Now I'm tired of romance and I just want
a gorgeous naked bombshell to ****.
I see those water-filled balloons.
I see the slit of a navel.
Those sultry eyes speak of betrayal,
but those are the kind of eyes
that tell of the hottest, sweatiest love.
Her fake blonde hair gives away her cheapness.
I just want to take off her bra and *******.
I see no vein or artery of life in her.
I remember beer and bars.
I affix my eyes to the shadow made by a ****.
I see the silk lines of her collar bone and neck.
I realize she's standing in front of a window.
I meet her eye of innocence with mine of admiration,
and I tear up.
You look like you'd take me to court
because I haven't touched you yet.
You look like you'd smoke a cigarette with me.
I imagine she's hiding a ***** she's not fond to look at.
Your chin reminds me of a pickup truck.
You look like you have a baby inside,
then I look at your eyes,
and I realize,
if we really ****** it could be true.
So much for chivalry.

I see it in her eyes!
"Guys look at so many girls," with a sigh.
Then I saw your heart was loving mine.
A being one with understanding.
A smile that caressed my shoulder.
An ease that could make me slip into sleep.
Like a beauty she slept
No heart to win
Spirit hovered over her
as if apart, yet a part of her.
I wondered what dreams she could be having,
Whose heart heaven could be sharing
I wondered how many breaths she'd ever breathed.
I wonder about the time I'm wasting
making you my center of concentration.
I wonder why you're not blacker.
Wonder why you're not whiter.
I wonder why there's no crust in your eye.
wonder why you're not more recognized
by colleges.
Then I realize the softness of your pillow.
I wonder what island you're from.
Your curls turn into a flame
of salamanders before my eyes.
I want to kiss the air you breathe.
I want to taste your makeup on your face.
I want to thank the taxpayers
for our food.
I want to thank the elements
for the extra bump off center in your chin.
I want to take away your hurt and pain.
I want you to rule over all men.
You look at me like I'm not mature.
You've found my secret
you won't tell.
I never paid any of your bills.
You said, "No, I need a man."

Words, words hurt even if they are just restating facts.
Facts somehow now twisted by how they were originally delivered.
Passing on information to people I think should know.
Know for my heart, know for my peace of mind.
But jealousy it seems should always be forgotten.
Talking about it magnifies it beyond what it is, just slight and simple.
I made a man into a monster in her eyes.
Something he doesn't deserve.
I sit in the midst of a love triangle in which the woman doesn't want either of us.
She just wanted to be friends with both of us.
Now her urge to be more intimate with me as a friend is blocked by a barrage of concentration on a subject that should be so light and whimsical.
And a friend who had his heart crushed by seeing that intimacy.
I feel like a wolf, these words bite and wrangle, and won't dissipate for 100 years, says Muhammad, pbuh.
I always think work will become easier, but tests multiply, and it stays hard - hard in heart.

It is more than breathing forbearance, but
being forbearance itself. Like the back of my head is
pushed to the wall and I am allowing the Spirit
to push me further away from the middle.

The pyramid is the greatest source of God's Might
and is the most hidden retreat of Light: in the realm
of shapes and symbols.
The body takes on the quality of a pyramid.

There are man-made, divinely inspired, objects.
These are all micro aspects of the pyramid.
The city within the pyramid has many aspects hidden
behind "doors".
The letters and words written on the pyramid's parts allow
for the splendor of mankind.
All lights in this city get their power from the Divine.

The pyramid is the owner of Silence.
The sides of the pyramid are upheld by the
straight back of silence. Its apex is held by
the inner observer.

The pyramid is the final vision beyond which there is no passing.
It is a moving Kaaba, carried away by angels and forces.
There is no way out of the pyramid.
When I reach the top it becomes less important as a top and a point.
The only way out of the pyramid is to attack it, which would attack beauty and attack simplicity.
Observing it is like having every answer given and every mystery solved, except Its own mystery.
The Messenger is the Pyramid of Reality.

"A" crowned my head with a crown like
twigs while "A" was seated on the Throne.
Notice how Baha'u'llah reverberates that it is a different
throne, yet in essence the same One.
Fire like a rainbow.
Notice how a Prophet would gulp when another Prophet is
"mentioned".
Notice how a Prophet does not need to "believe" in else
except God.
"C" is same.
If I am a Prophet without a voice from God, please
don't let me speak.
All the Prophets have transparent beauty like
"C".
Above the City of Immortality is the Valley of
the Manifestations.  Where the Sun of Reality
is home and all the denizens are refreshed
and find God again from whence they have
left.  Nothing but God lies above this Valley
and the Presence of the Beloved is aglow
....in every limb.
The Presence is enlivening and heavy
in vitality.
"I hate you, I love, I hate that I love you",
echoes to hearts not attune to the Transcendent One.
The Presence has a unique energy that allows
Them to change the universe of lower natures.
All stresses dissipate away.
Those Eyes that see all of me.
Energy as if from another world,
as if always awakening from bed.
It is sitting in the Manifestation's Tent.
It is feeling Their skin become mine own skin.
Light so warm that it is cool.
Names have no place here,
only Spirit - the Transcendent.
I forget myself and
instead caught up in "A".
The fullness of the Manifestations will soon, soon
manifest in all of us.
24 karat Golden DNA.

