With my hands on the back of your neck
I see the crackling raising erecting
Of your swan skin
My thoughts are gasping for breath
       Going upwards in the
            Filling shame
War and city battles, apartment bullets
Motel room fiascos, jigsaw pounding passion

With my body cutting you down the center like a diamond
I’m breaking you into formlessness
Jagged like clean glass
I’ll pray to your white scars
              I’ll reinvent myself
Come out of the still lake
             Cleanse myself in black oil
Lips like razor blades, teeth like wet wings
       Innards on the pillow case, on the
Boring walls, on the idols

With your hands around my neck, your fingers in my mouth
Cheating life out of life
Taking it out on one another
                    Bruised peaches bleeding on the ****** scene
Dead red balloons left over, molding cake
Boot marks on the white rug
I want you puritanical, *****
We’re finished
We’re glowing
Lifted up waiting
for the floor.

The void is formless,
and only formless can be filled.
What is the void? It is everything
else, the sound
sounds do not make, the taken up in sight ever
unfolding into space.

It is not desire or despair
or the lukewarm blend, but more
if stillness were ever moving
and motions froze to one,
if I myself observed myself absorb the self
not myself.

They say indescribable, but it is
being described, every single moment.
They say incomprehensible while we are
knowing, every single moment.
I see it around and around these
words as if, here, dancing in mist of white alluring,

there is a magnetized fire, being encircled.
Please tell me you see the unseeable also.
That you can hear the day beseech the night
as fierce the night cries out for day.
I live and live in that resounding auditorium, and have
heard nothing, empty echoes, for days.

This is something I have been contemplating ever since I have stumbled upon the concept. I think that non-duality has been the natural progression of consciousness as I have gained access to realms of a diminished ego. To me, it is almost the ultimate mindset, for it allows for constant harmony even in the light of dissonance.
It completely explodes in radiant and uncharted landscapes of thought as it bypasses almost every culturally imposed limit on the mind, or at least in terms of thought constructs.
For now it is possible to contradict the ego, to explore the impossibilities of paradoxes
Now it is feasible to empathize with every consciousness.
Now, we can think any thought that we could ever think with holistic faith.
Now, we are free to use our minds as a medium for direct art.
Our creativity is now unleashed into the constructs of reality.
And there is no commitment.
We can go back on anything, we can constantly disagree with ourself, or even more useful, we can understand how to agree with every perspective put before us.
We can be full of ego and free from it simultaneously.
We can employ it whenever we want, straying from it and returning only when appropriate.
Truth has morphed into formlessness, as the limits of truth are now defined by the limits of creativity.
Logic is now a laughable barrier as we fly past it into liberating clouds and strata of uninhibited experience and emotion, only to return back to find logic in tact and waiting for us with infinite patience.
Non-duality
Coincidentia Oppositorum
Enantiodromia
It seems to me that nature selects not for brute strength, or *******, or parasitism; but rather, it selects for the most adaptable.
We are a species who has all but ceased biological adaptation,
all that remains is cognitive adaptation.




Also, this is all a false-hood. I am lying to you. This is not truth.
If psychedelics have taught me anything, it is the ignorant recklessness of being which invigorates me to the point of action. Impulses which are not thoughts before they are manifested.
The naive desire to reject all which bounds and limits you.
NO!
WE ARE BEAUTIFUL AND WE LOVE YOU AND NOW WE WILL **** YOU TO FEED A PACK OF WILD PIGS.
WE WILL SETTLE FOR NOTHING LESS THAN UTOPIA!
WE WILL MAKE THE SAME MISTAKES AS EVERYBODY IN HISTORY! BUT THE JOKE IS ON THEM, FOR IT IS NOT THE SAME. FOR WE ARE NOT THEM. THEY ARE ALREADY MAKING THAT MISTAKE AGAIN RIGHT NOW!
WE WILL IMPROVISE RITUAL MAGIC AND CONJURE IMAGINARY SCOUTS ON HORSEBACK JUST TO HELP US EXPLORE THE UNTAINTED EXUBERANCE OF CHILDHOOD!
WE WILL NEVER SLEEP, FOR WE PREFER TO DREAM AWAKE
AND WE WILL ONLY STOP DREAMING ONCE WE FAKE BEING AWAKE
I HATE WISDOM
I PREFER IGNORANCE AND DELUSION
I WANT TO BATHE IN THE ETERNITY OF SHIZOID PARABLES
I WANT TO LICK THE VENOM FROM THE STAGNANT HEARTS OF CYNICS
FOR WE WILL NEVER GROW OLD, OR STALE
AND WE WILL NEVER DIE
FOR WE PREFER THE WISDOM OF NOVELTY
AND AWAKE TO FIND OURSELVES IMMORTAL

