31 July 2014

Two Hundred and Sixty-Five


The ultimate intention of thoughts such as these are to strip away everything,
To relinquish you to the aloneness, the oblivion, the absoluteness you truly are.
To leave only the certainty of you, the essence of you, the wonder and grace of you.
Anything less is only more hollow delusion in a nightmare already reeking with its stench.

* * * *
For the want of minds that can discern the mystery within all things,
For the want of ears that can hear the soundless, eyes that can see the unseen,
Another vision of the grand reality gradually fading in the dream of time.
It is not the choir that needs to discern that which is real and true.

* * * *
Others make it possible to explore, to sightsee mindsets
Outside your limitations, beyond your boundaries,
From the security of your couch, so to speak.
We are all really just voyeurs, onlookers,
Rubber-necking every which way,
Some consciously, some not.

* * * *
The brass ring is a slippery thing.

* * * *
If you really understand,
Why would it even occur to you
To worship anything outside your Self?
Assuming, of course, any form of acclamation
Is even necessary in the first place.

* * * *
Being the timeless presence is very simple, really.
Just be the sovereign, unstained, indivisible, untrammeled,
Flawless, immaculate, absolute, eternal awareness.

* * * *
A question for the sciences:  How small is small? How big is big?
What exactly is ever being measured but the limitations of imagination?

* * * *
The way is simple.
No priesthood, no followers, no doctrine,
No edifices, no dress codes, no symbols, no tithing, no groupthink,
No oppression, no burden, no bondage, no encumbrance, no annoyance, no yoke whatsoever.

Two Hundred and Sixty-Four


These thoughts are for those gifted with the eyes to see and ears to hear, each in their own way.
For the true seer, there is no dogma but the formulas of one’s own making,
And then only for the briefest of intractable whiles.
As Thomas Hobbes penned:
And the life of man, solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short.

* * * *
Cast into the whimsical winds of time,
You discern your subjective personal universe
As the biological imperative of the genetic lottery ordains.
Such is the nature-nurture of free will.
Best wishes, Pilgrim.

* * * *
You really want some ghastly Armageddon?
Well, just keep on doing what you are doing.

* * * *
Let go of it before it lets go of you.

* * * *
Nothing is new under the sun.
Nothing is old, either.

* * * *
And behind every face eternity ever cast,

* * * *
Each must awaken very much alone
To the reality of the eternal absolute within.
Anything less is only the idolatry of form and concept.

* * * *
The unknown is not in any way bound to function
Within the confines of any given puddle of consciousness.
It is consciousness that must expand beyond its myriad limitations.

* * * *
The human paradigm is a ceaseless array of stories of every sort.
Perceptions, all partial, incomplete, steeped in the ephemeral well of imagination,
Is not everything more than a little hackneyed, more than a little passé at this point in the human epic?
Have not we done everything all but inconceivable times beyond counting?

Two Hundred and Sixty-Three


To say any religion or political system or economic theory is better than another,
Is a ceaseless comparison of apples and oranges and peaches and bananas.
Each has their texture, their flavor, their subtlety, their raison d'etre.
All merely arbitrary collusions born of minds caught in time.

* * * *
Why concern yourself with inane notions of heaven and hell,
Or the ever-morphing permutations of reincarnation?
You are … have always been … will ever be …
That which is prior to any and all forms,
Unrestrained by any limitation.

* * * *
This moment is where the tire hits the road,
Come and gone each and every instant.
No way you can be anywhere else.

* * * *
How long can the world as we know it
Sustain the degree of self-absorption
We have wrought upon its creation?
Where is the edge of the petri dish
Towards which we senselessly dash?

* * * *
The unanswerable question
Is whether god is as into sheep
As all the sheep would like to believe.

* * * *
Bad breathing makes for an unstable mind,
Wherein the eternal now is whisked into time.

* * * *
I Am the Truth, the Life, and the Way,
And so are you,
And so is every part and particle
To the farthest reaches of infinity’s formless presence.

* * * *
Have many of our ancestors ever really cared about the unborn
As anything more than a means to their own security and well-being?
As anything more than instruments for their own corporeal needs and wants?

Two Hundred and Sixty-Two


Ignorance being its own distorted, corrupt end,
There is really very little point in debating with any true believer.
If someone is seething dogma about anything fashioned of this manifest dreamtime,
Then it is no doubt much less bothersome to put them behind you,
And just wander some other direction.

* * * *
Heaven has been here all along if you had lacked the vanity to see it.

* * * *
You keep trying to make sense out of something
That will never make any sense no matter how hard you try.
All you can do is breathe in, breathe out,
And with the flow go.

* * * *
No one can stand upon the shoulders
Of those who have come and gone before.
Each must discern his own way,
However high or low,
Clear or dense, true or false.

* * * *
The choir quibbles over absurd nuances
Which have no real meaning.
You are the oneness.
It is that simple.
No need for any dogma.

* * * *
It is all just theater,
The actor within each of us,
The same witness, playing every form
In an boundless matrix beyond all comprehension.
How could it be anything less?

* * * *
Probably almost everyone has got a lot of other
Much, much more important things to do
Than mull over their inner mystery.
Who can disagree that it is much more intriguing
To stare deeply into the screen of a state-of-the-art smartphone,
Than it is the infinite void of a lint-infested bellybutton?