O silver and black knight of the forest,
what goal have you taken up for the castle?
"I seek to slay with my beauty only..."
"Slay those cries and moans from lonely damsels."

"What business does an evil eye have in the land
of purity and repose?"
"I have many good deeds fine guardian."
"Then enter secure, but let no evil in, or you will be cast
out."
....
"You have no business here until your
wicked deeds are paid for, get out!"

"Hey, that's okay," a fair damsel
allows me to part from my solitude.
Put on the sandy veil of partnership, for the spirit has
reached into the divine female and divine male.
Let those chakras make a transpersonal point,
but sacral business is all I see.
Maidens forever young.

It seems an eunich has breached our display.
But are we allowed back into the land of purity and repose?
It seems the true goal of a babe's heart
at the lap of his mother has entered the lair.

Now is the fair damsel taken to the merciless judge.

Now is a beautiful friend, waiting all this
time, to exchange a breeze
of heartfelt love.
****** purity is sought after, yet
there is no place to hide a ****.

Light no longer is transferred from the 8th dimension.
The male/female chakras above the crown open up again
for sacral play.
The sattvic essence remains,
and I am held dearly at this party.

The children outlast me during the night.

I enter through a circular gate of pastel crystal petals
into a deck of superstrength beings
of all colors.
A female face is grafted to mine.
She puts on silver and black armor
and the walls are crimson.

What is quantifiable are the symbols. What isn't quantifiable are the zones between the symbols, unless there are many symbols present that form spaces.
There are partial symbols, i.e. a gesture of an animal is present but not the form of the animal.
Reality stays more abstract with partial symbology.
What is known about the symbol gives reality meaning.
Speaking of visions as symbols separates the meaning from the visual experience.
The person who doesn't see the symbol as the reality has not been exposed to reality which is somewhat hard to ascertain.
When, in dreams for example, there are just collages of things, it is hard to say that it is more than a collage. But if I recognize symbology, it allows me to see every part of the picture.
Symbols are more for the artist than the scientist who simply wants to verify what happens in reality. While transcendent of verification of meaning is reality "filler", yet it attains to meaning only if it is seen as symbol.
The filler is more abstract because logic only exists here if we consciously give something meaning. Otherwise a huff of a dog, for example, is merely a passing image.
Since concrete objects already have existential meaning, they cannot constitute as filler.
Visions, because they only partially exist, calls into question existence itself.
In filler reality, it becomes participatory as to giving reality meaning or just enjoying the visions.
What separates this filler world from normal mind is that meaning is no longer the key to reality.
Simply experiencing the visuals explain reality in an easy way.
Meaning almost ruins the mode of experience.

O noble light, o noble lights!
The babe has learned to crawl,
and the virtues which we possess
call continually to the poor and
oppressed among us. I don't know
when this cry may ease, but
the Bugle tells us to buttress the hearts of
these oppressed folk.

We are not to stay still upon our light, rather
we are to make it burn brighter in our hearts.
This is the day to make our character known in the
hearts of the oppressed.

The Pyramid is the Messenger
   of the Spirit world after we pass on.
We all must resolve to consecrate
   our actions to the Pyramid there.
The Orb is the handmaid that
   every soul is given for its care.

My Self is rooted in a larger city than mine.
My Self is rooted in male comradery.
My Self falls into a group. The group isn't universal for all my traits though.
Thus comradery isn't a universal attribute in this sense.
However, if I feel I need comradery, and I'm not in familiar surroundings, I can shift to a reality of the oneness of humanity, where all share the same home.

"Someone at school was bullying me."
Well Baha'u'llah says that God loves the sighs of the oppressed more than anything else.
"Why?"
Because it means we are being kind and not trying to take an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.
Rather we forgive and suffer through oppression.
Thus, God will vindicate us either in this world or the next.
For Baha'u'llah also said that the paradise for the patient is the only paradise without limitation.
Thus, we sigh, we wait, we suffer.

O wind, o air of present day wisdom. O insightful brethren of the gardens of reality. O ominous depth which no one has crossed in a day.
O head and eye, symbols of understanding and vision.
O hole, o void, on the floor of my being: consuming every normal thought I can muster.
O reflection of a reflection, distracting me from my first attraction.
Now I'm lost in this crystal cave of imagination, which breaths in the Spirit of the present day.
Was not this what I was seeking: to enter the boat rowing on this sea,
To look further in this void of my soul, which swallows every normal way and intention.
Rhymes here mock the true story.
Every creature of normalcy is swallowed by this nothing.
Only building a stronger ship and stronger rowing arms gets me further.

