Journal

Union

quotidian motions
injected with fluidity
linearity and objectivity
washed over by a focused blur
atman and brahman
go synchronized swimming

as choice intermingles
with the nature of now,
as the current ripples
with the landscape of here
the ‘i’ and the ‘that’
slowly evanesce

squares become circles
out of the blue comes out of the blue
inhales and exhales
show neurons who’s boss
the union of opposites
so blazingly requisite

Vernal Vernacular

wake up
it’s waking up
there’s a couple on the corner
in a boundary dissolving embrace

of or relating to the birds
and the beatles
a courting vortex
and a good day sunshine

a winter’s worth of sowed seeds
packed for the trip to exposure
churning feet hit the dirt
close your eyes and see

in or around the filling silence
and the luminosity
a blossoming shot
and a glowing stretch and yawn

look up
it’s looking up
there’s a brown on the corner
in an entraining race to green

air blows

water glows

earth flows

fire grows

i know

Art

art is a tool, a means to bring us into perfect spiritual equilibrium in the moment. when we no longer strive to connect with the divine but recognize it as present in the tip of the mind’s tongue or in the graphite of a pencil or in the space between breaths we realize that all we do is divine. there is no art and artist only a force that makes the fractal pattern seen in a flower seem so naturally harmonious and right. art surfs the liminal. it lies between direct and indirect experience. it sniffs out transitory moments and solidifies them in the canvas of mystery. it marries the exterior with the interior. the material and the imaginary feedback on each other until time ceases. art reaches from the individual to the shared, from the finite to the infinite. in doing so it dissolves the barrier between us and them and strengthens the wordless in the realm of words. the act of creation transmutes the mind into the heart.

Be The Fish

The mountain stream of life
Courses with opportunity
A drifting leaf skims the surface
While a river rock commands the depths
The mighty fish knows both the ripples and the stones
And in living
Turns opportunities into realities.

Today

and the laps. the day rolls its cheek off the pillow with fresh creases and marks. snow re-elementizes the projection of a life under control. rhythm and harmony with a side of studders and dissonance. the breaking point…tipping. today i lap on crackling fire.

Breathe

changing the frame of reference like rosin on a cello string. exploding the conception of day to day like a microwave armageddon. back and forth only forth and back. fluffing the existential pillow with hands grasping for what already is. today.

Build And Watch Grow

synthesizer oscillations of nature filter my my. which is more real: i today, i tomorrow or i yesterday? the i doesn’t know. hand claps of awakening alter each iota of the fractal. ripples of energetic transformation propagate like viral videos.

bliss in knowing that the cliche is my own. i come into myself so that i may move gracefully within this vessel know my own and my not. i use i must provide. i sit in comfort i must throw myself in the fire. the unexpectancy of unexpectancy will rip the soul out of quotidia. new. new. new. and the fourth. the fourth is journey. (the journey is love)

Conduit

the blue of the horizon is the planting of my foot. the journey of the stars in the medicine of my crown. as the lotus opens from the muck the one rhythmic breath continues just the same. as its petals wilt we go around and around. decay and then blossom. exhale and then inhale. within the soul the epochs of the cosmos live on eternally. the friction of my skin against air creates the melody of life. as the boundaries dissipate matter becomes energy becomes mind becomes energy becomes matter. gliding through the unmanifest with open eyes and an open heart…

Crystalline

observations of ingrained responses to stimuli point the maglite of inquisition on pavlovian conditioning. with an elevated eye and a propensity to detach from the reality of these responses we take the high road. although the inertia needed to stay here requires more existential steam, the supply of water to throw on the coals seems bottomless. when dissatisfaction with the present surfaces and a noticing role is engaged, the situation is transformed. instead of returning to a long crystallized cascade of cognitive descent into frustration, a fire is cultivated which sublimates the reaction and reframes the stimulus. the matte is transformed. watch as the meaning materializes and smiles of cosmic understanding lift the corners of the moment.

Here We Are

each moment passes with the opportunity to cognize differently. to act instead of react. to rethink, to reframe.

enantiadromic envisages engender extraordinary energies.

here we are.

veils of illusion begin to drop away. murmurs of blood trickle into dormant neural pathways. prickling pain is only the awakening of an asleep foot. cognitive backlash is only the last ditch effort of a millennia old ego stuck in the rut of fight or flight. with the breath warmth ensues.

