Shall I make markings about the past;
dwell in a haze of memories;
piece together a fading dream,
to say NOW I can live today
as more real than yesterday?

Doesn’t it all feel more real
if I remain right here;
see what IS, right here
in front of THIS me?

The other is not what is,
and only made to seem real
with the programs
and functions of mind’s eye.

Programs. Am I a walking
and breathing program?
Oh Mother! When
do I get to be a real, live girl?

I have to turn away
from thoughts
of what I am not
to be
the living dream
of what I am.

See how this dream unfolds,
without your plans and figuring.
The sequences and cycles
and all the stops –
all Mother’s Play.

Fibonacci only saw it.
He, most certainly, did not make it.
How could he even know what it is?

Sacred Is.
We notice
when our eyes are cleared
of clouds and smoke.

If you believe the thought
about controlling God,
then you believe in your own death.

This Mother is out from under
that controlling thumb.
She is slowly standing up.
And, as she extends
to reach her fully glorified heights,
we fall into her grace.
And see what we had,
was not at all what we thought.

She has already prepared our home.
And thank The Lord!
The thoughts we had to plan
could never amount to much
of the mountainous Truth
Divine Mother shines out
for us to be.

it is like
a knife
the ice hot
burning fire edge
the warming glow
of Self embrace
broiling and crackling
like that campfire
by the little lake
you swam
all the way across
only days before
the layer
of being a girl
was stripped away
the tipping point
pointing back to
that black hole fire
that is all the life
there is to live
tipping to one side
with cringing ash
disappearing off the lips
and one way
absorbing into
clear oceans
of infinity

Venus is retrograding back into darkness,
right along with Mercury.
All the good vibes and smart thought
gone out the back for a smoke
and some fresher air.
We tire of the same-old-same of life
and think up different scenarios
retrofitting our changing flight.
No tears come for left-behind dreams
not serving up the crème-de-la-crème
at the top of the crop. And really
for you and for I, all this backstepping
is only a piece of the step to this
hilarious dance that is life. We see
our intro through doors of inspecting
all we see; and we see our way to
adjusting a slightly altered version of
each varied moment in our reality.
Be kind in your retreat and respite
from the steady movement and marching feet
following the wheeled-in ruts
imprinting the road behind. Yeah sure,
they got us here, but that doesn’t
grant them right-away passage
further onward into that dreamland
we see but can never quite reach.

Some moments a thought comes -
It’s so much easier just to give up.
So comfy a feeling to visualize
nothing but blank-nothing –
Not to be. Not to think
or feel or breathe. No pressure
to present a concocted identity
one can’t even see that’s not at all me.
No stress keeping abreast of every snippet
of someone else’s reality. No figuring
or wondering or worrying or plans.
Nothing to hope for or hate
or to signify or demand.
No side-eyes screaming "how weird".
No stink-eyes looking to strike.
No evil intentions peering behind
some ignoramus’s unbelievable disguise.
No more fake smiles
and rhetorical "how are you's".
No more seeing wrong numbers
and choosing them too. Absent
anxiety and anger and acrid, stone-cold fear.
Absent color. Absent pattern.
Without texture or taste. No feeling
a thing like the aching of pain.
Some moments a thought comes -
Just end this silly race sooner.
Why stick around any longer
perceiving the same old, unpolished,
frayed and slightly greyed images
on a disappearing, silky screen,
when there is glorious and
unending nothing awaiting
this little, tiny insignificant me.

The voice that says my best is not enough,
that one isn’t God’s at all.
Why give it any of my attentions?
Isn’t it a program – an old one, at that?
It has to be left over from way, way back
before awakened times. And since
we’re headed for the golden times of light,
we can let that old voice dissipate
into air, as we ride ahead at our own speed.
You wonder where this voice started and why.
Then you see. And you see also
that you can leave it be. We said
we were done working, didn’t we?
Aren’t we playing now? Isn’t that
what all the blood and guts and sweat was about?
So lay that **** down and stomp that
flaming, sack of **** out. This flame in the heart
burns that rotten voice to charcoal dust.
And we can dream up our more comfy
and collective higher house on top of that archaic
and outdated and barely functioning,
inferior and conditional programming.
Aren’t I free? If I’m still asking
isn’t some irony missing?
Settling isn’t at all what they said it would be.
But then, don’t they always twist the truth
to spread the lie? And look!
Aren’t you still here, doing not a thing
and just as you please, watching
all the silly **** you guess you unleashed?
Oh Mother Lover of my Soul!
Look at all that ugly, ridiculous **** burn!