Three Hundred and Fifteen

315

The malarkey of fear and superstition and ignorance

Would have you bow and scrape and pay homage for all eternity.

But in truth there is nothing to which you are in any way required to submit

If you have the courage to stand free of all claims, utterly alone,

In the elemental winds of your quantum dream.

* * * *

Far more discerning and real to become a Christ than a Christian,

A Buddha than a Buddhist, the Tao than a Taoist,

The Truth than a True Believer.

* * * *

If those who say they do not care, really did not care,

Would it even occur to them that they did or did not?

* * * *

The only thing you can really do is witness it.

There is no holding on to anything,

Least of all, the vain notion

That it has been you

Who has really done any of it.

* * * *

Even if you were up on some great stage

With seven billion-plus people wildly cheering,

In the vast singularity of all things matrix,

You would still be very much alone.

 * * * *

Best discern the existential of it now,

For there will likely not be the opportunity

Once the container to which you are so attached

Blows back into the dream-weaving quantum sands.

* * * *

You can take all your dogmatic absurdities,

And the political correctness with which they are laced,

And shove them where no sun ain’t never got no ambition to shine.

* * * *

Is a contribution for a tax deduction really a gift?

Is a donation for an inscription on a wall really from the heart?

Is  philanthropy really any more than good old vanity guised in yet another cloak?

Three Hundred and Fourteen

314

Who can say who, what, when, where, why or how

The seeds of doubt are planted, take root, and grow to fruition.

It, as all things, is ever the same mystery from all beginnings to all endings.

* * * *

An unending irony that all the things that make life pleasurable

Will without remorse send you back to oblivion you if you allow it.

Existence requires more discipline, not less, as you grow older.

* * * *

The innocence of childhood was indeed a bliss of its own,

But, alas, we must all sooner than later grow up,

And make our way in the given world.

Play it out the best we can.

* * * *

Continually processing, grokking your little dream.

Why, when you could be nirvana now.

It is right here, right now,

As it has always been, will ever be.

* * * *

Be as indivisibly indifferent as all the stars

That has taken to create this imaginary dream.

* * * *

Existence is the unknown cloaked in known,

Which we all must each in our own way endure.

* * * *

When the finite merges with the infinite,

When the drop is no longer distinct from the ocean,

Where can any seam between observer and observed reside?

* * * *

Yet another day in the examined life, the torrential spew of consciousness

Playing its tiringly silly, often pathetic, unendingly absurd, song of godness.

* * * *
To return to the upwelling, to Para Brahman, may or may not be your calling.
There is no predicting who will comprehend the source of awareness.
Nor is it really all that important, for the mystery is in all things,
No matter how many are or are not chosen to awaken.

Three Hundred and Thirteen

313

The first billion population mark was breached by humankind in 1804-ish.

The second in 1927-ish, the third in 1960-ish, the fourth in 1974-ish, the fifth in 1987-ish,

The sixth in 1999-ish, the seventh in 2011-ish, the eight projected in 2024-ish,

The ninth for 2040-ish,  and the tenth and beyond whenever-ish.

Six billion in a little over two hundred years.

To what beyond the pale will Gaia allow us to take it

Before the Malthusian reality finally kicks us down the line?

* * * *

The ephemeral me-myself-and-I is but an intangible presence,

A glimmer of the unknown imagining all its dreaming real.

* * * *

Do you move in time, or does time move in you?

Do you do nothing, or does nothing do you?

* * * *

There is obviously no limit to God’s cruelty.

* * * *

What did you really accomplish this day

But another flurry of memories,

Already growing dim.

* * * *

It is consciousness that moves,

Not you, the stillness of awareness,

The unstained, infinite witness.

* * * *

Unravel the Gordian Knot

Bit by bit if your aim is suffering.

Slice it in one fell swoop if it is freedom.

* * * *

What tricksters these senses are,

Manifesting a reality that can never be real,

Creating a reverie that can never be more than a dream.

* * * *

Only through the ever-streaming, ever-changing input of the senses

Does it seem that you are seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling and feeling

This indivisible quantum-matrix universe, a mirage of an inexplicable origin.

Three Hundred and Twelve

312

An ocean of nothingness,

Light shimmering upon every permutation

The timeless vapor of consciousness can possibly imagine.

* * * *

The same eternal awareness has been housed in every life form since life was formed.

In all creatures great and small, the same omnipresence, omniscience, omnipotence.

* * * *

You will likely continue enduring the agony and ecstasy of existence

Because, short of pulling the trigger, there really is no choice.

Suicide is indeed the only real philosophical question.

* * * *

At what point do you just write some escapades off?

At what point do you call a bad deal a bad deal,

Stop throwing treasure, time and energy at it,

And just wander on to the next adventure.

* * * *

The awareness, the witness you ever are,

Is the indivisible, immeasurable source:

Omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent.

It is you, you are it, there is no other.

* * * *

Pain is a unyielding teacher,

And you may or may not be adept

At learning its many lessons.

* * * *

We all come up with so many things

That seem so very important at the time.

Some long remembered, most quickly forgotten.

* * * *

The convenience of being an unknown solo act

Is not having to cater to one herd mentality or another.

There is no freedom in the expectations of political correctness.

* * * *

Apply to the ever-streaming moment as many words and numbers as you like,

Time and space are nothing more than abstractions born of temporal imagination.