Women almost half my age:
Why is the 20's such a lively and beautiful time that you are the very life of life?
My heart goes out to your beauty,
but God forbid that I should love a fool to death.
But I do!
Oh, Ah,
How you rule the field of love!

The intellect will always fail to grasp wisdom.
Wisdom, the unutterable, is still an actor in emotion's stage.
Emotion's hero is a child.
The world's schoolyard doesn't wish to leave a child on it.

I used to stay up all night in deep study,
but now my studying is slimmer because I've found more answers.

Now:
After an hour or two or rest there is a fresh
ground to plant myself in.

After two or three hours of gardening
in the fertile field, the crop is planted, and
the morning's work is done.

I now need to rest again for new fertile ground,
but also for the night
plants to sprout to cover my tracks.

When Baha'u'llah said "be a companion of the Self of the Merciful", I knew it is that self that has an inner whiteness that reminds me of virgins' eyes.

Then He continued: "and from association with and resemblance to Satan", I knew He meant befriend all, judge no one, and bear the accusations of the ignorant.

Continuing, "enter beneath the sanctity of the Bountiful, that perchance the hand of Divine grace may draw thee away from the paths of passion unto the heavens of everlasting might and majesty".  With this finality I realized that One could use the holiness of the righteous along with love for all and Satan in the same sentence, and still open up heart's rose.

Maybe when the brain is most fundamental, the neuron groups respond in the most redundant way.
The back of the brain receives energy, the side lobes transmit thoughts, the central core is silent, the frontal lobe is afraid to erupt without reason.
The heart desires love, the ******- *******, the stomach-food, and the palate-wetness.
The body containing many rooms dedicated to different functions, where I am the observer of all of them.
Each room a mechanical device operating in autonomy.
And me with the reflective capacity to witness it work.

A day of sit
open a book
write a verse
scroll the
Wikipedia
write and categorize
vocabulary from
a published article
on the fundamental forces

pray and sit
eat and sit
lay down and wait

get up and, go!

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."

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 I have to settle down?"
The point is not to introduce into sitting a feeling or thought pattern from previous sitting.
Instead, to observe, with as little change in the body's condition, the thoughts, feelings, visions, and motions of energy.
"Why can't I just sit back in a chair?"
If so, the point in meditation will revolve around getting more and more comfortable.
You will adjust your body again and again to reach for comfort.
When you want to put a statue of a meditating figure in a home, do you want a statue of someone laying back in a chair meditating?
There is no cultivation of effort in sitting back
Sure sometimes my back needs rest.
That's fine.
"But meditation isn't supposed to use effort."
Whoever told you that doesn't understand what effort really is.
There are only degrees of effort.
All creation is pulled and pushed by gravity forces, every thought produces a vibration that must overcome this gravitation.
These people say "introduce the mantra as easily as these thoughts freely come to us."
That is fine, but that is effort in my opinion.
Silence within requires the least effort, yet still energy must have effort so as not to go to sleep.
For meditation, I think, is being awake, and awakening...
From our environment and our normal self, to reach a greater Self.
If anyone could reach a greater Self without effort, everyone would be as a god or goddess.
If you want to practice your mantra and sit back and relax, that's fine.
It will get you there.
I used to do that and be that
But my personal meditation is different.

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."

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.

If left to nothing, I am ******.
If left to nothing, I am expressive but not intellectual.
If left to nothing, my thoughts make no logical point though.
If left to nothing, my time fills with sleep.
If left to nothing, I work with my hands doing simple things
If left to nothing, I only study what I perceive.
I can only see my Self as a criminal.
The Self hides the thought.
The Self makes a point.
The light shows it's greater than darkness.
My Self tries to copy their brightness.
While I take glory in unkindness.
My Self is joined by God governance.
I'm cast away for hypocrisy.
I'm left to gather intentions, see.
I can never again be the first elect.
I am forced to recollect.
Their fairness makes me their equal.
My spiritual station is with God not the people.
Madness is my true Self.
Victimhood is my true wealth.
Displaced is the eye from my story.
What's left is a body - no glory.
My light itself is lost and perplexed.
These words getting me to the next.
I see someone worse off, I just want to bless.
I see the eyes of the Local Spiritual Assembly.
It's an understanding and not my reality.
I see the moral understanding.
I have almost no share in its standing.
Their light is weaker than darkness
My light is just blindness.
Anger is truth
Perplexity is truth.
Friendship is a lie.
Mercy allows me to know why
Safety comes before playfulness.

Timid eyes.

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.

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.

"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.

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.

On the clay of grandeur ebbs and flows the lights of knowledge from the orator of wisdom until it becomes so embedded with light that it hardens into celestial steel that obeys the West of expansion and supplicates itself to the East of resignation.

Words of men find no passageway in this enlightened sky where understanding has no increase.  

For it is held in the dawn of another day between which is a night that knows no sleep in a world without a place for it.

For here the Prophet has repaired to His home in the clouds of the sky which can only be ascended by faith tested by the mirage of disbelief,

only to then lay on the pillow of exasperation in the field of victory.

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.

