Eyes wide
you do not allow
oblivious sleep
shadows branded
on my retina
reveal all contrast
tattooed on my shoulder
a skeletal hand
this illusion  
pins me down

your questions
have no answers
questions remain
asked again and again
I swear
I know nothing

You say everything
is immaterial
subjectively real
ideas existent
in the mind
of the perceiver
I am
(you insist)
a true believer

Parched and shrinking
I ask for mercy
you bring the cup
to my fissured lips
but it is empty
a vessel of air
you murmur
there is only enough
for one
what will you give
in return?

Heavy metal
arpeggios of wind
head bang
petulant faces
inured to rain
a repeating refrain
in falsehood
lies your truth

but even you
cannot halt the dawn
a dark horizon
pulls the strings
powerless
you sink
behind the cloud-
wall of your storm

is it safe now to close my eyes?
three times whisper
be gone
              bright fiend
a weary incantation
spell of protection
the yawning wind
done with howling
hums reassuringly
                            
                       *“a change is gonna come
                                                            ­      imagine
                                                   ­                            peace in our time”

INTP
Introvert
Intuitive
Thinker
Perceiver
Highly intellectual but
score lower than expected on
standardized tests
Fascinated with the world
Plan maker and
abandoner
Frighteningly unemotional and seemingly moves on from devastating events rapidly
Acts self absorbed but
truly cares for people under the cold exterior
Often feels detached from the world
Unable to articulate great idea and thoughts exactly
Loves to argue and debate
for learning sake but
some don’t see it as
friendly banter
Called the mad scientist without
convention
An absent-minded wonderfully built learner,
That INTP

Beauty, they say, is in the eye of the beholder. I, myself, believe that it lie in the hand of the perceiver.

Qualia, if they exist, describe experience.

Perceptions are frames of consciousness
that define experience: would they be given a number
representing frames per second [FPS].

There must be something to perceive
for there to be experience, and the perceiver:
A machine/dreamer through which energy flows
for perception to occur; neural oscillation cycles
equating to perceptual frames of consciousness
where a frequency would equal a certain FPS.

A moment in a dream, a quale.
The realm of the Oneiroi beckons:

During REM sleep there is no experiential context,
Suppose a dream's content is be sourced from memory:
Thence memory morphs into dreaming. Perhaps the actions
of acetylcholine during sleep disrupt temporality, meanwhile
serotonin and norepinephrine play another role in dream activity;
Were dopamine ever-so minutely implicit in lucidity?

If a dream could be quantized could we identify a quale?
The goal, to prove that qualia exist. Perhaps this 'heavy realm'
could then be described using this qualitative formula, we strive
to produce a quantum of experience.

As analogue is to digital, so digital should be to quanta.
Ah, but who would ever listen
to my nonsense.

I'm just a dreamer
and such a chancer. (Aren't we all?)

nothing is created nor destroyed, 
energy to mater, only changed.how many forms are there that are being changed between-
the good and the bad in the world,
is that the purpose?. get the most out of a net zero game-at what point does there become so much something that it becomes the nothing and  the nothing: the something. what is the difference between a blank white and a blank black sheet of paper. at which point do the negative and the positive space switch definitions? does it need to be perceived to be real? and if in the end, when there is all of one thing, and none of the other left anymore, does the other start to grow and become the new something?
the behaviors of subatomic particles and the units which compose what we think of: change when observed, what else changes when observed. electrons become particles, electrons become waves. in one place. now another. both never and always here and there.
and
i often wonder if i'm crazy
of if everyone else is crazy and i'm among the sane. few and far between.
of if we are all crazy together,
and the craziest thing of all is that we never let each other know just how crazy we are.

that would truly be the most tragic.

for each and every individually to believe so much. feel so much. break apart so much in every instant as to doubt the sanity of their each and every moment.
and
never be able to tell you exactly how it feels, or even to hardly
try
while all along, i know. and you know. and they know. exactly what they could mean.
if only they could ever decide to talk about it.

