29 July 2015

Five Hundred


Pretend you are already dead.
Die to time, literally be here now, right here, right now,
As still as the morning dew, totally alone, eternally present, not a care in the world,
All knowledge vaporized, no family, no friends, no enemies, no problems,
No attachment to the pleasures and pains of the sensory feed,
Complete negation of any and all assumptions,
Nothing more, nothing less,
No body, no identity, no possessions,
Nothing more than pure, still, attentive awareness.

* * * *
The awareness, the spirit, the soul, the essence, the mystery,
How can it be said to belong to anybody, if not everybody and everything?
In the raging sea of metaphors, it is all very much the same.

* * * *
What is any given mind but a set, a bag, an array, of programming.
A circulating loop of habituation, conditioning, brainwashing.
A frame of reference believing its thoughts real and true,
Its manufactured identity sacrosanct and enduring.

* * * *
How ludicrous to imagine that we really know anything,
That all our speculations mean diddly-squat,
That all our ceaseless wordplay
Is any more than another form of wind.

* * * *
What are the shades of gray between black and white,
Good and bad, right and wrong, right and left, bitter or sweet,
Or any other dualistic notion born of the monkey-mind’s play of time?

* * * *
The difference between any you and any me is all in our heads, all in our minds.
Our perceptions, our imagination, our relentless emphasis on the ever-kaleidoscoping universe,
Playing out every timeless moment, bewildering us all with its inexplicable veil.
And who has the unshakable witness behind the curtain ever been,
But the same you that is me, the same me that is you.

* * * *
And if it is perchance in your cards to figure out this mystery of mysteries,
How far will you glean it?  What will you say?  What will you do?
How will you play this, what might be called, fate of fates?