Rapture is the sense of envelopment
A feeling like looking up at the rain
The world as an envelope
Is as it does

come on in
the water's fine

Knowledge is knowing
that you've always been seeking
Whereas wisdom is
realizing that seeking
is never-ending

I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending
I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
is just lending
I & I
for while
for to smile

Shhh
Shhhhh
I'm silent still
go back cat
to windowsill
that is that
the black will fill
my eyes
and i'll have no disguise
to hide behind
so lie will I
until
I cry
it OUT

and light!
oh light
so guiding
so graceful
a gift
is only as sweet
as the way
you embrace it

I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending

I once discovered that my brain is abyssal.
A mirror at most, a shadow or crystal.
As I unclenched, I found not a fist full.
Like dismissal, it's blissful.
Like some empty shape
much less than the wastes;
a smooth, silent stillness,
without mean, without make.

An empty fist is still a fist.
I am so
because there is
nothing
inside me.

warning.

i may or may not know what it is
that i'm talking about,
and
if I do, it is uncertain whether or not
i understand.

Be also aware,
that you,
although gifted with hearing well enough,
may or may not know what it is
that i'm talking about,
and
when it comes to understanding,
one may only paint a picture
with the palate provided.

It's just a thought,
but maybe this really is
as it seems.

Perhaps
the mountains
are truly mountains,
and the rivers
rivers.
A symphony of liquid,
notes called drops,
but you hear only one song.

It's possible
that light
is color,
because a broken thing
is still
itself.

All of the loose ends
might meet by chance
in a white room
when they find themselves
searching
for the beginning
again,
but
it's just
a thought.

Bring forth your
whole self.
I do not mean
pronounce your name,
show your form,
or announce the game you play,
but the being that is
without death;
the blank page that was before
the writings of mother and father
graced its white
humility.

Show me this.

It may seem a difficult task,
yet it is done without being asked,
no trifle nor trouble,
and once completed,
seems to have been done before
you even set about
to begin.

For the self is selfless
and gives its isness freely,
thus leaves no mark,
holds no home,
sits not stark,
does not roam,
from where/when/why/how it already is.

abound with fruits
are flowers;
are seeds.
black and warm,
with no need
for audio/visual,
hands-on learning techniques.

a fire is simply
burning,
yet is not itself when so.

Show me this.

Will we ever watch
the cool of a still surface,
or be forever

ecstatic
in the glory
of ripples?

the politics
of mirrors
lies out of sight
while the frogs in the pond
fashionably late
sing the swan song
of separation

no-mind-all-one

the ******* tree fruits teeth
and eats itself on impact
leaving behind no trace
of heart beat
or throbbing veins
but instead remembers itself
on the earth as a skeleton
bones made of the
finest silver set of dining wares
for to feast
on the slack remaining
weightless brain of a thing
that spins the circles is sails
like a tailor
in a fire

In summation
I am a tribute.
A sacrifice to the all-beast.
the great vibrational being
with a fractal face,
and fingers,
and feet.
with a frayed tongue
it eats me;
completely.

We are examples
of the persistence
of existence.
All of us flickering like fire,
than rising like smoke,
higher and higher,
breath from the stoke.

No joke, but still funny.
Like bees making honey.
I like my yolks runny,
liquid and lovely,
like motions in space.

It's no race to beat
the all-beast,
feasting its face with its own fingers.
nothing left to waste,
nothing left to linger.

We all have a place,
As the song and the singer.
Haven't you heard?
YOU are the word!

All that you have
give it away
all that you know
thrown into the flay
all that you've been
has been today
all of your silence
has something to say
give it away

We are gifts
to the all-beast
and all of our love,
and all our attention,
is its.
in summation,
it's all we truly have to give.
In summation,
it's all we are.

Heaven must be black.
a shadow stretching from some great eclipse;
wherein we are students,
from which we are teachers.
all of us bright lights
in the dark.

Hell is ablaze
with color, more than before,
flooding the space
with waves, crashing to shore;
One
on top of
the next
until every corner of darkness left unlit
is burning!
Every corner but the one
in which you sit.
a speck of void
in endless white.

fence sitters,
on the line between blurring,
and stark separation.
sigh because the grass is always greener.

if you don't like what you're seeing,
turn around.
if you don't like what you're seeing,
close your eyes.

that which you give,
let go.

generosity consists not of applying yourself,
but releasing the things that you think you are
onto another
with prayers of light
and love,
without the intent of
direction,

for the soul knows no compass rose.

eclipsed by clouds, the moon still shines
over amaranth fields, and ocean brine
over waves of water and land
stretch the light of lunar hands
touching down, a twisted ladder
kundalini as an adder
such sweet teeth are these
but I have a feeling that the echelons are only echos

Love
Lips
Skies
Why?s
Seas
Now
Trees
Tao

these are we
blessed be