or if words and impressions were enough to know someone by

i wonder if you've sat in the bath tub as a child- while the water was running out all around you
pensive about the whirlpool twisting everything small and fluid around it down the drain.
i wonder if you've wondered what it would feel like to be really small in the water as it got ****** down- not an object, just a view-point.maybe like a disembodied perceiver that can see and touch and feel. and what would it feel like. and be like to be washed down and plunged into swirling sensory overload.

almost like something that would happen on the magic school bus.

what if at every instant we could be everywhere in a way like that. every possible place the magic school bus could go. or explore. or know. we could be. all at once.

but at the same time we would be big too, so we could put it all into perspective  make sense of all things things and live by them. live in a way where we knew how to be right to each other because that was true.

what is we could magicschoolbus into things that were not physical- like feelings. and love. and comfort. and personalities

that would be pretty cool.

what if everyone i meet, knew instantly that i was the first born of the many cousins on my dad's side. and that my grandma lived downstairs and  my aunts and uncles were always there. and i was babied. and all the time i was was young, there were babies and children and people who loved them there. and i was always around that and that i have never left that place. and that i am young.
and i am very sweet. and very sincere if i can get the chance but i cant; get the chance anymore because its hard. and i'm sorry. i'm so sorry. for my casual insincerity and defenses because all of my stoicism is me so full of feeling but i'm not supposed to show it anymore.  and all the people i can't run up to and hug anymore would know. and that at any given moment- i'd give anything just to make a blanket fort and fill it with stuffed animals. but i'd look pretty foolish. and everyone would probably say i was mentally handicapped. even the ones who used to baby me. and the babies i built them with.

isn't that something.

Those chanting waves breathe the void!
Circling into mental quietude
Enter where the Lord of Form rests in a
Constant stand still.

Around that cyclic circle of life-fire
His minions utter noises of non-meaning
to praise the very notion of sound and being!

Chant, chant, chant to reveal this eternal
moment we all reside in showing love and
understanding regardless of who or what.

What level can you reach in your human form?
Can you touch the void with the form of fingers?
Chant yourself into oblivion and god..
Go beyond chanting.
Go beyond god.
Go beyond the beyond.
Touch the void where there is no longer perceiver nor perceived.
There you can reach the inner state of emptiness from
which all form comes from.

Like a giant Sequoia tree, well aged and outwardly still tall and firmly anchored                                        
I proudly display, my outer senescent bark, but inside, I’m pitted and cankered

Still majestic and straight, branches spread, with fingered needles reaching for the sky                            
But at each limb joint, those cracks lay hidden; not yet visible, to the naked eye

Those blisters ravage and rage, at my inner trunk; but not, so you can clearly see                                                                                    
Hidden by the sap; like those morning rheum tears, which seep out and crust on me

I reach skyward, extend my branches to the sun; my sieve tubes there unplugged                                                                                  
But below, my veins congested, and my arteries full of sap, are fully clogged  

And yet I stand, without an outward tremble; disguising well the tremors in my roots                                  
With all my strength, I will them hold; do not cede, to the pain that in them shoots                                                        

I will perceiver; not able to bend with the wind, I stand firm still; until I break                                              
Stiffen my resolve; until my fluids coagulate, and rigor mortise does me overtake                                
BOEMS BY JA 397

The Oxidant is ever defined by the history of the orient
The context is a mystery until found,

like the minutiae of what an explorer meant
when they added an image to their diaries

There was this specific image where

A giant fish pulls a boat

Waves crashing
from the background to the fore

Cascading, swirling whites and greens,
but effervescent blues show up more

Atman means self, which never dies
Are we the fish or on the boat?

When waves birthed from typhoons
land down sorely and the hull breaks apart

Does the world break too?

Are we the ocean of conditions
through which the fish ferries
the boat of the ego?

Or perhaps the birds eye resident,
a view set between the dual wings
of the present and past sets.

Are we the mind that dreams the future? What is possible entangled through the perceiver’s sight, awareness in kind

Or maybe we are the people
terrified by our lot in life wondering how we got caught up in such an endeavor?  