The light of the manifest heaven is, alas, as a breeze in the middle of the night.
The hellish blaze of former times still resonate in my heart.
Knowledge is as a copious fountain in the Earth's riverbed,
And wisdom grows on every vine even if it dwells upon the dust.
The measurement of time is the only level left between the people of the world.
Seeing clearly the brighter side

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.

Disbelief or doubt is my natural disposition.
With this I try to explain away what is inconclusive.
To a Christian leader, I have another gospel, so my prophet is false.
To a Muslim, I am an imposter because I believe in innovation.
To a Jew, I am not of the Chosen Ones.
To an atheist, I am unreasonable or delusive.
To a Buddhist, I cannot attain enlightenment.
Thus, to the secret societies of belief, I am a disbeliever, mad, and ignorant, going to hell, karmic or not, or to die a mortal death.

How can my healthy doubt have any way with explanation?
To incorporate the masses, we provide governments and universally make declarations as the United Nations.

Should I lose belief to satsify the masses: agreeing with them that I'm a disbeliever and coming to terms with atheists?

Just stand for love and unity.

There is no home like sitting.
But words take one step toward the mind
And one step away from "I".

Time equals dedication.
Aspiring to be as dedicated as my house mate,
Rather even more dedicated.
How do I compete with almost 50 years of regular practice?
Just minute by minute.
No comparison is really needed.
He has his mantra and siddhis,
While I have my shikantaza.

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.

People sing a song
Put away your ****.
Let's run a race
To see the Master's face.
Wizard with chalk
Seeing stronger than a hawk.
Genius of a deed
A person without greed.

Island unto me
A reason to just be.
Island unto me
A reason to just be.

Does God have a name?
I think it's a shame.
We all wanna talk
Can we even stop?
Books are fun
Living without a gun.
Silence is a key
A key to mystery.

Island unto me
A reason to just be.
Island unto me
a reason to just be.

"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.

"I just graduated from high school, what should I do now?"
There are some things to consider first.
1. Muhammad, pbuh, said that no one can take away the knowledge you're destined to have.
2. Self-directed learning is the highest form of knowledge, and in India the highest recognized scholars are self-taught.
3. There are free courses, videos, and lessons online in every field often done by some of the brightest minds, and textbooks for sale online.
4. Study one course or book at a time. Separate books that require study from books just for fun.
5. If you decide to go down this path, know that it is governed by motivation and this can change direction, often in conflict with true will, so be patient. Sometimes it can take years to finish a book.
6. I knew none of this when I was your age.

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.

I slide my hand down your **** and thigh from behind as you are bent over, and making yourself a toy for me.
I penetrate you *******, in and out as your shelf provides a suction on and off.
Your skin gets hot and flush.
You grab me like your fulfillment depended on it.
My ***** grows so large that it pierces though your heart and lungs and out your mouth.
Can you feel it in your abdomen?
The pulse and push against your intestines?
Rocking your ecatasy up your tummy as you grab at your heart - pounding with your man.
The rush goes up your ahoulders, up your neck, and your head and face come alive with mortal pleasure.
As you take your mouth over my tower, pressing your lips and tongue on its veins and arteries, digesting the salty skin in your mucus.
Pulsing your head back and forth as if you're not drinking enough, as if your mouth had the sensitivity of your ******.
Without ******* you press it into your pus and my head pulses and enlarges pressing the back of your tunnel.
Woman's immortal enemy: my ******, jettisons my *****, mixing with your wet walls, producing a torrent of film.
We both hadn't had enough.

A full day's work
is as the energy
of three hour's reflection,
but getting up the
next day with lying
down and no sit
is dogshit.

Thought, memory, future, imagination.
2. Self, will, reflection.
3. Organization.
4. Universe, events.
5. Body, people.
6. Emotion.
7. Virtues.

I see your smile through distance and screen.
I hear your thoughtful voice from miles away.
We are so much alike,
Though we disagree on some of our certainties.
We talk and talk,
And sit to meditate,
Together.
And when I become pressed up to your heart,
You throw a glass of syncreticism in my face,
And our heart journey ends in disgrace.

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.

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 ******
I am ****
Because I am you
And you are me.
We are one.

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?

The people have been so encircled by the Scriptures of the past, that they do not know what to do once they hear the sacred streams from the Pen of Baha.
To whom do they turn among their former companions?
They ask: whose power can quench the song of this Sacred bird?
Whose sovereignty can allay the anguish of my soul?

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.

The author of poetry from original ideas;
the author of poetry from secondhand ideas;
the repeater of poetry (communicating meaning);
the speaker of poetry off-the-top of the head
(due to great understanding).

~From the Pali Canon

I find inducing sleep helps me transcend thought and emotion.
"You're sleeping while sitting?"
It's like holding a thought of sleep to transcend thoughts.
Maybe I should just go back to 'just observing'.

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?

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.

Divinity is like a fire, which the body can only
handle 98.6 degrees.
Only meditation that buttresses up against insanity
can reveal how strong or potent it is.

Two sets of eyes
Collide
In anger
In angst
One set is proud
And stands his ground.
Be his hurt
Be the pain
No questions asked
No turns to the right
Or to the left.