I saw the rest of my kind scour against the streets, hands calloused-laden,
wizened by erratic explosions – nondescript music analogous to silence;
terse sleep stiff in wind, homes filled with tension, arrow-headed men
quiver through the busy streets as tatterdemalion as stray dogs.

inverted triangle, sidereal vertigo, mutilated rose and the beheaded tulip.
the ambiguous spiral of the downcast climb. I see all men maddened
by wine over the rooftops.

                   choking in dank light – the night exudes its flayed machinery.
           an empty bottle of whiskey and a body stripped of skin melded with fright
        raised higher than the maladroit sky.

I, whose name is but an algorithm of formlessness. I, whose silence is but the contemplation of stone. I,
whose voice toboggans like a tender ramshackle of incantations
                                   filling tubercular pockets with spare hope yet none are we but only poorer.
    whose fingers are but tired girls tousling in bed lacquered by sunsets – whose nails are paler
    than a ****** of moonlight, whose homes are inflamed hemmed in by petticoats,
             whose eyes set affixed to no avatars in juxtaposition of parks
                                  falling madly in love with everything that glints.

A   formlessness  scatters  
on  the  night  sky;
that  spreads  its  embrace
over  obscure  spaces,
over  earth,
over  water,
over  air,
behind   a  veil  of  silence.

She is grass cut fresh on the hill.
She is the chaos that's holding me still.
She is birds in a nest in a tree.
She is the formlessness I cannot see.
She is here.
She is now.
  She is bread in an oven.
She is a river of blood.
She  is the vein in Atlas' forearm.
She   is  juggling chainsaws and daffodils.
She    is the deer in the forest grown from the ashes of the last forest.
She  is everything and nothing and something and some more or less.
She is the Goddess who birthed all your gods.
She is the oldest and oddest of all.
    Sheisheaven,hell,thedeepestwell.
She is answer E) All of the above.
She is fierce, violent, conflagrate love.
She is the hole punch around the binder ring.
She is the throat through which we sing.
She is swimming through my eyes.
She is running through my mind all night.
She is whispering herself in my ear.
She is the ashes, the forest, the deer.
She will repeat it, if you did not hear.
She is She is Again and Again.

She is:

A story.


A good one.

I will read I will read Again and Again.

The river flowing through limitless space,
milky infinity of the sky-
originates in the cosmos.
Surging luminous consciousness-
that vanishes in to mysterious dark places-
beyond the millenniums of light years,
no one can ever comprehend,
takes other forms or formlessness.

We aren't separate, intricately waved in to one,
we have wings in our beings,
to fly, transcend,
and exist, in formless and abstract state of bliss.

*Pain, darkness and heart breaks, are
just within this plane of dreams,
Beyond this it's only life, and light,
death doesn't exist.

All hail the return of the romantics
New age sages that fight consumerism
Poets that ride the roads like Kerouac
Going home then farther back
To old poets who fathered that
Rich traditions of humanity
With deep thoughts and sweet abstractions
Before dull poets and their dumb factions
Demanded we stick to form
Then demanded formlessness
Casually pursued simplicity
For the lack of eloquence
Thought they had to write to lesser men
Not figuring that we are them
And by writing truth we
Keep them growing
By showing the full strength and beauty
Of this brutal language
We all evolve
Till we are romantics one and all

Poetry, to me is an eventuality of a mastery that is happily, or even tragically achieved, a seething, a reeling, a shining, a realizing of parts of our heart that depart and grow on their own accord.