Whose to say?

a shale-brittle afternoon hoses

down the pathways of its

April Garden, with a thin smoke.

a single cloud stretched to a wisping

spark that aches.

landward oceans sinking underground--

helped skyward.

color to the everchanging perceiver--

for no sake of its own.

never to recollect what it is called as

if by name.

marked roots from the flip glaze of

calendar years.

A hidden halo shines above your head
My hero
when I played with the twitching fires of death
It was you who took my singed fingers by the hand
Blinded by the masquerade of unearthly expectations
My brain left rattled
Demons singing a nervous chorus
You saw through my calm exterior surface
You shape shifter you!  
You morphed into any role I needed you to
You saw the things I had yet to be
What I had to live for, what I was to become
All the sights I had yet to see
Trained me diligently
for all the obstacles I had yet to succumb
Provided me with the confidence and armor to live on
Perceiver until the bulb of my life dies and my rightful time has come

Yet I sit here
Helpless, unable to do a thing
To shelter you from all the hardships
You've been cursed with
Life is a cruel, deadly serpent
I live in fear of the day it shall constrict around your neck
Swipe your soul from the earth's bed
Blasted life with it's under-tow currents
Vindictive earth with its cyclical  ways
But I suppose I have you to blame
It was you who had given me the strength to stay
For better and for the worst of days


Even when the fog cleared
When the sky was no longer grey
When at last all the demons had finally gone away
You stayed

A lukewarm pile of fresh *****
And the scattered pieces of a broken heart
Or some other wildly clichéd dross
A vague color between green and grey
Maybe some recent cigarette butts
In it are uncomfortable memories
Immortalized vindictive shards of the past
A boot print to assert the endless shame

Nothing positive is ever in *****
It's a relief of pain and dullness
It contains the distilled essence of heartache

I haven't thrown up in years
I must have so much pent up waste in me
Waste of the self, garbage of the soul
Unholy, rancid, putrid, odorous *****
Or am I perhaps forgetting something?

There is tranquil solitude in *****
Isolated, cold, mechanical self-reflection
Representations of pathetic shame
Cruel hatred in regurgitated carrots and corn
No disgust except that which the perceiver suggests

What point is there in disgust and regret then?
The ugly and incapacitating truth escaped

Perhaps the reason I do not, is because I am!
Quetzal, the drunken ***** of the Holy Spirit
Reflecting all the disgust God hides
Transposed onto unshapely fractures
Cavities and chasms, gaping on the cloth of Eden

Become as *****, lukewarm and odorous!
The purest and cleanest reflection of God's adoration

Mostly a head
With a big absorbing sensing *****
At the mouth
A great column conveys into her perceiver
And keeps moving through
The back of her head
Into a distant vanishing point
Everything is stretched and smooshed
In the yellow umbilical column
All the information from each moment
Runs down the column into her
She feeds and reads the information
Time moves for her to be nourished
With all that happens
In our world which generates the information
She consumes.

How difficult it is to quit being
God in this dangerous swirling world
Called life which arises from the ego
State with conscious and preconscious thought
Realms that rapidly flow from moment to brief
Moment presenting a false linear
Image of perception perceiver and
Perceived as three distinct intermingling
Entities where in truth only a oneness
Does exist here and now but quit i must
To loose the hold of bone deep taloned fears
Which are a cause and caused resultant in
This present mind of dreamer and the dream

You can be lost in the forest
Riding on you bike
Galloping on horses
Putting up a fight
Marching to music
Baking a cake
or catching a school bus
before a swim in the lake

You can be a reader
Or the one written about
Maybe a perceiver
Without any doubts
You can be a page turner
maybe one who turns around
You could be lost in a forest
And never be found

Unlock the inner perceiver
Nothing more than a day dreamer.
Take me to a place of unimaginable sights.
Big waves with pretty lights.
I contemplate my existence to a spec.
We are just a space in retrospect
What is this life that we seek
Something unobtainable we peak.
An empty hour glass because time is not real
Make your own life it's only what you can feel.