The Hood of the Worlds is worn by my guide
Sick with illness of body, this is the only way to cross the waves.
For nature is now forgotten, only winds of destiny remain.
Here comes the winds of despair blowing next to this ship without sail.
The writer's body fails mid-row.
Will the normalcy give it's cure to the seeker of the philosopher's stone, and cause this ship to sink?
The weird is precious here, but a day of normalcy before has shut weird's way as well.
I breathe into my gut the winds of sorrow, now the poison of malace wafta over the waters.
What will I stumble upon on this journey?
What could be in store for this adventurer?
Even the normalcy of the elements try to cure my disease of unrest.
Why not sail a ship by the winds of tomorrow?
With that last word, normal has bound my heart, now my limb.
I place my hand more firmly on the oars, but now wonder if I even need to row to find what I'm looking for.

I step aboard another bigger ship of a fellow seeker true.
He has sails that already blow,...with tomorrow?!
What have I done?
My poor boat was best, stricken by death.
But he reassured me: "I have food and supplies until sunrise".
But tomorrow is too normal still.
It's sun and Ray's, the billowing clouds, all make for me to sink back into the hole, the void.
Maggets fester, worms intrude, in the dark water.
Yet even these creatures' nature to decompose my body, is too normal for the void.
Being me, being man, being human, too normal too.
I'm only a spec, a mark, a dot, and once I manifested I get merged.
So I'll remain partially hidden in everything.

Is that what this is about?
That what I see is partially hidden for a point?
For a point to not sweep itself away?
Yes, the kingdom of heaven"in your midst" or "within" is just a way to keep the light just right for my own edification and entertainment.
Too normal this purpose is, for me to cross this void.
No, the point still hidden, that wondrous spec, is hidden due to weakness of me, it's observer.
Or else hidden and manifest would be one.
Look what I've found, I've come to "He".
A normal thing I do all the time, I know.
So this reason is too normal to bring a shade of new to this void, so peaceful it is.
"He" knows too much to seek out anything.
"It is you I seek" He says with utmost adoration of me, His subject.

If you seek me, and I seek to build a ship that can bridge the dark and the light, is your Ark, so strong, just another ship to poke a hole in?
"Why I don't know" was His reply.
I guess I'll climb aboard, and be His guest.
What do I seek?
A gem like no other, a tale fabricated that even I would be amazed at.
"I know what you seek" He says as He steers His Ark in it's direction.
"A million stars?" He asks.
"Even that is a common normal thing".
"A ship to cross them?" He wonders.
What is there our there that is more amazing than transcendence?
"Hmm, I wonder," He gives a smile of admiration.
"That's what I've said too" He agreesthe tale is told to a degree.

Your ******* remind me of S-curves
on a mountain highway.
Like the curve of the windshield of a Lamborghini.
Like the stick shift of a new Corvette.
Your shoulders remind me of the breaking
of a newly frozen ice cube tray.
They are the tops of the pillars
of your skinny arms.
The flash of your blue bikini
takes my mind away from
your secret face.
Its temperature tells of a moist nose
making a puckered upper lip.
I'm reminded of Cranberries songs.
We should've met with your shirt on.
The rim of your head tells of
a hundred men who would swoon.
No fat on you at all.
Would you even care to look at me
for one more moment?
The roses of your eyes are not yet
in full bloom.
Your blonde highlight tips are like
needles on my skin.
Could I even give a hug
that didn't give away my devotion?

blood rush to my inner thighs
tip brushes
light blue sky behind you
deep blue ocean behind you
three curves tell of your waist
and your navel.
as you stand in this shade
eyes like gray clouds
masking their brown color.
"I don't really want you" she says with a sigh.
"You cannot handle me, why tell a lie."
"Most men only dream of me," with
a Kawasaki Ninja in her eye.
To press against her would sooth my nerves.
Hard or soft its all just fantasy.
Her body's arteries and veins so tightly coiled by her skin.
I'm still here after ******:
untouched and unfelt.
I will always be that picture
written in the story of your life.
She will not let me love her.
She just makes me stare.

*** tries to be celestial
With the most reciprocal feelings.
The intertwining of consciousness
Around pleasuring each other
Until the bodies become one,
No difference is there between
Man and woman,
As they have taken on each other's
Soul and each other's form.

Esteem of reflection billowing up whenever one puff fades.
Day in, day out.
Pass in, pass out.
Staring off into space, am I getting better at geometry?
Looking into the line of nowhere.
Physical lines may just happen to converge with this.
Darkness may happen to eclipse it.
A point happens to be on it.
A light happens to shine therein.
Lines may also conflict with it.
Colors may not align with it.
Conglomerations may exist there without any congruence.
People happen upon it.
Muscles and nerve endings traverse it.
Needs cross its consciousness.
Predictions cross over it too.
Some ideas are superseded here.
The esteem of reflection scans all areas: physical, emotional, and mental.

