Archive for February, 2011

Another Way

Feb 01 2011 Published by under Words

What you see is not what it seems,
A spiderweb of interpenetrating dreams.
That which is there, is really that which is here,
As they who are there, are the I that is here.
For all is one and one is all
Amid the break, before the fall.

Who is he?
He is me
And you
And she.
He is all,
And he is none,
A mystery to those beneath the Sun.
Who confusedly toil, in slavery as the oil
That greases the wheels of their own demise.
No wonder their surprise
When they finally surmise,
Denying to reprise the lies.

Moon, planet, star, sky
Alone are dessiccated symbols,
Each locked within a categorical sty.
To that which they point,
As an indication of relation
Not the sentimentilization,
Is that which shall never die.

Let go,
Then watch the urge
To grasp and to merge.
Just let the mind fly by.
When the hour begins to sour,
Let time flower to the truth.
Let this melt away.
“Clutching belief will bring relief”
Is what they seem to say.
Heed not the words,
Listen to the birds,
And learn from both the Way.

Subsistence on thought is paid by soul.
In return one receives an empty bowl.
To beg, to cry, and to plead
In order to relieve the need,
To feel the phantom filling
Of that which is forever full.

Fullness of  mind is a passing state,
One that will constantly shift and abate.
Transience is the world abound,
There is no place it is not found.
Only here, right now, within,
Is there ever a ceasing of the din.
It is no it, nor a thing,
No word can define
The pinnacle of the sublime.
No conception can contain,
The feeling never felt,
The Origin of all I’s we certainly remain.

Why is it then that we pretend?
In rehearsal without beginning or end,
The Director’s chair sits empty, ominous,
Actors mistaking themselves for an imagined audience,
Denying what lies offstage sine sentiens,
Sucked headfirst into a meagre world of triviality,
Thoughtlessly accepting the falsehoods of mortality.

But here and there,
An earthly glimmer of recollection
From stars into waters of reflection,
Arising in those who dare
To question and forbear:
Ratiocination by quotation,
Frenetic mental masturbation,
Matron of the multitudinous machinations of mankind.

The true hero of our day,
In this age of consuming cliché,
Is the one who stands within,
Casts down the binding script,
Uncovers that which words are placed upon,
A message plain as dawn.
That encompasses and outstrips
Every single thought that exists
And recognizes what still persists.

All are simple dreams it seems,
Beckoning to hold the attention
Of both creator and invention.
Who can continue in another way?
Bound by fear, bound by inertia,
Bound by the past of every day.
Simply by allowing apperceiving
Of our thought-filled universes,
Shall we go beyond the notion,
The motion of devotion to self and other.
Closing the wounds of sundering isolation,
Rising over open oceans,
Penetrating all there is in sight,
With the presence of endless transforming light.

Forget the beliefs.
Forget the wishes,
Forget the words.
For the single moment
Stop searching for that which lies
In the prepackaged maldigested pittances of intellectualism
Here right now, as always,
Is the silence within silence,
Is the abscence of the absentees
Beneath the Seas of Me’s.

Understand as joy.
Give, receive, and enthuse.
Without detouring down the winding road,
Drudging to the dully mesmerizing abode,
Built by bricks of warped intention,
Fused with subconscious blinding contention,
A perpetuated system in recursive division
That lil’ ol’ place we like to call a prison.
Have you ever met the warden?
He likes to sit there every mornin’
Whistlin’ while he’s reading,
The same old paper he’s always heeding.
By noon, he’s sitting, talking,
All alone in his tiny locked-up cell
Never once having thought
Of the keys hanging about his waist,
Never once setting foot outside.

Then at night, as silence dawns,
Come the voices in his dreams:
‘Oh whatever shall we do?’ cries You.
‘Whatever shall we be?’ cries Me.
‘I’d much rather die!’ cries I.
So they howl, whimpering softly as they did long ago,
Tears streaming from their swollen eyes
Soaking wet from the evening rains,
Swept inside, without second thought,
Into the unquenchable curiosity of neoteny.

But now he laughs, amid the sighs.
For he sees the ploys
Of these poor little boys,
And strokes them lovingly as they fade away
Back into the nothingness from which they arise.

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