I touch the mirror thinking i know
       the truth of reflection
Not separate but i moving i stare
       mesmerized in dream worlds
Flat      two dimensional      pieces of now
       pride swells to safety mastery thought
Of all claimed a union intimate wisdom
       if but shyly humbly
An ant whispers      hallucinating lions roar
       lions will      and billions of other ants
       see deluded      gold bushy mane
       carnivore teeth      breath of flesh
       eater
Braincarving rationalized existence
       ecstatic hope or fear for the moment
       in mind
Sight touch sound taste smell
       consciousness sensate
Variables infinite shaped perceiver
       perceiving perceived perceptions
Wave after turbulent wave
       light      gravity
       x-ray      thought
       one object      cause effect
       different view
Holding together a mote of cosmos
       non other than we this
       mountain meru

Truth
Distorted by the perceiver
People fight to prove theirs
Reminders of how primal we are

It had nothing
to do with the night
my imagination went wild
in illusion I dwelt
reason took flight--
there was no mystery
only the rhythm between hours
the unyielding weight of veracity
the river  water was what it had been
the trees bore the same leaves
flowers drooped in natural sleep
upon the dawn to reawaken
dew would fall on the grass
time knew when to pass
the intrinsic remained--

I was beside myself
the subject and object
the perceived and the perceiver
the observer and the evaluator
the dreamer and illusion-creator
the meddler and puzzler
the experience--translator
the ultimate author
of my own blight

verily it had nothing
nothing at all
to do with the night.

SET THE EMOTIE
TO CONDESCENSION!
Friends countrymen ,
Lend your amendment pen
To me....set the EMOTIE
To  contemplation .......
As you do
Bear in mind this
It is an impossibility
For me ....not to say
If Ye are Roman
allora ti amo amico mio continua!
se sei americano ascolta attentamente
Where is Waldo?
Close your eyes
Let this question echo
Within all who reads
Mind....
In unison through generations
Back in time
Let Emerson hear
"Thank you!
We need you!

NOW LETS SEE!
WHOM SHALL BE ?
WARNING THIS IS A TEST
OF YOUR RESOLUTION
are you or are you not ?
Look yourself in the mirror
Little lamb .......chop
Cute little button tail
Bahe aheaheahahe
Awe didem faiwul?
Course you did little.....
Kid .......
Let your reflection look at you
Five minutes
You can't.......

Oh hey ?
Can you see POWER!
Stars.
stripes.
fireworks.
Smell the tears
The blood  
Gunpowder  
Courage in the face of fear
Hear the screams so clear
Musket fire breaking bones
Frost bitten starving
Knowing they would never again ....
See home ,yet they perceiver ed
Alone .....
Carnage in conditions so severe
Queers lesbians women men
Friends lovers or enemies
Stood and fought side by side
No disrespect meant to those who play same team
Derogatory terms used strictly for shock value .....
I stand in awe and shame for I have not the valor or means to fully convey the magnitude and depths of gratitude
Graciously ,humbly
Thank you ........
Thank you ......
TO THE REST OF YOU
OH HEY?
can you see.....
The scenes
Do you ever stop and think

Of those patriots who lie
In pieces upon the field
Crying
smoke and steam leaving chest cavity
on crimson stained snow carry their soul
Away from the field and shield them from these travesties forever more........
My country ......tis
Or is it our country
Or is it their country
Look in the mirror
Is this fear ?
Are we here
Shall we not ask what we can do
And instead ask what is this country trying to do to you?
.....
Verily Verily I say unto You
If thy country ask of me
As far as my courage allows
That I shall gladly do!
If thy country make me do
I may or may not
And make no mistake
Neck will stiffen and schism
Created
If thy country which I hold dear to me
Force me
Threaten me
Levy unmerited punishment upon me
Extort me
Single me out take from me my inalienable rights
Be little me put me on blast
Set me agin friend and kin
Because I refuse to give in
And not for reason of religion
But because I will not be in sufferance of oppression
Or beatin into subjection of fear....
I will with great raging vehemence stiffen my neck
Stare those who set against me with dominance
I will give nothing measurable unto those who strip me of my home,loved ones clothes or dignities ..
And as a declaration I will stand firm for those cannot out of fear .
Give my life if that's how far they wish to take it .........
I cannot live under the misery of fear anymore.   . That is my way
That is the or was the American way
. ......that is what the legends
....our forefathers died for!

