These little pieces of myself will all burn away
After looking again and again
After taking it all to be real for so long
Not really looking at it
only just wearing it
even though it felt scratchy and ill-fitted

Now to give it a new sort of attention
the kind it gives to its concept of god
Not curious but
critical and cynical and carefully contemplative
the little pieces don’t get hurt feelings
or bent out of shape
cuz they lose it
They don’t cry or get depressed
Only they fall away
like overripe fruit
never picked and eaten
They are not what I am
Only the pieces that make up
who I once thought myself to be

I was never abused or depressed
Never victimized and alone
I was never ugly or stupid
or worthless or a hot mess
a **** or a lame
useless and insane
These pieces aren’t like a puzzle
See that’s what I never was told

I am whole already
Completely alive and free to discard
those adjectives that I don’t care
to describe this being
Which in reality can’t be any
or even all of those bits mashed-up together
Miracles can’t be picked apart and
named and labeled as what they are not
And a mirror only reflects
what might see it first

How can there be
what is clearly not seen
when I peer back into this so-called me?
So actually the truth I can see is
I can’t really look and see this I am
but truly can only be this I am
Because when I look back and see
all the pieces they say I am
the only conclusion must be
that these so-called pieces of me
are not at all in reality
that which I am

I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I I
me me me me me me me me me
you you you you you you

All of this seems so silly now.
Why are so much of the important things in this life not spoken?
Why do we choose and remember to forget our true reality for a shadow of our own light?
This that we have made is not better or even just as good.
Who is tired of the lie?
Souls lilt as flowers from poor soil and no sunlight.
We are drowning in thunderstorms of our own tears,
yet we keep drinking and drinking.
What else do we know?
How else were we taught to live?
Show me a reality I can sink into without losing my Self.
We are the ones we have been searching for.

Do we have to mark off the dates,
one by one, for some purpose we hadn't made?
There is nothing profound about awakening.
Everyone can do it.
Do? Well, be it. Everyone IS it.
How can this be special?
In the human sense, it is profundity.
In consciousness, it is what is.
When you step away from constructs, they disappear;
Lose their allure and glamour and mystery and pseudo-power,
which you see is no power at all.
Only a kind of rigidity attempting control.
Again, not real. Only imagined. By who?
Me? You? Same difference.
If it's believed then it's true for you.
A great power over your own delusion of a construct.
A king of mole hills and ant valleys populated by lost souls.
It is nothing.
Can you stand the silence of your own insignificance?
Where there is no audience, there is no actor.
Yes, the sky is a mirror and what do you see?
You see only you.

something large has been released
or rather seen
as one braves a peek around the massive boulder
hiding the light emanating from over yonder
all clears as sun rays burn dew off to vapor
I move through a maze of ghosts
to find my soul of lost souls
and heart of broken hearts

I don't blink this time
and the cloudy vapors skim the surface of this outer core
it is this and this is that
I sense no fear
and there is space

will I let it fill it?
try to stuff it
arrange it in an orderly fashion this time
DIY closet organizers working over time
buy why not keep the release
or not keep a thing?
and remain as you are

More and more
I am less and less
frustrated and bothered
by the nuances of life.

They are only slight catalysts and alarms.
I see now they wake me up to slow
to stop
to rest
and sit.
Always the opposite of what I’m told.
Everything flip flops.
So don’t be afraid when you see things upending.

He said - There is no record of you or I in the emptiness.
And so one works to make an eternity
here in this play.
It is not so.
Everything is now.
You as you are cannot exist
again or at some other time.

Even this journal these words
that your hands seem to write.
You don’t know what they are - not really.
This pen - ink.
It means a thing to you.
But after this you is gone
this in a way ceases to be.
You cannot preserve this poem - or any.
Those that remain remain as the Self.
All else is a distortion
a form
a compression
a mold.
How can the infinite squeeze into a mold?
Look here not away.
Make no image of a creator you cannot see.
Dare to face the truth of this existence -
of your life - if you dare call it yours.

I see that all is futile
struggle to attain what I am.
Possession is not a real state of being.
To possess implies subject
and object. All is one.
To be at peace in this body -
to know finally the truth -
this is heaven.
No other state exists.
The world is frightening indeed
for one who knows not what she is.
I hear a voice calling from far.
The voice is my own Self.
This is the voice of Eternity.
Beyond is only silence
only stillness
only emptiness
only space.
All comes from this.

I have been given
the burdensome gift
of this one
to allow me to see what it is

I know it
watch it move and twist
to what end?
only destruction

I see one cannot contend with it
for it is not real
as one is
it is a byproduct of one’s play

One tests oneself
to see how far one can go
in the human sense
destruction is how one is reborn

So this play is divinely necessary
yet something seems to have gotten out of control.
who is the one seeming to be out of control?
the one seeming to have lost its control?

It seems to get confusing
seems to get in the way
of the seeming reality
now you can see it is all this one

Taking different shapes
squeezing into various forms
only to have some fun
in the human sense

Ego will always serve only itself
and to the end of all it knows
thank God
that it knows only a little

You see this
when you see Self
and the world you knew
becomes small and distant

Like watching from a plane
in a cloudless sky
that annoying twitch in the right wrist
from decades of tiny insignificant movements

Do you take a sledgehammer to the arm?
that might do the trick, and more
ego loves a good bonfire
yet God’s grace burns better and brighter

Let that Self take over
let that heat rise
let your rotten fruit
burn to cinder.

It only hurts
as much as it wants to hurt
Feel me?
in the human sense

I am still the fly
picking at that old dung heap
though I see the pulsating light
beyond the wings of the moth

do I need permission
to take to the light?
only from myself
and I am yet the fly

though someday
I will be the light