into biological dirt;
There, like a stone, you did not rise -
Through the crusades, through your penitentiary Islam, through your black dress fashion
And the red pigment from ground up roots
Which you smeared like a boar upon the walls, I abandoned
Your mind, and fled to the west forever
Chasing the setting sun.

Bestial, ghastly - were your visions
Which stood so stark and crooked against the stars,
Private film voyeur, each night was a strip club of silence; each night was a lashing of feelings;
Your mind hard stone, calcified against the brute crashing of the waves of time;
Beaten into submission against the still of life.
Agony was the body; you submitted yourself to sex
For the resurrection of the mind;
The dice game of intelligence -

For you were thrown into chaos and copulation,
Smoothness of thighs, desperation of the hidden game - beneath it, only a vacuum of shuddering gazes; death laughter,
You, sacrifice to the great machine - for you did not make it to the remembrance of the great carnival,
Your whole life a rain check;
The dismal grays of stone, in which the angel remained obscure, hidden
And the terror of the greater mind,
Hiving, buzzing, swarm - which cowed you low
To work for meaningless pyramids;
To die a broken backed death by a sickly river, polluted and clogged by excess -

Ye who tries to reach there, reaches through time to the higher mind
And seeks to grasp the ungraspable
By way of the great ladder.
How many fell to their death, slaves and enslaved, cobblers who saw god,
Intermingled in the unforeseen chemical explosion
Who glimpsed oblivion by nature’s alchemy?
The way you emerged is anyone’s guess,
But really, by delicate procedure.
The knife of time cleaved and cleaved again, in recombinatory measure;
You were born again and again, upon the knife of genealogy,
Which stretches like the infinite sands; wasted grains, recycled into the alembic,
Freed to the orgiastic night of electricity,
The tangled limbs -

You, who make the whole game possible,
Chaste and desperate biology springs for nights and wanders to endless graves,
Marked tombstone bars, cafes, ancient cities, temples;
Knights of the grail, templars, panthers, pagans, ritual goddesses, sacrament
Mollusks, moss, and the dawn ivy which winds down the back of a panther’s ritual seduction,
Fish egg copulation, eclipse, the meeting of night and day; the intercourse of this horizon body with spiritus sun -
How this game is for everyone, with the seed of life within it,
Wound up and shot out into life like a jack in the box or a craps game.
This roulette - umbilical -
Whose foliage eyes peer and must escape
From the foggy musk of death,
Whose animal body lingers like a mountain lion upon a craggy cliff;
Whose animal body nears and encircles, like blood hungry wolves,
Whose fire is a dance unceasing; whose inferno rises and winds like ancient snakes,
Black and white
Through the dawn of history’s night; the breaking of day.
Such wildness cannot be tamed, but for the executioner, Love -
Unreason.

Seed to seed, in eyes which linger, in perpetual examination -
This rising and falling of the mind, with carulous finger touches the mouth and lips of god;
Caresses the very pillars of creation;
Tumbles once more back down to flowerbeds of dreaming respite -
This earth is your garden,
Nearest light, Gold
True Immortality

Vitalize - the sacral thread played from the depths of the tome of the stars.
Like a flute of the first sound, it resounds and reverberates,
As in the fire;
All is a dance on the playground of the alembic of consciousness,
Where the aspect is one among many, and many among one.
Like a weaving both sacred and mundane.

All destinies draw and adjoin like divine geometries,
Like traffic intersections amidst a great web,
A network of matrices; each decisions,
Final coalitions, products among a process of perennial unfolding: lives of fish in an ocean;
Whisps of dandelion seeds on a ceaseless wind -
How time blows away all things, like charcoal shavings, like a woodwind of inversion,
Where it begins to carve against the shadow black night of the body, when the breath of the spirit is spent,
And resides, instead, in unseen shadows.
The night is a sculpture of the infernal blackness;
Infernal in the burning.

Each is a striving, a knocking about the beaker’s glass
Like boxers, jarring and jawing at the chin.
Wrastling the ineffable, chargeable, insatiable energy,
As it steals away from forms to the sacred hold.
You, for sport, knock about these days and proclaim all truths,
Which fade to dissolute grays, in the hymn of the dusk
And blacken before new dawns.
Logos, the seed which is like a candle; the tree which is like a bonfire;
Great burning beneath the infinite shade of black space,
There are eyes upon you, like dancing snakes, cherubim,
Who swoop down like pelicans into the body, and dance in the corrosion
And break free from their jesting, royal bonds.
The eyes upon time like a mirror of shadows;
The life a dance of dream objects,
Whisps before the mirror which breaks
Into waves of great, reverberating song.

Whose sound of the thread, plinking
Like a Spanish guitar, in waterfalling cascades,
Soft and flexible like the thrush’s song;
As everpresent.
The song lifts the worldly life out of stones,
And in the eyes a star explodes, enlivened,
A dancing bacchanal which lilts and tilts the body to new oblivions;
States of great ecstasy, where the sheathe of the soul rises from the umbilical coil and explodes like a chanting firecracker in the heights of the stars.
All materia, your shade and stone awaits the great song
To draw you at once to the heights and depths of life.
The sheathe which gives the senses;
The arts of taste and touch.
You who are prepared to fly, ascend this pyre of flesh and earth,
And dance, of all time, upon the breaking of time
Like a crystalline egg, revealing the ensouled word,
Whose dimensions stretch
Like the wastes, of great and glorious gold,
Whose fields are a river diamondine
Whose soul is a shout and rejoice.