Home

home is the watcher
home is asdf jkl;
home is a blue light
home is itchy feet
home is falling leaves
home is the space between breaths
home is a cloud of smoke
home is the black under fingernails
home is symbiosis
home is a clutch
home is a steel string
home is the sun rising
home is richter scale flatulence
home is the first listen
home is padmasana
home is tile grout
home is a flexed cheek
home is a desert cyclone
home is each step
home is the unexpected
home is in the liminal
home is a steaming cup
home is the void

Knock

there’s a burgeoning ball of glory gaining steam. turbocharged flares of buzz rise like kundalini. looking to the sky to see if there’s anyone up there…. looking over the shoulder to see if there’s anyone back there.

locomotive smiles and electric unspoken words rise with the moment. freedom to trust the gut.

a winter rising of orion pulls the sirius out of any gazer. flickers of decade old cosmic photons knock on the door of wonder. knock. who’s there? ::: ∞ :::

One

there’s a noun behind my eyes. it’s a veritable noun. reaching for it is the same as touching it. the noun behind my eyes is a bridge. a new rung is fastened to the scaffolding with every visit. the walkway leads in 5 dimensions. the noun behind my eyes is the shape of things to come. it’s round and omniscient. it’s vibrant and magnanimous. it’s warm and fragile. the noun behind my eyes is magnetic. it draws everything positive and negative into its field and plays a casual game of nexus. there’s a noun behind my eyes. it’s the same as the noun behind your eyes. it’s the only noun.

Punch Rolling

the universe sends a challenge. accepting is like granting the sun permission to rise. i take the passive active role. treading over puzzle pieces with a steamroller of intent. making lemonade. jigsawing invisible architecture. whatever can happen will happen? eh? awareness of awareness sends trickles of free choice down the chasm of sushumna, ida and pingala. meta. the winds of destiny make the compass rose look as two dimensional as it is. do the stipulations of cosmic agreements decree free flow or white water? hard to say. onward.

Script

cognitive ways and means smell like a half cooled pie sliding its way onto the dinner table. lost in the excitement of then the impurity of now begs for acknowledgment. guiding the pie along its last leg to edibility requires a stream of integral air.

the truth lies in the path of least resistance………..quality pokes its head out of every corner along every route. each step fastens a new frame to the same picture. each intersection provides a new way to find IT: the fluid, the destined.

we are collectively creating a fissure in the status quo. leading the way in a flying V. trading tow ropes for headwinds then riding the energetic coattails of a wide eyed autonomy that has no idea what a billboard is. adding gravity to each wormhole leading to veracity… by walking the talk….by knowing when the pie needs cooling.

watching the path less taken become the path a narrative is crafted using the fork as well as the recipe book.

Spring

spring smells like placenta

bounding around the corner

pining to grasp ever increasing glimmers of cosmic phosphorescence

spring tastes like smiles

stretching squares into circles

expounding pranic waves of reverberation from cheek to cheek

spring sounds like blades of grass

filling with erectile blood

murmuring sighs of energetic laziness

spring looks like buttered cranies

glimmering with savory moisture

overflowing abundantly into pools of budding space

spring feels like fountains

erupting with tireless and boundless awe

quenching the thirst of the double helixed

Still Wandering…

the moonlit drama of unconscious narrative has been pointing out dissonance where it lies.

duly noted.

the dream is my my talking to my me.

i give thanks to the possessors of a similar double helix for providing the perennial tests needed to dive deeper into the study of self.

my #2 pencil yearns to satiate the bubbles of hypocrisy.

The Map

the wheels turn and the fingers twitch as if they want to join the fun. the mind’s tongue searches for a way to make the word match the real. or does the real match the word? tastes good or tastes good?

each word each symbol a criss crossing map zig zagging down the path of individual cognitive history. enough reference points and magnetic norths to send a compass spinning. where is the languageless? show me the languageless.

when the conduit opens a downshift might do the trick. though the revolutions rise the interface strengthens. the sensitivity of interaction.

The New New

the new new ragers dont rage, they sit. they pluck the ripe landscape of transformation with a finger of conscious intent. reverberations of destiny. no exertion of endeavor but ease of creation, of overtaking the undertaking.

Wisp

Surfing pillows of clouds
Conceive magnified states of Awareness.
Realms of experience Expand and Unfurl.
A child gawks at organic beauty
Unaffected by ideas like Man Made.
Sponging fractal frequencies.
Birthing variable vibrations.
I wonder:
What of Rhythm and
What of Dance
Could we fathom without the Moon.
The dilated child conducts the clouds
With a finger of conscious intent
While the moon silently speaks:
Infinity.