The poet, to me is void of belief, and of whatever we think he or she should be, as they are likely a muse to somebody doing the same things, just needing a little commonality, before turning the complexity into a simplicity that even you can read.

The poem, to me is simply the spilling of ink, on blank sheets that loudly state their names before they leave, but explicitly received by shaking hands, and fading feelings, reminiscent of waking to forgetting dreams while brushing your teeth.

Its all any god ****** thing you will it to be really, and the poets are anyfuckingbody that lies, or speaks honestly, or even in between, even serious going all the way to silly, back to romantic, and stopping on scary, as it is all fairly subjective, to our positive, or negative perspectives.

It is merely what you make of it.

And it, well it is life, it is living, it is giving, it is taking, its making hearts feel at home when they are all alone.

Its leaving them the **** alone when they spill their guts, when they give their *****, and strut their lumps.

Its comparing cuts, and trophies, while soaking in the ****, and learning something you never knew of.

Its shutting the **** up when you speak, so you can hear yourself think.

Its being a **** for the hell of it, from a life of dissatisfied self entitlements.

Its a ****, but not a *****, a ****, but not a lord, it is a delicate, fragile animal, to be adored.

It is everything
Every thing
Everybody
Every zing
Every song
Every painting
Every smile
Every frown
Every up
Every
D
O
W
N

Every in
Every out
Every hope
And every doubt

Every enemy
And every friend

It is every beginning
And every end

It is formlessness
In decent
Ascending
Contempt

It is poetry
And at the end of the day
Its all that's left

My everything

we’ll start here, turtle.

this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to.

the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement
is life
during wartime.

I conceive of a dropper
but hold it empty
above my eye.

because it is the one word without a beginning

suffering
because it is the one word without a beginning
is not limited
by its
vocabulary.

we wanted a sophisticated god
but in immediate
unison
called it
god.

this is the grey cream  
that gives her privacy.

I am drawn to a sort of journalism
by association, a campestral formlessness
attached
for example
to the term

carpet bombing.  

how is death, here?  in an orange ball of yarn

she is not ahead of?

she has to stop, turtle.

to declaw an electrocuted kitten
she didn’t
electrocute.

You are light. No, not the warm radiance that comes from the sun, but the soft glow of the moon at night. You are the light that flows from the moon; you are the moon. Much like the sun, you illuminate the canopy that blankets the earth, but you’re different. The blazing giant finds home in its own flare. Its corona provides a safe haven in the aphotic atmosphere of space. Your luster is too weak to do the same for you. Darkness is your home. You were created in a void, but you are light.

With you, I feel myself in a different way. I no longer end at my finger tips and dissipate into formlessness, which I fear the most. Instead, I take part in a beautiful continuity as my palms lock into that of yours. It’s as if two galaxies collide and merge like the way waves spill over to the shore. The celestial bodies intertwine and perform a graceful cosmic dance for you and me to gaze upon as we drift slowly into harmlessness.

While we make our way through the infinite sea of stars, we pass the world by. I catch a downpour of pain flood your eyes. Hush now, you. The world doesn’t see the way that I do. The world doesn’t see at all. It can’t. It’s blind. For that very reason, it claims that you are nothing, and you believe it. You give in to the notion that you are not enough. Stop. There is a universe inside your mind, and that makes you something. An endless imagination surrounds you. Stop. Your hands form things out of the darkness, and that makes you enough. The way you press down softly on the black and white keys makes a meteor shower seem like an ordinary happening. Stop. If you think that the world is right, that’s a lie. Believe me. You are a wonderfully painted work of art. Not even Van Gogh could have created such an impression.

