Reading you into me, into poetry, the poem within my dream.
And when I read it to you, you’re not really there, and neither is he.
Dreams separated by sleep.
Even though you’re both here, both sleeping next to me,
Instead of reading y’all my poem, I am reading the idea,
Trying, and failing at the ideal.
Regardless of my reading, our writing, his whining, you’re neither of you there,
And that’s why every one loves you, but only you and him love me.
After all, you’re still here, and thank god, so is he.
Reading to a child, dreaming now, restless and wild.
And all the while I struggle for the sense to rise, to write, to put it all down.
But you’re not there. You’re no where to be found,
But you are here, have always been, more here than me.
That’s why every one loves you, or else, they’re supposed to…
And just when I thought I’d broken sleep,
Where I’ll tell past lives ‘goodnight’ and loose the bonds of memories deep…
Returned to me now, you and him and me,
We remember how, restore, you snore, together returned to our we.
Gather ‘round the circle childrens. It’s time to talk about god again-I know (slightly raised voice over collective groan), we talked about that last time…
Now, it’s okay if you want to ignore what you see and hear and think, or to avoid thinking about things that hurt you’re head. But some of us want to know more things, even everything we can, so the rest of you, gather up your specially-decorated, magic phones and magic games and go sit quietly over there (forever), this circle is for the readers. This circle is for the thinkers so a lot of you (all of you?) can just stop reading (thinking) now.
So, as is true for most things childrens, it turns out it’s not about what you do, or how you do something as much as it is about when you do it. This ends up meaning whether or not you do things in this, your own life-time, once you understand (accept) that there really is no beginning or end (to/of ‘you’). This is why most of us don’t get around to having this little chat with ourselves until death renders the point moot with its own, new font. This is why outside of this circle, god and death are inextricable.
But we’re going to try and keep this short childrens. I know, recess is on your minds with the long weekend where we blow things up to celebrate blowing things up (people/childrens) coming up. Long spans devoted to your devices, interrupted only by mostly innocuous explosions. Bliss. So here’s the good news; there is a god, and yes, it surrounds us all the time. Now the bad news; god has no more to do with you than it does with the wet farts that we avoid, but unlike those flatulences, we most likely would not/will not recognize god when It/He/She/However you choose to capitalize this idea is squishing around in our pants.
Again, it’s fine to choose/pretend to believe what makes us feel better. Sometimes what we see is so scary that some of us need to run away. If that’s what you want to do, go ahead. Go sit over there. Don’t forget your smart-phone…
Right, so for the rest of us twisted few, we are left to face the slings and arrows of ignorance-avoidance and it tends to make pyschos out of us. If we see too much, without the power of ignorance that is so widely valued and cultivated in our school, we loose touch and beyond a certain point of pretending, beyond one’s ability to play along with your play-group (society), you get put on the short bus. Labelled, set apart, you’re no longer eligible for field trips to go and see the white picket fences of the houses of the normal.
Pay attention now childrens, there are only two things left to talk about. Put that down…
FIrst, we have to face it, god is leading us to destroy ourselves because that is what god does. Now wait a minute children (shouting, crying, tantrums), what if we say ‘balance’ instead of god, does that make it better? Okay then, balance leads us to destroy ourselves, just as it always has led all of creation towards destruction, though, not necessarily by their own hand. That is a special gift bestowed upon us, His chosen. Like all the chosen people, we’re special! We get to become ourselves free of innocence! That is all we really know. I know, but you looked didn’t you? You’ve peeked. You wanted to know, so you kept reading. Deep down we all know, we all see it coming, always have, but there’s no app for that so it’s easy to avoid, easy to forget (forget how to think).
Last, you need to know that you can know. You just have to want to. Your teacher won’t teach you this. He’s the last person who wants to know. He has a vested interest in your continuing not to know. He will always choose not to know, and he’ll choose (teach) the same for you. When I asked him, he told me that if we could see the future, if there were magic cards that we could use to tell us of our fate, every detail, he would choose not to know. He wouldn’t want to know, he said. “Would you?” he asked me. Now I’m asking you. You’ve read this far, so maybe…
It’s scary to know, but not like you’re thinking. It’s not because of what you might see. You’re going to see it anyway, so like I said, it’s not about what or how, but when. It’s scary to know because it means that we might have to actually do something. We may even have to start doing something different. We might have to change, and there’s nothing scarier than that. Again, we all know this from somewhere deep in our ancestral memory, but who hears/believes that kind of new-age, back-door-spirituality? We all know it though, some of it anyway, and no matter what we choose to call it, we always have. Whether we choose to know anything or not.