We are just little vessels,
precious porcelain angels
or rounded rebel devils
driven by what is inside
and how it interacts
with our outer facts
or our minor perspectives
distorted by different aspects
of our faulty flesh perceiver,
that super stimulus receiver.

We are many ecosystems
not singular structures
but a collective composed of
cellular and atomic dimensions,
too many to calculate or to mention
that are beyond our comprehension.

Conscious and unconscious
neural highways
or the many limbs on a tree
that have no leaves
but branch out and leave
as we learn new things
whilst pruning unused circuitry.

Therein lay a space
where poets dream and play,
a multiplicity
of connected
and disconnected
multiverses.

So complicated.

Wings of desire

Exiting that dark box with the crowd -
Catharsis
I dap my friends up, trot off
In my comfy Salomons, up to the cultural centre.
Board the 345, rest my head against the glass.
See the lights of the highway and the reflection of the river dance in between the bridges railings.
Subterranean
Against the window, Watch the different peoples faces as the walk down the isle
She’s going to make someone smile
He’d be nice to have a beer with
She’s missing home I bet
He’s probably someone’s dad
They’re new to Brissy.
Hop off, power walk back to the house over wavey KG hills.
Pass Queenslanders with pink lit rooms
Warmly suspended units
Glowing windows in distant terraces
Glancing into every home, a fraction of a life at time
Feeling a part of it all
Cross the road
Inspect the curb side collection
Almost don’t notice the watering can -
Perfect, I can use this for my new plants
Come inside
Write this poem
Marnie in my headphones
Solitude
And surrounding suburbs.

2. Paris Texas

Driver don’t slow down now
Keep going
Don’t drop me to my house
I don’t want to   be   anymore
I wanna look out the passenger window forever
I wanna to be a gaze with no body
I wanna be incorporeal
Rid me of this vessel and the weapon it conceals
I don’t want to be the perceiver, just the spectator
Looking out at shimmering office blocks
Meshes of rushing leaves
Languid and fluid
Evaporate me into the Ether
Undo my flesh and with it, sin
I don’t want to   be   anymore
Make me into one of those angels , floating around listlessly
Clip my desires and give me wings
Drop me in the Texas dirt, and wipe my guilt away.

3. Perfect Days

Coming into that bright globe
Reality
I hug my sister goodbye , I’ll see her again tomorrow
But after…
The sun on my skin , from euphoric to swampy
The facade of happiness or stubborn sadness
Arbitrary either way
My legs carry me across the bridge,
I see so many people
I will be okay without them
I see a little beetle struggling on its back, my finger goes down to turn him over
I contain multitudes
I am not the best or the worst of what I’ve done
I am brown Brisbane water
Stretching out to blue pacific sea
Don’t chase that ghost of euphoric transformation
Change is constant and gradual, like rocks worn by water
Like rivers changing shape
Come into yourself
Returning agency
Over lapping Shadows of perfection
52 days.

If the world was built by people who could not see,
Would we be able to see the beauty within?

Would we be perceptive of the windows inside,
rather than gaze the surroundings like a predator tracking their prey?

If we were blind, would we acquire the most astute sense of aesthetics?
For who has seen beauty, but the blind alone.

The universe is nothing but darkness and therefore, the most beautiful.
The power of darkness resides in the inward eye.

If we were blind, would we acquire the most astute sense of aesthetics?
For who has seen beauty, but the blind alone.
The blind do not have to meditate, their life is a meditation.

Why is it we have never been to a star
and yet when we gaze into the night sky;
those nebula of gases, light years away look fascinating,
which beauty are they emanating?

The beauty of the perceiver, the beauty of a blank slate;
where you know what you know not.

The universe is nothing but darkness and therefore, the most beautiful.
The power of darkness resides in the inward eye.