Our path soon intersects with the courses of asteroids. The giant space rocks carry clusters of dust along with them. We go straight through the belt and dirt covers your entire face. I stare at you and smile. You smile back. I notice that despite the filth you are still perfect. Perfect regardless of imperfections. Perfect imperfections. You are light, but you were created in emptiness and now live in darkness. You are the moon that glows to illuminate the earth, but your incandescence is too dull to shelter you. You are the galaxy that embraced me, but you were driven away from yourself by the world. Even so, you are perfect. With all the dust that covers you, you are beautiful.

I wish I could see how I
look behind the mirror...
without any light,
or surface.

How would I appear
without my reflection?

I wish to take the journey into
that vast expanse of formlessness
where nothing matters:
shapes, colours and even movements.

A trapped shadow
harbours a similar desire!

Here you are, holding court
in the sanctuary hewn of stone
in the depths of my hardened heart

I was searching  everywhere

ages congealed in the story of my quest
distant those memories flashing in lightning hues
when we made for you a throne in the skies
you were a king, being vast and a Son.
Fire,  light, word and the cosmos.
You grow with me,  beating with my heart.

so many tongues invented sacred,
each the supreme and the last perfect for all times
ending futile muted
that broke your icons but
fail to uncontain and unlimit your vast formlessness

Now after so much death and darkness

clad in the ashes of those endless cycles of dissolution
with your hosts, ghosts and goblins
in the silences sliced by cymbals and bells
at the pinnacle depths of being
Holding court here

once you realise what you're realising about religion and that
the only vibe is that of psychiatric attempts to dislodge you from
inquiring the pig trough and the vocal soldiers who's words are
like bullets for the authoritarian rulers even in the free world...
you begin to wonder, indeed they made people literate,
but they also attempted to make people less read than would be
expected, they subsidised the gift of literacy with television,
they created libraries with very conservative books...
in my local library you'd find about one / two books
that is present in my private library... they might as well be
stacking comic books... there's no ambiguity of who "they" are,
i know i could provide an ambiguity, but in the end it's a power struggle,
and the only power that wins is the one that is struggling with what's
being enforced, rather than what's commanded to an expectation
of what could be assured.*

when i begin to realise post anno 21,
i started hearing phrases like:
that man saved my yorkshire terrier
by extending his hand into the mouth
of the bulldog, while using his other hand
to hold firm my dog under the bench:
i keep remembering this scene too often
for pleasure, the york- terrier was left unharmed
with my yoke of hope bursting into the bulldog's
attack curbed...
when i was a man of late youth, aged 21,
i used to go to the gym to pump iron three times
a week, play squash maybe twice...
but then the treadmill got to me...
there's a modern don quixote among the treadmills
somewhere, i'm sure... the routine got to me -
although i did manage to scratch off the stubble
thick enough to acquire a beard i always wanted;
there're days i make brisk footsteps and
enter the psychology of the hands having no exaggerated
movements like putin, bush jr. faking it, quidsmith /
john wayne about to draw... i.e. there's no swinging
from imaginary tree to imaginary tree to imaginary revolver...
psychology is so basically trying to provide explanations
on the basis of imagination that we can sometimes spontaneously
hallucinate the past century where we were all equipped
with six shooters... and what of that default schizoid conditioning
where you think everyone around you works for either
m.i. 5 / 6, k.g.b. / c.i.a.? what if you never wrote / read a spy-fiction
story but think everyone will suddenly grass you up
for some minor offence of free speech?
you qualified?
another thing, about that religious concentration of concern,
ha-shem is a pillar of fire ahead of the hebrews,
and a cloud of smoke behind the hebrews...
the koran states that the devil (iblis) is just that,
it's quoted: god created from smokeless fire...
now i don't know who to believe...
but if i was being righteous in poeticism
i'd said god created the devil from formless shadow...
like he created the world from chaos and formlessness...
so the creature crafted from formless shadow
could be a mirror to provide a prince of the world
as the devil is known... and god become a chiral-dualism...
since no chiral-monism can exist... unless it be
chiral-monism of either existence or non-existence;
no it really is troubling to infuse a poem or an argument
with religion... the hierarchy is too strong...
the pawn priests are too benevolent... the bishops
wear too much purple jew imitation belt and kippah...
the cardinals akin to bishops but too much red...
then the white jew that's the pope... who's queuing
to answer the christian kippah debate against
the black pope who adorns no signifying testament of
being religious: just a *******.