When he asked me if I wanted to know, like the fool that I am, I answered truthfully; ‘Yes’, I said. Because not only do I want to know what’s coming, what is going to happen to me, I have spent my life trying to learn how to know. When I was a child I could see it, but I turned away in fear. The blazing, crystal-clear visions and the void frightened me. The lessons within my dreams and nightmares were so vivid and accessible that I knew I knew, in spite of a complete lack of experience within the first five or six years of my current cycle. So it was then that awareness gave way to experience, to be buried by it for forty years more and only now do they reunite. And now I see two things; that as I near the end of the cycle, experience, or the clear perception of it and legitimate reference for it, will fade away again to be replaced by vision once again, awareness returned. But this time I don’t fear the vastness, why should I? Experience has led to a critically-refined, more cynical sort of awareness that the only constant is change, so why fear it? And that is how I have come to see that it is possible to see everything, so I want to. So I will try to. So I will continue to try to see it all, all that being myself allows. Why not, what else have I got to do? Play video games? consume? But that’s a story for another time, another teacher.
And when I told the teacher that not only did I want to see it all, but like an idiot, told him, like I am telling you, of what I had seen already, he, like you, sent me to sit in a corner, where I sit now. Where I belong.
The money-man and the giver of laws conspire to homogenize, to sterilize the arts and crafts derived from spiritual remnants of remaining human beings. They seek to standardize, to compartmentalize, so that they may fully appreciate and understand works of beauty and devotion. This they have always done.
But don’t be fooled, children, not again. Avoid becoming starry-eyed, semi-innocent infants, because that’s how they win. All they do is win, and they’re winning again. Why do they always seem to win? Most of the time, when we’re not too thin, we let them win. In between blood-letting, all they do is win until one day, all there is is them.
That’s why they invented hippies-yuppies-hipsters, yeah, I see you there (pronounced ‘they-a’). They see us all to our boxes. But do you still have eyes to see the walls? Our eyes weaken in there, especially the one in the middle, in the middle of those increasingly well-made, ingenious traps.
The eaters of the spirit left over from the human-animal seek only means to an end, ends and means derived from the hopes and dreams of all the rest of us. Here’s the purpose of their pursuit; Their appreciation comes with a side of manipulation. The goal of understanding met with a supply of exploitation’s demanding. A price tag attached to inevitably posthumous work. Lucrative death’s duplicity increasing liquidity within a renaissance of unenlightened complicity.
So I will say it again, write it otherwise for myopic eyes, just in case you were listening; The enlightenment they seek, the understanding and appreciation is limited to the ends of highly effective ways and means of marketing, and once again, as it is, so has it always been. It works so well on tiny-minded, sub-human, not-beings. Just tryin’ to eat, not to be…
The price of everything and the value of nothing. Spirit, exchanged for profit, with death as the by-product. For now, it’s best just to try and keep our carcasses out of their way. See how long they won’t notice us…Isn’t that what we’re doing?
Warm-bodied, blood-buried rhythm,
Co-mingled, low-sloped and shingled…
Wolf-men on low roofs
Willing their minds
Again and again
To the inside planes
Of window’s closed panes.
You lie there in dreams
And try in vain to win your name
That will come to you
No matter what you do.
Fuzzy, damned existence
Humans, for instance.
All that’s said, circular cleverness
Including this (hopeful hopelessness)
Awaiting your judgement,
The one mind and all of our kind.
A mass depression in this fabric unworthy
Microscopic light feeding a meal in the night
Black whole’s poles blasting a jet
Which our kin have seen and known and met.
Fifteen degrees from what we could have become, there’s Helium…
But empty-headed emptiness instead begets
An alien both blind and dumb.
Doom making actors of us all
Playing a role long ago foretold
A screenplay the great mystery wrote
The light of denial, creation, the cycle,
What can and cannot be swallowed,
And so slowly we come to know…
Everything as it’s supposed to be
No choices, no chance
Perfection in the folly
Disinterested design revealed in our destiny
What and how we choose to see
Amounts to eight billion divided by infinity
And within the nebular dust that became of us
A perfect memory of tranquility
Within a spirit of balanced inevitability
We derive the fleeting moment of contentment
The equation of our legacy
Dogs in the distance.
Family singing together,
Singing their praises.
Better that way,
To not be near you
Then, I hear you.
I can hear you.
You’re out there..
You’ve sheltered, somewhere,
In that barn or elsewheres.
I heard you back in June
Last quarter, waning moon.
Singing songs of devotion.
And then you ran away,
And all I could think was when
Can I see you again
Woman inside felt it comin from a long way
Something simple to satisfy,
Is what I wanna say.
Let it all hang out,
Make a choice,
Find a gifted voice,
The times when nothing’s wrong.
Sunset, mountain, water-babble, birdsong.
We’ve heard them calling all along.
From all directions I’ve heard my nameless grandma’s voice telling me,
From everywhere inside of the great mystery,
Always all around me, she told me;
‘There is so much to
What it is we do.
Don’t let any one else try and guide you
To become what you’re supposed to
No one else can find your path for you
And being on that red road is a sacred journey travelled by a precious few.’
It sounds so ridiculous,
Not unlike the Jesus-myth,
But now my heart has lived for long enough to find out that her voice is true.
