31 May 2014

One Hundred and Seventy


There your parents were one night or day messing around all hot and heavy,
And suddenly, through no fault of your own, no choice of your own,
You were in the oven, baking your way into consciousness.
When exactly does fate begin its wayward trail?

* * * *
Science fiction can journey well beyond any pale,
But the limits of imagination are ever bound
By the physics of real-time invention,
And the moths lodged in the given wallet.

* * * *
Pain is your teacher, your friend.
Without it, you would not pay attention.
You likely would not have learned how to endure.
Perhaps some day you will be wise enough
To no longer need its sharp reminders.
Not likely, but there is always
The hackneyed notion called hope.

* * * *
Whether you discern it or not,
You are it.
Die to the little self
As often as the little mind allows.

* * * *
Have you ever experienced anything
That could not be clearly illuminated
By a rock-solid dose of Physics 101.

* * * *
Odds are you are as attached to the pain
As you are the pleasure, perhaps even more so.
For which do you rummage when you daily awaken?
Which do you embrace as you fall into sleep?

* * * *
Every religion started off perceived as a cult
Until its followers had enough coin
To construct daunting holier-than-thou sanctuaries,
Filled with enough middlemen to shield themselves from their delusion,
And muster the potency to be a contender in the madhouse.

One Hundred and Sixty-Nine


Science must focus on small questions because the big ones have no answer,
And philosophers on the grand scheme, so that they can fall short, as well.

* * * *
Conditioning, indoctrination, brainwashing, whatever it may be called,
When anyone gets told anything enough, it is pretty hard,
If not impossible, to ever un-believe it.

* * * *
Meandering time and space is the daily Sisyphean task for all.
The dream pushing a boulder of its own making
Up whatever hill comes to mind.

* * * *
Why would anyone ever imagine a god
That did not include them, everyone they know,
Or absolutely everyone and everything else
In which creation obviously abounds?

* * * *
The seeds of the next dark age,
Likely a cataclysm beyond all reckoning,
Are blossoming across the board.

* * * *
Indifferent to pain or pleasure,
Rest easy in the moment of origin
From which both ascend into being.

* * * *
Now is the filament of quantum grace.

* * * *
Dread is a unpleasant state of anticipation
Which morphs into a predictable loop,
Playing fear of the unknown over and over,
Until the terrible moment has waxed and waned,
And the next all-too-predictable trepidation steps up to bat.

* * * *
Regarding the temptation to seek revenge for any given transgression,
Allowing another to play out their pathetic, miserable existence,
May in the long run be the most the gratifying stage show.

One Hundred and Sixty-Eight


Likely more than a few think they are the shit while they are young,
But live long enough and you will sooner or later realize
How insignificant and invisible you truly are.

* * * *
It is the dust of stars and shit of dinosaurs that has allowed you
The vision and insight to consciously bear witness
To this infinite mystery of a universe,
A creation entirely born
Of your own imaginary design.

* * * *
And tomorrow morning,
You will likely once again wake up
Quickly occupied with all the delusion and muddle
You had managed to put into order
Just a few hours before.

* * * *
A still mind is a translucent mind.

* * * *
In your mind, all creation.
You are the one.
As are all.

* * * *
Heed your call.

* * * *
Doubt until truth
Becomes so Self-evident
That all doubt dissolves into you.

* * * *
Discern Mother Gaia
Within the home eternity built
And carry her within, carry her without,
Each and every moment of your brief mortal play.

* * * *
Winning arguments with your Self more often than not depends
How many voices are struggling, perhaps even raging for supremacy.