The internal image is destroyed, or ground to dust.

Sounds are implanted upon it.
An imaginary self-concept is manifested on it.
The cycle of new crossings re-circulates.
Like this whole poem only affected my knowledge and not reality.

I sit up.

My body is placed on this line.
Like it is on stage acting for this line.
Cleanliness and neatness cross it.
The esteem of reflection takes on the form of part of my body.

I lay back down.

The self-concept reiterates itself.
As if my body's forms must assert themselves.
Afraid to look at bold symbols.
Afraid to act like I touch the things in this room.
A sense of shared humanity is spit out by my head.

I am the weak and selfish one.
Not esteeming another.
Only esteeming me and my reflection.
Not sharing a room.
Like I'm pulling down and in.
With my head in the sand.

I consider knowledge that isn't directly observed as secondary.
And I don't mean observed in a book.

This self-concept becomes the center which organizes the things that cross the line of nowhere.
It is the best comparison to my physical self, yet a figment of my imagination.
It is shaped more by attention than by materiality.

It's funny how anointing is at once a rising over and a descending.
Yet it cannot fully transform my mind.
For even this blessing crosses the line of nowhere.
And the esteem of reflection rises above it.

But when the line of nowhere becomes the self-concept then the mind is fully transformed.
The esteem of reflection would have equality with the self-concept.

I am the salivic twinkle in the eye.
I am the loss of vision when I look at a light.
I am the placement of a thing now, only put in my past, and played in my future.
I am the thing there now, that I placed in the past, and will leave there for the future.
I am too many to count
I am too dark to describe.
I am the colorful shades and lines of the inner eye perceiving my physical body.
Physical isn't quite right.
More like eternal-like being.
More like eternal-like spleen.
"Me" is so far out,
I don't know what this body is here before me.
What do these clothes cover?
Asymmetric from the center out.
Saying this like I gave humans life, made them walk upright.
I am the multichrome of closed eyes in a lit room.
I am faux wood.
I am that thing from the past, placed in the now, and still doesn't understand it's creator.
I am the question "why" which was never meant to be answered.
I am realizing those who are sanctified in their breath.
I am nerve meets bone meets skin meets hair.
But all in one form, I can't see how it happens.
I am what my eye looks like without seeing it, just imagining it.
"I am what I am" when I ask this question.
Sort of a mix of shape, mind, and hue.
Or is it head, line, and imagined body?
Does my hand touch my skull? Then is the hair and skin something unknown or forgotten?
What comes of the thought that is unrecognized during contemplation?
Are these really the bait for the goldfish in the mind's pool?
"Oh no, what am I going to do?" as a "bad" trip shortens my view.
The bone dry feeling of the fear of God, crushing every tendril and way that once carried me along merrily.
"What if I lose God by taking too much nutmeg?"
"You can't (or shouldn't) do that" a voice whispers to both losing God parts and taking too much nutmeg.
Now I'm contented and thoughts will no longer emerge from the pool.
So I must dive into sleep.
Good night.

Those who believe in Me have a special place after they die. They will be given untold glory and joys of ineffable gladness. Those who doubt My words will come to know of their loss after death and will continue to humble themselves throughout eternity. Fires of ignorance will bind them throughout the worlds of God.  When they seek distinction after death, they will weep bitterly as one who has not know God.  Belief in Me is contingent on obeying My laws and neither is acceptable without the other. If the rebel ceases their transgression, and asks for forgiveness in a state of repentance, it will be better for them. Weigh not My words with any other Book or allusion and confuse not thyself with signs which bear no reality. My Knowledge has always been with God as it shall remain.

I find myself in between the Gog of complexity and the Magog of simplicity. Let forth your tongue to extol God and Its Message. No man hath taken Its image as God is beyond reflection.

When the boy asks to know, set thyself toward your own sight and renounce any thought save Me. No helper do you have save Me.
We speak only what We hear, and never will spiritual dominion be given to one who produces thoughts set on the vanities of the world. Produce their dominion by using them for the benefits of mankind.

Those who cannot overlook the misdeeds of the Chosen Ones of God, the Prophets, will never be able to overlook the deeds of any of God's creatures.  Such lucidity will overcome them, and they will be forced to acknowledge that no being in the heavens or in the earth can leave without a trace of hate in the hearts when looking with the eyes of retribution.

The time for justice has come. Make a plan for the redemption of your heart, but know that whosoever overlooks others' shortcomings is met with more rewards in the worlds of eternity. For whose plan of vengeance is more just than God's, Who punishes without the knowledge of Its creatures and rewards without their knowledge either.

