09 June 2014

One Hundred and Seventy-Eight


A grain of sand, a swirl of smoke, a ripple of water, a flicker of flame,
Are as real as anything created of this manifest dreamtime.
Consciousness gives all things a sense of continuity,
But all are in reality merely fabrications,
That only candor can lay bare.

* * * *
It has never really been the résumé of experience
In which any mortal existence has from birth to grave danced.
It is the indivisible holographic matrix of awareness
In which all creation has ever basked.

* * * *
Nothing lasts longer than memory allows.
All are as temporal as the dusty whim.

* * * *
There is no end to more.
One must simply stop.

* * * *
Mind games?
The mind is the game.

* * * *
You get what you breed.

* * * *
Infinity is not so far away, really.

* * * *
What is any given human being, really,
But a collection of protozoa with attitude.

* * * *
Despite the reality that it is all the same clay,
There are so many differences that we all feel drawn
To unendingly measure and  judge in every way imaginable.

* * * *
To move beyond opinion and judgment is to realize
There is absolutely nothing ultimately right or wrong with anything.
To inscrutably gaze straight and true at everything: unblinking, unflinching, unconcerned.