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 Feb 2015
wordvango
on the floor you dropped
your dress inked up your quill
to write of love but still...

out of your words stopped
on the empty paper still
leaves your breast unfilled...

put on essences perfume
brush your red hair beautiful
cast your eyes to the mirror...

drop the pen quiet the muse
open your window,
hear the star kissed sky

behold the dark side
of the valley the trees swaying to
this insanity kiss the wind entering
---         ---         ---         ---         ---         ---         ---         ---         ---
Altered states of Consciousness can be very auspicious,
and such a practice may well have ensured survival, so,
perhaps genetic predisposition towards entheogenic study,
or, otherwise, the psychological drive to try such substances,
is a manifestation of worthwhile ancestral exploration of Consciousness
via intervallic use of natural psychoactive substances in groups
in our not-so-distant genetic past.
A theory of mine. Seems legit.
Graham Hancock - The War on Consciousness:

".. and I stand here invoking the hard-won right of freedom of speech to call for and demand another right to be recognized, and that is the right of Adult Sovereignty over Consciousness.

There is a war on Consciousness in our society, and if we, as Adults, are not allowed to make sovereign decisions about what to experience  with our own Consciousness while doing no harm to others- including the decision to use, responsibly, ancient and sacred visionary plants, then we cannot claim to be free in any way, and it is useless for our society to go around the world imposing our form of democracy on others while we nourish this rot at the heart of society and we do not allow individual freedom over Consciousness.

It may even be that we are denying ourselves the next vital step in our own evolution by allowing this state of affairs to continue, and, who knows, perhaps our immortal destiny, as well."*



Please watch or at least listen to the whole speech. It's only 19 minutes.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y0c5nIvJH7w
 Feb 2015
Onoma
Distilled concourse, the deep black sheep of space itself...
pin-pricked with breathing holes that burst light.
Everything lives inside its head...stars, star as proof
positive of other mentation.
Serenade their indelible station with Unknowing-Knowing...
mantric mothering.
Victors of the immaterial thumbtacking grayest matter.
Unshaken eyes cast for seership...voids swath and drown
in trying to connect them.
There you are...a starry entelechy...revelatory
inky night lo Light, showering your outer eyes instantaneously.
Beaming up an effigy of your earthly clay--encasing you in
the experimental color coursing  a bubble greater than
a galaxy.
A supernova radiating your inner eyes.
 Feb 2015
Onoma
...You, dearest vagary, aplomb--were
brought to bear.
Vicissitude of memory which is the
dispersion of identity.
Of a time, and of a place--you, a
mellifluous bronze dusk poured upon
a meadow, a solitary immersion, a
moment that harnesses the whole of
the earth, as you are...dearest vagary.
You were afforded as by the citizenry
of the air, lent by an intercontinental
wind.
An undying eloquence featured for all
time--the swaying bud blown to bloom.
You...the beautification of possibility,
its matrices never left in want.
As in withstanding place the round is
made, and remade about you, the whole
of the earth.
Thus, you've no confounding words...
have you?
Thus, this sidelong expenditure that you may--
shall breach the earth you shall.
*A poem to the "Pregnant Point".
 Feb 2015
Onoma
How many ends in and of themselves
constitute a fill that is yours?
Abreacted claimant...many airs
light at the feet.
I Am with you, I Am you upon this
All-encompassed fold.
Our knees stupefied by weight...
gone weak--gone strong, time and
out of so again.
As a priest walking up the aisle,
censer oscillating the concrescence
of attending souls.
Sniffing for the emblazoned churchyard...
known paces out of doors--the sky
falling down and granting pace no more...
of we, figured in the delving core,
cored out...The Great Scattering.
 Feb 2015
SøułSurvivør
~~♥~~

I used to think men
should be more like books
Both you cannot
judge by looks...

If I didn't want to finish reading
I put it down... no heart was bleeding

A book will never fuss or fight
It will stay with you
through the night...

It doesn't smoke. It doesn't drink.
It won't leave toothpaste
in the sink!

It doesn't binge... it don't eat...
It won't leave up the toilet seat!

It don't forget. It doesn't mope.
It won't hog the TV remote!

It doesn't have to have
The last say...
It doesn't have legs

to walk away.

But it's not soft. It isn't warm.
It doesn't keep you
safe from harm.

Even though it makes no fuss
It can't think. It can't discuss.

Even though it has its charms
it can't hold you in its arms.

It doesn't pine. It doesn't miss.
It can't hug and it can't kiss.

So now I think on it again...
... I think BOOKS should be
             more like MEN!!!



SoulSurvivor
2/20/2015
~~♥~~
Heaven is the word I knew
Not the world I viewed
Love is the world I viewed
Not only the word I knew
Heaven is  the nucleus of universe
Love is the nucleus of life
 Feb 2015
Mocedad Torres
I've told people I loved them, when I didn't
I've told people I'd stay, then I left
I've done things I shouldn't have,
I've kept quiet when I should have screamed.

These experiences have changed me, very much so.
But I am not these experiences.
I am not heartless, I am not a liar.
My mistakes have shaped me, my mistakes haunt me, but my mistakes do not dictate where I am going.
"History" occurs
when at least one conscious being
makes the conscious decision
to look backwards on the Spiral.
Spiral out. Keep going.

Inspired by Lateralus by Tool:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wS7CZIJVxFY
 Feb 2015
Nebulous the Poet
Sitting on a bench just off the
Liberty Trail in Boston, waiting as
the rest of my family made a restroom stop.
An old man with a thick, greyish
beard and heavy eyelids
took a seat next to me.
His ***** white hair caught
a cotton seed sailing through the air.

The bag of tobacco in his hand
was wide open, and he
pulled a roll of Zig-Zags
out of his pocket—he tore
the paper about six inches long
and proceeded to
roll a cigarette. His fingers,
bent and forlorn,
worked tediously as a
diamond cutter’s.

He lit the cigarette, let out a ring of smoke,
and introduced himself as
Lenny. I told him my name
and we talked for a few minutes.
"What brings you to Boston
young fella?" he said
in his aged Boston accent.
"Family vacation--personally, I'm
interested in all the history of the town."

By now his cigarette is
half-burnt, and my family is
ready to continue on the trail.
Lenny turned to me with
a low look in his eyes,
but he cracked a smile.
He had a couple teeth missing

Before I got up he said to me,
“When I want to sit and think,
a cigarette isn’t long enough
to burn through my thoughts,
but a conversation with a
stranger every day
is what keeps my mind
from running away in smoke.”
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