No laws will be given by Me save the exact Law of Baha'u'llah's Covenant. For I have not come to change His laws, but fulfill them. Abandon your couches for seat with the Christ. He is come again unto you while ye were enmeshed in your own designs.
Have you not heard the bells peal in My name, though the name be bereft of glory, We have come to extol God's laws, laws which will pattern a civilization in the feet of Isaiah's prophecy. Everywhere Its laws are heard over the skies and throughout the earth. Hearken then to taking delight in them.

For whoso has turned away from them, hath turned away from the Spirit and never associated with It. For the senses seek their own sight, and I have come to give you God's vision. Instead, you have turned to the god of the air and body, and not the God Divine, the One alone that can release you into the worlds of eternal sunshine. Though the god of the body gives the beauty of your own existence, I have come as a gardener to set the diverse plants of humanity in order. We see that little gardening has been done, so there is plenty still to do.

How did I walk 37 miles in 19 hours?
How did I bike 90 miles in 11 hours?
...
Inhale in nose, exhale in nose 4x
Inhale in nose, exhale in mouth 4x
Inhale in mouth, exhale in nose 4x
Inhale in mouth, exhale in mouth 4x
And repeat.

You just need enough food and water and a pair of soft and hard soled shoes.

Why do we sit?
"Om" she chanted, the spritely tween she was.
Oh, the sovereingty of those at peace?
"sure" her older sibling said.
Why do we sit to look within? Does it make us strong?
What else makes us powerful?
Speaking, acting.
Does thinking make us powerful.
yes.
Does thinking, speaking, and acting create a lot of unrest?
It can.
Thus, we stop thinking, stop speaking, and stop acting.
"Isn't that what sleep is for?"
Yes. Do you sometimes dream in sleep?
yes.
Sitting in meditation, no thought, voice, or act, induces a dream state, but you are awake.
Do you like sometimes the feeling of dreams? yes?
This ecstasy one feels in a good dream is the same as in meditation.
But to see visions and have feelings like in a dream is only a biproduct of meditation.
So why do we meditate? "?"
TO go beyond, beyond acting, speaking, thinking, even beyond feeling and seeing.
This beyond can only be experienced for oneself.
It comes in many forms.
What is central to it is that you exist before it,
and you exist after it, but after you experience
it, you feel like a new you, a truly awakened you.

Half of math is knowing the possibilities.
The other half is knowing the impossibilities.
One without the other is not reality.
If you live only in the possible, then math is not for you.

The purity must be cast aside to see God equal in all people.
For all are unified in station and wealth in rank before God, none more righteous nor more rich than another.
In this case God enriches all of us in our lack and withholds in our fortune.
For none is self-sufficient without Him.
Purity is more about the strength of desire.
It is easy to remain pure when its fires are not enflamed.
What does purity and righteousness hold?
It can only be detachment from the world.
The "world" meaning that which takes us from our Lord.
Is it right to delight in purity?
It seems so empty in a world with so few single women my age that doesn't have kids nor does drugs.
I actually don't even know one. Really.
I'm pure for myself then only?
To delight in my righteousness to only belittle the feeble?
To stand as a noble eunich with the ****** 40 & 50 somethings?
If I'm pure, I have no home in the dust.
I have no friend to share in purity.
Purity is outward.
How do I perceive reality with outward orientation?
Pure ways become my mantra.
Not just chaste eyes, but a pure body.
I become enslaved to worship my own body.
My outer body has no significance to me.
I smoke cigarettes to fight my eyes from transfixing on it.
I postpone workouts until not my body but my energy is in need of vitality.
I tattoo my skin to break the idol of the body.

What is over there?
You're going swimming.
Your swimming suit fits well.
Your brow speaks of knowledge
your ear catches my tune
I think of a brush when you pull back your hair.
Too bad these hands are unfit to touch you.
"That's okay Chad, I get it," you whisper half to
yourself.
The weather fills up your gaze
Half looking at me, half looking away.
I enjoy the paleness of your skin.
I notice now the sun on your face,
a dancer's chin.

Emma

Studying, studying, working, and sitting in zen.
She mothers her child and tends her home.
A denizen of her city's life, an outing here and there.
I see her as compartmentalized in all her facets.
Reading, reading, writing, writing.
So competent she is.
Dealing with life's struggles - they are so big to her if she compares them to all her angles.
When will she be mine? society makes me say.
But when will I be mine and she be hers, when will we take time for ourselves?
For we have so many things to contemplate, so much knowledge to fulfill.
We go to the school of God together, in college now we are.
Why take time to love when insights guide our star?
So take a break from the affection, accomplish your goals thus far.
The next time we see each other we'll have grown so much.
I want to be a better me, and see you a better you.
Let's share only the best fruits and rarest blossoms.
For life is so mundane if not working toward them.