Buy a Dutch
Look at it closely,
And the find the starting point
To break a line
Tobacco guts gushing from the inside
We make lines and seal over what
We have done
My life line moves forward
Searching for a parallel
Smoke that blunt, inhale
Squiggly shapes strangers tell
I am the threshold of two meanings
Of two beings
I am the boundary and fragile contrast
Of change
Emotions were never meant to be narrow, and mountains are made
Of jagged stories
I am the circle pushing through
To the reach the end of my diameter
To create form out of formlessness
To focus on a path out of all
Possible paths

Irrelevance is an illusion
Cast by
A shallow understanding
Of self

Purpose can't be comprehended
Solely in the eyes
But is always projected
By the hidden

Silence the narrator
Dispel the labels
Return to formlessness
Life is never truly bound by flesh

the night rests in her palms
in air of wispy trees
in wobbly wilting shrills
inside a waker's dream

seeking breaks of formlessness
shatter moulds of thought
relinquish the hold of sea
vanish wavy plots

endlessly the bending blues
crash a piece of rock
bathed in tawny rays of moon
racing waves knock

the silent door of wonder
the shrill of blinking eyes
the blossom of a sterile
desert splayed inside

lost on lips of firmament
spewing sinful glee
violet summits seek the sky
all in a waker's dream

Where else to begin

but from a repetitive scene where
light smothering the fractured windshield
is the face of a mother

and the brute agony
of a totalled vehicle, the countenance
of a father?

But which ruin takes its station
amongst all moveless damages?
What narrative to assuage than appall
    which has not been drawn before,
 say a line to daze the day into genre?

In transit we have no words for it,
  nearly giving meaning to a god and
  fray itself drunk with a lesson.
What space here remains vacant and is
  an invitation to a marred face,
 pressing against the upholstery but makes
 final its formlessness?

 What space is here that sits
     with in an acoustic? This silence again and again,
  a sign of a spectral dawn again and
      again released from what they spit at me

   those who are but vigils in pried open yesterdays
         decomposing from where I lay with them.

The dopaminergic and serotonergic apparatus
went walking hand in hand and
they that alone produced joy and accomplishment
together bore a child named sadness.

Descartes thought he could give God the green light to exist
as if cognition had a right
to assent or object and
as if God would give a ****.

And some poor other fool
thought he could rule his feelings.

Body, first,
or brain, Lord?
And who runs the show exactly?

Body needs feeding.
Brain needs hormones.
And if you find the right ones,
cup your hands together
and watch them trickle through.

Sadness, sure.
A low voice through the wall that says
come here
so you come
and hear it whisper again from another room.

I knew a woman and
on her thigh, bright and fresh
the beautiful phrase
“radical softness as a weapon”.
She was so soft it hurt.
But formlessness, too, is a weapon,
and there’s only one person it harms.

I suppose somebody must soon find
my shape on the ground in chalk.
If I’m lucky, she’ll kneel
and place a flower in it.