Searching there for the name she won,
And now the music’s memory is done.
Memorizing every single silly song,
While blamelessly I sang along,
Often even to me,
I’ve searched there for so long.
And they all cried to see in childhood eyes
How daily the spirit dies
And long ago they told their indians good-bye.
That was the day I heard that love was a lie.
And now they’re gone,
But in the song,
The names that none of them
Could ever hope to win
They’ll join the solar wind
The names of stronger men
Will pass us by again
It feels like time to them
Awaiting moments when,
A spirit returns to living-lives and soars and grows inside of men.
So here we go again;
The missing women and men,
These lost and hopeless beings,
That ritually sacrifice everything’s mornings,
In deluded, dull and devout pursuit of things.
Return to find spilled water,
And those are the names we’ll win;
Real-lives erased in endless planning,
That will be our family,
Until the I gives way to we,
And we are forced to see,
Repetitively, tediously, remedially,
How stardust and mollusks relate to me.
I’ll return to face the folly of my legacy.
I’ll ask myself to please stop saying; ‘Cherokee’…
Ignore Palestine, just like we ignored the Sioux, me and you.
Just like you ignored Black Elk, White Devil!
Find your red road, right now!
It’s already too late for most of you.
We are all raped…
One time, two times, I wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true, me and you.
All of us, our future, our lands, our heritage.
Try to tell me, white devil, that’s not true.
We all submit to a force that is beyond us,
Evil in the sky, please Jesus, Hallelujah!
That world out there is polluted, and that’s the one that you wanted me to break through?
And it’s only as much as me or you may actually breach that holds the meaning of what is true.
In which the meanings of anything can get through, to me and to you.
We don’t live individually.
That’s just the illusion. The one which our masters rent to you. The one we must see through.
What a snort, Remy Martin, I am the man, I am the man.
What if you saw Jesus tonight?
You didn’t want to admit it, neither did Paul, but you did, you saw him, didn’t you mutherfucker?
And if you saw Jesus, doesn’t that kinda confirm that you’re insane?
Well how bout if we don’t say Jesus, how bout if we say Ganesh?
How bout we say Bhudda? Does that change it from crazy to new-age enough for ye? (yass)
Okay, so what if it was zombie-Jesus?
That would make you pretty fuckin it, right?
I know some people that could set some shit up for that bro…
We were talkin bout dressing up like Jesus, Mary and Joseph or some shit like that, and join out drink in man (fuckin cloud), late-night into Easter Sunday, can you imagine it?
Yeah, it’s notgointa happenbrah, but fuck the cloud, man. Fuck Apple. Fuck Microsoft. Fuck greed, man. Be it white, brown, black or green…
Aint it neat, aint it dumb… doo-da-doo-da-dee
***STNANK WINE…batch #3.5 (#3 red failed)- Nov. 5th, 2013; First attempt at standard-method red. Used thawed grapes from 2012 (12 gal. bags) plus 4 gal. bags of the last harvested (frozen and thawed) plus approx. 2 gal. fresh to yield just over 5 gals. juice. Added sulphu(.025 tsp.) to fresh juice from first press, then thawed older grapes and added this juice back to must, then pressed all. Removed approx. 1 gal. for juice, strained all and added 2 tsp. bentonite in 1/2 cup boiled h2o. Yield approx. 3 gals. of wine after primary ferment (normal) CARBOY NOT FULL. 10 days in secondary, tests a weak, low alcohol wine, not a bad taste, but nothing special. Added 1/4 teas. sulpher and 1.5 teas. sorbate in 1/2 cup cool h2o, stirred 2 min. as per instructions for racking and clearing. 10 days more with stabilizer (racking?) did not clear, seems improved slightly. Bottled 2.5 gal. on 12/5/13. 2 errors; added bentonite directly to juice (not bottom), and did not fill fermenters full (neither). RESTED 1 MONTH…FRUITY, HIGH ALCOHOL, ENJOYABLE, STINKY DARK BLUSH. After one month, this wine is a party waitiin ta happen.
So if she saw what was to be, and with so many examples all around her, with her Mayan blood recalling hers and her newborn son’s place within the cycle, how could she not? If she knew he would be protected and in fact, go on to become a king among men, and perhaps even as a direct result of her departure, her reckless cliff-dive into the unknowable, then who are we to call her a coward? Who are we to call her anything other than great-grandmother? Who are we to do anything but honor her memory and learn from that memory? The facts of the memory as they stand alone. Who are we but to try and get it right in full consideration of it’s weight?
**PP** ‘what can and cannot be said’
It turns out, nothing can be said. So I am somehwere between the point where you just have to put it away and being totally free… I want to go outside and experience what has been stolen from me. But I was thinking of how this night, you have stolen the light from me. How I could reasonably go out and find it you see, the glowing essence of me, but somehow, I have renounced it to the world, all the good-george-bushes yes, you see yourself inside of me now, don’t you? Admit it. You can’t help it…Oh, now that’s some far-out shit…