Last moment's image of my eye's pupil causes it to look like drops of ink.
That is, along with the muscles of the eye and face.
The blood rush from the back of the eye changes the color of the pupil.
The blue of my iris gets mistaken for my pupil.
Blue dispersing back from the eye changes it too.
Green is simply the 'filling-in' phenomenon.
Same with yellow.

Are dreams merely a filling-in between life lived from one day to the next?
Is spiritual vision merely a filling-in of beliefs with physical sight?

"Why do people do impure things?"
Because what is pure is disputed.
Impurity often takes the form of beauty or passion that enlivens my life
Placing the special in heart
That was once an empty lot.
"So why is it called impure?"
Because beauty and passion, like other things, can cross the line of moderation
And can take the forms of
Betterment away if carried
Into excess.
Thus, it is not so much that
There is impurity as there is extremism.
This can shape a life into one
That has stopped or not begun
Any search for the depths of life.
It is not so much that there
May be impurity
But the lack of connections
Between souls and neighbors
Which form a community
That takes responsibility
For their own spiritual, mental,
Physical, and material betterment.

Math must be seen as a spiritual practice or else the ego will never be satisfied.
Math is a way to enlightenment, a way to gain invisible bestowals.
To further the field of mathematics is in the hands of God.
The difference in views is restless dissatisfaction versus equanimity.

When attributes like courtesy seem insincere, what ails me?
The litany of my words drowns out all others.
My words are for me, not necessarily the reader.
This voyage I was on by myself.
Who invited the entourage?
Affection and love have no existence here, He says.
This is the arena of insight, not imitation, He declares.
The truly righteous know that sincerity is the king of courtesy.
O Hashem, stop my words, stop my attributes, for evil awoke me four hours ago on this mat, and I know that that soul awaits truth.
I have 1st world problems in a city of Ahriman.
Will I be despondent enough to know their pain?
Or will their plight spark my vanity again?
Sometimes silence exalts the downtrodden in the head of those who have had it easy.
If your heart be so far away, how can I come to thee through small talk?
There must be something true to you that would ignite the fire of Hashem.

Math is switching always between calculation and visualization.
Usually more time is spent understanding how to do a problem than actually calculating them.

Ear worms during zen prove that left to nothing, popular culture will take my attention.
So let them create their music: an evil in the Hadiths of Islam, and a degradation in the Pali Canon.
Music's flames burn away the veins and stupify the mind.
The heart is replaced with straw and the liver is poisoned.

Baha'u'llah said music is lawful as long as it uplifts the spirit.
But I say:
It eats the organs, toxifies the blood.
It makes me forgetful of liberation.
Its words are idols against the Path.
It masks the senses.
It trivializes reason.
It points the disposition into darkness upon darkness.
It deafens the ears.

It lightens the body.
It stammers the sense of smell.
It invades attention and enslaves the mind.
It dries the throat.
It displaces the sense of location.

The hologram of the mind is so vast that enlightenment would have to be like a complete update of my operating system.

What does it mean that my logic and reasoning could solve a problem?
Meaning the one who gave me the problem could solve it already.
Yet there are those who have gone through all the courses of problems, all ending in relatively the same place mentally.
However, there are still problems they can't solve.
What does it take for a breakthrough?

To know when to employ math known to mankind and when I can't.
To know when I need something new or when I can use something old.
This, I believe, is the crux of the matter.
Otherwise, I try to invent new what is already done and so go nowhere except to prove to myself what all these people knew from a different perspective.

O beauty in my horizon
You look at me like a thousand days
we've spent together, or
longer still.
You take pride in our gaze together.
You are the answer
to my every male instinct.
And there you recline,
as if you are made of starlight,
as if you've swallowed the moon.
Your neck has no point save
regarding me.
You are intent on setting
me aflame with desire for you.
My body aches to keep
its inner mojo.
Yet you snake around
my neck and seep into
my testicles.
You say "this is a test".
"For what?"
"You know" she replies.
"A test for me" she gives a second answer.
"To see if you can come on my star destroyer"
"Where does that lead?" I ask.
"To another time."
"A time when you're free."
Then Christ's neck holds me:
"Can you pray with Me, and stay resolute?"

Sigh.
Another night
that I might not know my pillow.

Hour by hour down the highways,

Minute by minute down the neighborhoods,

Get out tha' truck,

go to the door,

open the back.

Talk to the customer,

bring tha' furniture in:

"where does it go?"

"how do ya' want it?"

In five minutes to an hour your furniture will be in place

for you to love.

How much overtime did you have this week?

Baha'u'llah is the Fire of Being kindled by the snow of
faith, whereas the Spirit is the eyewash of light
upon the prism of the heart.