Two Hundred and Sixty-One


Let us speculate for a few moments that God really is a he,
And that he looks something like the Michelangelo Santa Claus rendition.
And that Jesus really is the fundamentalist, M-16 toting, bad hair, very vengeful good son.
And like Santa, God is keeping a naughty list, and you are near the top of it,
No more than one or two demerits away from eternal damnation.
Who really cares? No, seriously, who cares, really?
Why would anyone even for a moment
Think of worshipping such a preposterous creator,
Or of idolizing a son whose testament to the world was so absurd.

* * * *
Who decides what is normal, anyway?
And is what is normal here, normal over there?
And is what is normal now, what was normal back then,
Or what will be normal in some future when?
More than a little arbitrary, indeed.

* * * *
Any leader who does not give an attentive ear
To whoever’s in the trenches or out scouting about,
Should always be required to lead the charge.

* * * *
To all critics:  Go make your own movie,
Write your own book, paint your own painting,
Build your own house, live your own life.

* * * *
Pure awareness is tabula rasa,
The uncarved block, the empty slate,
Free of the stains of any concept or passion.

* * * *
You long for it to be more than a dream,
But more it can never be,
And thus you must learn to face and embrace
The eternal aloneness in which your ultimate nature in serenity resides.

* * * *
It is a regrettably curious thing the destructive grip that ignorance has upon the world.
Modern sciences obviously tender more accurate, verifiable observations and measurements
Than the ancients across the planet ever could in their geocentric, ethnocentric domains.
And yet they from their graves rule current times as absurdly as they did their own.

28 July 2014

Two Hundred and Sixty


The infant begins with no knowledge
Of what it is seeing, hearing, touching. tasting, or smelling.
Over time the collusion into which it has been cast will sculpt it to its own ends.
Few will likely ever doubt with enough abide-alone courage
To decline and return to the natural state.

* * * *
How can you expect another to see the real you
When you, your Self, have never, can never see it, either?
It is naught but reflections, smoke and mirrors,
Only as real as imagination pretends.

* * * *
From the seed-lines of your parents,
And all your ancestors since life’s beginning,
You have funneled into awareness.

* * * *
You are immersed within the sea of grace,
But are too blind to quench your thirst.

* * * *
None of this is really happening.
You are not a body,
Nor a world,
Nor a universe.
You are That I Am
Prior to all boundaries
Concocted by consciousness.

* * * *
It is ever the same nothingness,
The same mystery, the same unknown,
The same quantum-hologram-matrix-ether,
Into which the given sensors extend their probes,
And generate universes of every variety and dimension.

* * * *
You can see, hear, taste, smell, and touch
Everything having to do with the play of consciousness,
But it is awareness -- unknowable, indiscernible, indivisible, enigmatic,
Mysterious, impenetrable, inexplicable, inscrutable, incomprehensible, indecipherable --
That is the source, the fountain, the ground, the essence, the witness, of all.

Two Hundred and Fifty-Nine


The same awareness, the same consciousness, permeates every imaginable difference:
Different bodies, different languages, different times, different spaces,
In order to play out a very-much-the-same mystery.
All the universe is a stage,
And all life forms merely players.

* * * *
Eternal life is right now, wherever you are.
The only real question is, do you exist as mere mortal,
Or as an eye of god, a timeless witness
To the unfolding mystery.

* * * *
We are all dancing in every way imaginable
In the same quantum hologram,
The infinite matrix
Of the inexplicable source.

* * * *
Even worse than pure ignorance
Is someone knowing a little all wrong.
At least ignorance might be open
To learning something new.

* * * *
How do you think god witnesses creation,
But through your eyes, and the eyes
Of all creatures great and small?

* * * *
Why would anyone ever participate in any religion
That advocates disharmony and conflict?
What sort of philosophy is it
That does not bring deep, lasting peace,
Contentment, serenity, grace, perchance even joy?

* * * *
Since that which are truly are was never born and never dies,
Technically, no one can really kill themselves.
So suicide is really just about
Being done with all the pain and suffering,
With all the pretense, with all the games, with all the bothers.
Not everyone wants to be here anymore, and why should that bother anyone else?

Two Hundred and Fifty-Eight


The nature of knowledge is that it must ever be re-kindled anew,
Or be quickly lost in the transience of Eden’s inexplicable enterprise.
Minds fail, clay tablets break, books dissolve, and the digital world
Is but an flick of a switch away from the black hole of oblivion.

* * * *
So many ways this vain dream can be played out.
No need to follow, no need to imitate, no need to duplicate,
For those who have the courage to wander alone.

* * * *
How can the indivisible quantum ether essence,
The unborn, undying source of all life,
All forms, all consciousness,
Ever really live fully?

* * * *
Heaven and hell are just tourist attractions.
Travelers wander the vast elsewhere.

* * * *
We are all kin of the same creation.

* * * *
Even shit is sacred.
Without its golden reality,
Neither flowers nor you would be.

* * * *
The behavior of any individual,
The synergy of any group,
Can cultivate both boon and bane,
Advantage and detriment, fortune and blight,
Benefit and bother, blessing and horror.
For every action, consequence,
For every cause, effect.

* * * *
What are any of us but a few handfuls of star dust
Temporarily organized to partake a relatively few breaths
Until the quantum abyss of oblivion resumes its formless nature.
The only difference between existence and non-existence
Is in the whimsical narration of the sensory mind.