of This World, Not a single mote of dust exists, neither the peaks of Kilimanjaro - not this moment, not this breath, Not the beat of a drum, nor even eternity, and neither blood.

Our Mother
Whose name is of Art,
praise to thy beauty,
that drives the Beat of our Hearts.
give us
Our nights
of Divine Passion,
& bless us - so that
we may never shy
from the
Absolute comfort of
Solitude.
Lead us
to the persistence
of Folly &
the Destruction
of Slavery.
For thine
is the love, &
    the mercy, &
    the grace
and the Wild yearning.
Forever,
And Ever More.

Ah no money
and the bill has come - roosting.  

I contemplate suicide,
and other deluded pains;

much rather that than
sell my art for money;

how does one even begin-
to ask for money for a gift;

from all Nature unbidding,
for Art that is Art is

Not made by you - we
forget that this is all a chance,

luck fits better - perhaps -
and yet the morrow begins,

and i ope my eyes again;
the world - Still Burning.

and my heart - full;
not if only I could figure something out for the wallet!

I am lucky.
I am luck.
I am loved.
I am love.

I am joy.
I am joyful.

I am laughter.
I love to laugh.

I am grateful.
I am Alive.
I am Dead.

I am blessed.
I am a blessing.

I am Enough.
I do Enough.
I give Enough.
I have Enough.

I love to dance,
I dance to live,
I live to love,
I love to bless,
I bless to laugh,
I laugh to love.

I am lucky for this Universe that I have been blessed with.

That this morning we wake up.
And you give us a small ray.
That we keep in our pockets -
throughout this year, this week, this day.
And that when we expect it least,
The ray slips out
Onto those who need it most.

Taking each breath
You now see
What the eyes will never show,
There - a smile,
Here - a year;
clearing out a space,
for yourself-
Lighting the bonfire, heating the hearth-
Light it and
Wait,
Breathe-
And pass the warmth, the glow
to the withered eye, bones and souls,
seeking refuge
under the mighty toll of
The Great Turn.
Hey-**!

For Dr. Jabir & Quantum Tantra
±
Every touch is her touch,
Every glance her spell.
Every smell her scent,
And every sound her whisper.
Sometimes hot, hot, hot-
Others cold;
Every flavor her taste,
And all the stories
her folds.
Every greetings her form,
And behind it-
the mirror showing her
In true - eternal un-ground.
Yes, every second- her own beat,
And every undulation:
Her wrath, fury.
O- Dame Nature,
I ain't no ******-
And i - am a-hooked
On you.

On the one hand-
A scream- a shout: MAKE MONEY

On the other one-
Why? What for? Who asks this?

It isn't this simple, it
Really is that simple.

I would to nothing more do,
Than fill pages with thought, lyrics and

Amuse me, amuse you.
Yes, it is true.

I am filled here-
With the space to see how to make-

Yet, neither you nor i,
Truly, do wish to- see-

What it is we could amount
To be-

Leave it aside, brush it now.
What more is to be said,

About the blind poetry-
The blind poetry of-

All things arise from emptiness,
Where does emptiness arise from?

Thus spoke an Ancient Buddha.
I do not understand it, much.

Simply the wheels turning outside -
The pigeons coo, and below the grasses sparkle.

The day turns,
The night as well-

Some something something that
Is not this nothing something.

Why indeed must there be anything,
When just as easy as it for to be nothing-

But philosophising
Is quite unnecessary -

I spent my whole journey
Dancing in front of a mirror:

This one, that is-
All life a reflection of yourself,

All concepts, concepts, concepts-
All the way down - concepts!

Alas- all things do arise from emptiness,
Yet for the life of me-

Pray-
Could I ever understand whereforth emptiness arises from?