12 October 2014

Three Hundred and Seventy


So many so-called spiritual seekers ambitiously
Seeking the beingness that has been theirs from the get-go.
Just too caught in the tangle of their ambition
To see there never was a goal.

* * * *
No more than a dream,
No more than an imaginary theater,
With every possible agony, every possible ecstasy.
Nothing more, nothing less, nothing but.

* * * *
Consciousness is the Bartertown of imagination.
No stone will be left unturned under all its suns.

* * * *
An empty page is the most receptive ear,
An uncarved block a pièce de résistance.

* * * *
No human has ever seen its own face,
Nor any other part of the given body
To which the eyes have no access.
Why that is, is less than obvious
To all but the rarest of the rare.

* * * *
Most everybody seems to believe
Their version of wacko is normal.

* * * *
Curious how almost any given belief
Tends to inspire some form of dogma.

* * * *
Even an entire universe cannot fill you.
The utter aloneness of the infinite singularity
Is absolutely, indivisibly, eternally unfathomable.

* * * *
The only constant in this ever-changing cosmos is awareness.
The elemental theater in which consciousness runs amok
Is a veil to which suffering is an inevitable outcome.