Notice how Baha'u'llah's Fire of Being is lit in the
conscious mind and not the subconscious mind like the Spirit is.
The conscious mind is a mind without concern for
past or future. It knows no rank and holds no
station. It has no depth or height. It has no design and
holds no symbol.
It knows no support.
It is a mark of crimson. It holds no eloquent speaker, except the inspiration of the heart, and Baha'u'llah Himself.
It knows no plan except 'Abdu'l-Baha's Divine Plan, it has
no mortal guide except Shoghi Effendi's letters.
It carries out the devotion shown to it.
Devotion here is one thing done at a time, and cannot be
sustained except with great desire.
There is no room for impressing someone.
It hath no wisdom save what is stored in the heart.
It sees the world as a child, 100% hope.
Its energy is the ignorance of purity.
Its captain is the invoker of His Word.
It is stoked at the fire of responsibility.
It is drowned by the remembrance of aught except Him.

How do I speak of my love for you without any ludeness?
Why are you such a ****** creature to me?
There is no dimension which is not ****** to me, why?
That you have never spoken about any theory? Or any event?
Should you not just be detached from the world to me?
Not concerned with the wider world, but with your own people?

She concentrates on attracting others.
She wants good money, a good job to get the things she wants.
I try to find a way within to behold her desire, her beauty.
Like there was a secret door that could make her step out of my body and into my room.
Like my heart must subtly feel for her presence.
I must make her my goddess to be worshipped in the land of beauty.
To let my heart be swept up in her world of people.
People talked about, people hated and loved.
A world of opinions about people.
So many people.

I fear her beauty will one day fade.
Not in ten years, or even twenty years perhaps.
But later in life.
I hope that by that time her world will grow beyond people, beyond drinking and fun.
I hope she reflects on her life, and comes to great discoveries about herself.
But she reminds me of the song "girls just want to have fun".
I've never known how to be with that kind of girl except to drink, smoke, or do the drugs that they are doing.
At that point I become an experiencer who thinks only of my reality.
The other people, even her, would become secondary.
I would seek the mysteries of reality and seek to explain them.
To unravel what aspects of life are that could build a bridge to the mystery.

Yes, she is a beauty to behold, a dear to interact with.
But I feel my destiny of love lies elsewhere, not in ****** beauty, but in beauty of thought.

As much as the **** female is central to underground society, she comes to me in my bedroom.
Those sources of her pulsate with the richness of her beauty.
How many geniuses have been subverted from thought by her.
How many have plunged into desire's depths, reliant on her picture to allay their suffering.
Without sensuality they derobe as if to go to battle. With her in one hand and their shlong in the other, they make their towel wet.
Now with their desire fed, she looks as a mere distraction.
Just another human body she is now.
Her image has been worshipped and they have found no god.

Sometimes silence has little use.
The "made white" ghost even feels silence a burden.

Sirens call "them" to me.
Wicked Caucasians here mostly.
Is it circumstance that calls my back to be straight?
Poor Caucasians drunk, violent, mischievous, or in possession.
Why do we do it?
Are we fed up with the powers of the world, so we lash out against what we see is their society?
Is it really a lack of gratitude for the wisdom that the hand of God has dealt?
For we are all equal/united in wealth, for God's wealth is in the possession of the poor and God's destitution is in the possession of the material wealthy.
But if ignorant of this unity, or in doubt of it, who can help one in rebellion against God?
For those who we think are more powerful, really abide by the "unity of station" where no one is exalted above another. For exaltation and righteousness is expressed in apparent abasement and wickedness.
For many an outer bad deed has hidden an inner good deed.
Can we not be agreed?

I have five appendages: head, arms, and legs.
More complex than oneness: what of the
six joints of every leg and arm, or the seven vertebra of the neck?
Thus, looking at the body becomes more and more complex
until I revert back to where my body evolved from a single-
celled organism, which in turn came from water.

Emotions are like appendages, there are also five simple emotions.
Looking at them react together is very complex to follow each motion.

Then, to complete the divine triangle: body, emotion, and, knowledge, which is born of unification.
Virtue are singularities of all three together.

Spirit is service,
compulsion is a virtue of youth and vitality.
It is excess of enjoyment. It knows
less limits and adheres to less stillness.
Insanity is the virtue of enjoyment that is converted
to pain: a pain for others, if not sorrow for me.

Thus, when I am continually the object of my own
insanity, it can be hidden.  But when it affects others,
it becomes mental illness.

She says, "Chad, **** me hard."
She puts her hands on my shoulders and slips on to my *******.
She bangs herself while she thinks of me.
She knocks on my front door and disrobes in the entryway.
I cup her ******* with my hands as I **** her from behind.
Our rocking motion ebbs and flows.
I kiss her neck as she pulls back her hair.
My lips slowly go down her shoulders onto her chest and I taste her salty skin
We walk through a forest in daylight hand in hand.
We bicycle to a coffee shop together and sit down at a booth with our warm mugs.
Then I read this poem to her.
The words dance in her receivers, she says "thank you".
Then she walks away by herself
With her memory of us together.
Knowing we will meet again.