Turn fight/flight into widsom?
Maybe thinking about it at home.

Turn your head away
Walk home.

"How do I not get bored doing meditation?"
The 22 year-old said with a moan.
How do you feel when a boyfriend holds you close?
Go to that place.
How do you feel when your mom holds you tenderly?
Go to that place.
How did you feel when your dad finally came home from work?
Go to that place.
Be in the place that is dear, that no one can replace, the place that is sacred.

Oh eye, of a day gone by in ease
How I used to radiate light, now you are a messenger of gray.
You have a face of winter winds.
You never stay too long in the lighted center.
Don't you remember the dreams we've had?
In the world beyond the dust?
No, light does not come often from the lawful self, but is rather from knowledge or wisdom met with a hundred mercies.
My spirit is too diverse in colors to be seen as one light.
My creation does not lie in the fixation of a white or golden light, rather its creativity is seen in how I design.
My beauty is more than a point, it is as a flower held in front of a point.  Only by its being there does the point recognize the flower's value.
How I wish to be blessed with the point that my flower can hold it.
Hardly a petal is accepted, what an aged face I've become.
My own inner spirit must combine with my body to make beauty, which then must pass through my own acceptance - how hard it is.
Something's always afoul.
I should give up and say there's no such thing as beauty in an eye.
I am to be the saddest face if I behold your seas of bliss repeatedly.
A true smile comes from the Earth beneath me.
With enough shaking, it turns my heart to joy.
But it doesn't show on my skin.
There is no beauty in men.

I am a course and
weak Self imbibed
with only me.
There is no image
save My image.
There is no soul save
My soul.
I'm refreshed by my
own eye and my own
breeze.
My being radiates its
own oneness with its
Self.
This is the garden
of immortality.
Free from the Manifestation,
abiding in my love
for my Self.
I should tell Bob
that "Baha'u'llah
said that
the highest spiritual
station is to be free
from the oneness with
the Prophet and see
oneself as exalted -
being encompassed
by the love for one's
Self."

Many in this realm get
caught in the thoughts
of others, not listening
to their own voice.
Every guide and guru
cannot stand the one
who is in love with
only himself.
Here there is no
need for others to
hear or follow.
I become the center
actor of my own
movie.
I see the image of
a statue  embodying
my Self.
Yes, we are all one
Self, enthroned in
the highest.
This is the realm of
Self-Authority
where the Manifestation is
equally envious of me.

Every thought of self
inadequacy
is met with the
sparkling beauty
of my Self.

I am like a coiled nerve made of hair.
I am yellow-green hue glowing here.
I am the determination of Superman's eye.
I am a planet in the sky.
I am the top-back of head pulled stiff.
I am gray shapes and shades of shadows and stuff.
I am a shape seen as a child.
I am a texture soft and mild.
I am a heart that wants another.
I am her crimson, her purple, her blue.
I want it all to make love with you.
I am the pupil of her eye.
How much I want to feel her skin.
I want to kiss her chin.
I want this all sanctified from place and time.
I want her to mesmerize my spine.
I want to hold her in my mind
Like beholding a diamond as mine.
I want to see her eyes glow.
I want to see her all bundled up in the snow.
I want to ram my ***** down her pantry.
I want to hold her hips as it gets juicy.
I want to hear her moan as I *******.
I want to make her ***** and frustrate.
How many times her beauty made me shed a tear.
How many times I want to hold her dear.
She makes my will jello.
She makes time slow.
Is it really time wasted to entertain her beauty?
To think of her naked *** so creamy?
I am this woman that won't leave my vision.
I feel her esteem's syncopation.
Yes, with this I get high on lust.
I am this shade that is in and around my head.
My brow is as an umbrella or the folliage of a tree,
While my jaw is the ground where I sit and see.
My crown is the sun beeming down on all this.
I never get to fully see what heated spirit can be.

What more than a head and body?
What more than a room?
What more than staring eyes?
Do they ever pierce through?
The molecules of the things in here spark no new sense to me.
Nor outside taking a smoke.
There has got to be a word for this.
Not boredom, not austere.
Not glum, not shade.
Lukewarm light, maybe.
Noble stare of the formless mind, perhaps.
Miser, hopefully not.
Forgetful, of the world though.
Hopeful, no, a little more resigned.
A frequency? Could be.
The loser, the creative?
The inventor, the wannabe?
Expectant, too intense.
Drifting on the hard edge of the mind.
Why can't a fish bite?
Why not one?
I'm a doomed fisherman with none.
No flower has vloomed, not an exceptional one.
How do forms collectively merge into one, though separate I see?
I'll explore this novelty.
Blind to multiplicity things become one.
What price do I pay for collectivity?
Look at the Earth so together, so one.
Yet how little I can relate to Her.
I see a collection of rooms, a collection of houses, a collection of cars and businesses.
Collection of dishes, a collection of cash and credit receipts.
This is the minor Earth I see.
A collection of esteem's, a collection of words, thoughts, and things.
Nothing like iron-hard duty to break apart the day.