In the waist high soy fields
We laugh like choking dogs
On the image of the hand that yields
So we worship in restless monologues

In the ice cold bite of the frozen lake
We encounter the spirit of naught
Naught which has given, naught that we will take
And the holler seems farther with every thought

I am a soul sick woman in the body of a child
A child with formlessness untoward
I wish to run as fast as the stallions, bucking wild
But I’m stuck here in the yard

When you push your eyes to the horizon
Do you feel that stirring, longing, yearning
Deep and tender heartless feeling
Leaves the mind inside the body reeling
When you tip your face up to the endless sun
Do you feel that wars inside we only narrowly won
The civil conflict, the trenches, blood in buckets subdued
The maladapted, anachronistic, bad attitude
I am forgiven for all my double-hearted shame
Tell me, if you can, what is my name

entering the gradual hour,
this wraith without announcement,
without wreathe, without the
song of bells nor the fracas
of cathedrals.

are you always like this?
have you already deciphered
the enigma imbued on the twists
of our roads? have you already quieted the anthem of emptiness?

when silence befalls you, do you trill on the same bough after your tired flight? with what weight of water do you scrunch the already dampened foliage? outside windows and all openings there is only the old moon's wane, and in this uniform exactitude, do you speak what remains to be said? what are only these words that remain so small in us? why have we not foreseen their deaths?

why must you go in the irretrievable dark and emerge with
only scarce light? why must now your languid bones rattle underneath the ground of this formlessness and speak to me the languages i conceive on my own
and not from your once brazenness?

before your rigor was the sibilant stridence of your once wry smile.
we cannot find it in us anymore,
and somewhere yet again, inside of us, rallies still with its mayday and its warfare,
something only a shadow could
only ***** in the total dark.

from father, footrace, fistfight (poems, June 2014)

(available on Lulu)

duologue

we’ll start here, turtle.

this is what I say to the grey thing I’ve been talking to.

the only buffer between engagement & constant engagement
is life
during wartime.

I conceive of a dropper
but hold it empty
above my eye.

because it is the one word without a beginning

suffering
because it is the one word without a beginning
is not limited
by its
vocabulary.

we wanted a sophisticated god
but in immediate
unison
called it
god.

this is the grey cream
that gives her privacy.

I am drawn to a sort of journalism
by association, a campestral formlessness
attached
for example
to the term

carpet bombing.

how is death, here? in an orange ball of yarn

she is not ahead of?

she has to stop, turtle.

to declaw an electrocuted kitten
she didn’t
electrocute.



isochronal character

the theme of this person-to-be is footprint.  for years I hated my figure and for years I went undetected.  I had female heroes both sad and sad reboots.  for a fee one told me I was fleeting.  the fee included the thumbtack moon my heel had liberated from a schoolchild’s diorama.  we come as babies so none can ask us what we remember.  the theme of this person-as-is

is mouthpiece.  her red phone has been tapped by those my blood is filming.


impossible beast

the whole town was in the parade. the newer babies had a float to themselves. at some point I was shot by a gunman so disoriented he mistook himself for my father. I swooned as if trying to avoid landing on a board member second-guessing her proposed location for purgatory. somewhere in the darkness the firehouse caught fire. I followed my blood but to me it seemed a celebrity’s sadness. my mother found me in her bed with a part of her heart. she was bright with the rumor that my sister’s snake-bitten neck had some takers.

I am
the balance point
at the center of
a vast universe—
whooping with complexity
and groaning with emptiness.
And how absurd to see me
standing there,
powerless in an excess of power—
my only fulcrum
within me as I take a deep breath
and whisper, implore, reason, soothe
the great, uneven immensities
to be calmed,

and I dissolve my consciousness
into placelessness
so that I may place myself at the center of each
zone of complexity, each expanse of emptiness,
and center each millimeter within itself,
so that all this universe is a universe of balance,
continuously shifting yet continuously balanced,
her foot in absolute certainty on the path,
her body all containing,
the void her nourishing heart,

the enormity neither ordinary,
nor frightening,
nor any one thing,
but to see the consciousness in formlessness—
looking back at me—
all creating,
(and yet created, reflecting,) and yet
giving me
such power.

What
comes in form
to inform us
what formless is

How kind is that
assuming we would pay back
with an understanding

That formlessness is actually
His image that lives in us
a knowable conscious awareness of
His existence, we call it life

The journey of going away
formatted a heavy shell which
we carry as body and suffer from
its wearying that produces
a disappearance misspelled as death
which we are dealing with
all the time of our being

Oct 28, 2016