As Plato stated:
First study sound,
then philosophy,
and finally physics.
So too, in the inner school:
mantra,
then silence,
and finally visualization.

For once all three are studied,
all can work in harmony.

Math problems usually don't use imagination, but physics has been helped by reflective similes when the math is correct.

My eye tells me I'm still 17 years old.
Sharing time with these classmates,
Their strength and compassion.
I am my criminal acts and the response which the law made against me.
Why did I hide my light of character in them?
To refuse my brother's good?
That I may stand with my own eyes - evil though they be?
For to live always under the guise of another's eyes is not justice.

Are there any words which capture wisdom?
Grief of Prophets.
Are there any words which speak enlightenment's prose?
Silence.
Are there any words which tell of an artist's hopelessness?
Time: the comparison between two differing things.

Only age can gain age's beauty.
Only in time can tell the artist's proficiency.

O celestial mountain, let me climb the stairs of patience
that the immortal front may be birthed anew.
Cover thyself with the robe
of the Ancient Root,
and with the Hood of the Worlds,
that you may hearken to the
winds of mystery
and the tremors of the stock of oneness.
Suffer time
to pass thee by
that the eternal sun
may shine upon thee.
Let the Mother of Eternity
give thee nourishment
at the seat
of powerlessness.

"How do you meditate daddy?"
Meditation is hiding how I meditate even from my own pen.
You may observe me meditating and learn that way.

O naked breast, what do you have with me?
You're a picture taken from another camera see.
Though your smooth skin entices.
Though your areolas are a museum of love.
Though your hair is long,
Though your eyes are wide.
Though your vaginal lips hide a salty sea.
Though I mistake my sweaty smell for thee.
You cannot have me.
When will my lover stop showing me her image?
I just want to explore reality.
Why reality so sensual?
Why not matter-of-factual?
Why not in layers of languages unknown?
Instead, so macrocosmically.
Why so lovely?

You look like the blessed Middle East.
Your smile is like 1000 Fatimas.
Your eyes so full and ready to serve humanity.
Jet black hair that portrays the night.
Cream skin like Pistachio ice cream.
Several hundred eyelashes as rays of a dark lit sun.
A nose of a hundred thousand prostrations to God.
To touch your jacket would give off
a mystical scent.
To straighten your tie would be a service to Mother Mary.
Fingers like petals of lillies.
"Hi Chad" you whisper with an ecstatic Hijaz.
Legs forgotten by a million Quranic recitations.
Pious seal of purity.
"I am not the beauty you seek" the black globe of your eye
betrays.
One hundred 'Ali's have circled round me.
Ten Yusif's have proposed.
"I am a fairy tale like no other" you let out
with a diamond glint in your eye
"You and me, we'll make a love that cannot be forgotten."
"I will make you worship at my shrine."
A thousand Husayns cannot handle me.
I am my daddy's little girl.
You must pray five times with me
every day we are together.
You must testify to Muhammad
as the Seal of the Prophets.
"What of the Qaim?" I plead with her.
She replies, "Of that I don't know."
"Then a thousand mirrors of beauty are still shut
to you joon."
"Though you are moonshine of the Twelve Imams,
I must send you on your travels
and leave this page with a sploch."

Just awareness.

Thoughts too deep to be fathomed on the surface.
Such as "woman" which alludes mere objective reality.
It employs the heart, which gives only desirous and love thoughts, which even more so alludes singularity, but rather a memory of 10,000 women's pictures are categorized by the brain.
This in itself is taxing for any outer organization.
It is done by the brain by simply pulling out the latest woman on my mind.
The mind an old house of files and recordings which can't all be accessed, and when I write that the master of the house says "but here" and shows me a random memory.
Proving only that a random record can be accessed.

Why must love start to be forbidden by age differences, work settings, and lifestyle differences?
Doesn't love have any sense?
Her eyes are inviting and her body is youthful and vital.
A ripe peach.
The heart is so material, more than the brain.
The brain reasons, gives levels, and categorizes.
The heart simply loves.
It is sheer feeling.
The deepest seat of imagination.
Can she "feel my heart beating" in my wish that she was happy, that my love could be expressed?
Does she "feel the same, or am I only dreaming?"
The heart has such lasting imaginations.
They consume the attention and won't allow it to wander away.
The heart laughs because the eyes are mere spectators of the heart.
The heart says "I am reality".
It's more immune to observations, it is harder to change its interests.

My heart must cling to another heart every night, and my body sometimes adulterizes the heart I hold so dear.
I'm never alone in the imagination of the heart.

True love feels the same whether it is shared or not.
It makes the blood pump a little harder, and blush with joy.
The difference is its materialization.
Once love materializes the desire is met with responsibility.
The truest heart is the one that has consummated the least love.