Thursday, December 20

restless fragments

eyes out of focus.
open.
shut.
open.
thoughts toss.
thoughts turn.
a restless mind begins to stir.
tears moisten the corner of eyes.
it's raining again.
and it's time to rise again.
what sleeps?
what wakes?
what rouses the sleeping shadows?
I.
It all begins with I.
But how will it end?

Wednesday, December 19

unrestricted by reality

to fear losing
what i've never had
this is the dream i dream

to long for
that which is not here
it is the dream i dream

drowning in thoughts
of some you and i
i dream this dream
and i don't know why

i cannot see
in the darkness
of my own imagination

what throws me here?
what pulls me out?

where imagination rules
reality hides
for this is the dream i dream
with eyes wide open

Saturday, December 15

before id-ea

before word
before thought
before concept
before idea
what seems to hide there?

if an idea is troubling
discard it
look to see from whence it came
and you'll come to face yourself

Friday, December 7

senseless perception


* * * * *
parallel dreams
yesterdays themes are in todays scenes
no past
no present
no future
life speaks in a clear way
but you must be deaf to truly hear it

Tuesday, December 4

Who Am I?

at the root of all trouble, I am
at the root of all desire, I am
at the root of all pleasure, I am



when I am not, nothing is
when I am, everything is
but the question remains
who am I?

Thursday, November 29

Behind the I's

she's an unconditioned force
her thousand words, her spears and arrows
trampling over holy altars
she removes the veil of ignorance
she is life
hidden behind the eyes of a cunning sage

Wednesday, November 14

Lights Out

* * * * *
lights dim
clock strikes on loneliness
a quiet room is filled
with fading memories
of what has never been
all recedes
back into the darkness

Sunday, November 11

phantasmagoria

without the light projected, the pictures on the film-reel can't be seen.
without consciousness, there is no experiencing of the life scenes.
but from where... from what... does consciousness, beingness, emanate?


life is a light show... but who is doing the watching?

Thursday, November 8

...without end

The monkey is reaching
For the moon in the water.
Until death overtakes him
He'll never give up.
If he'd let go the branch and
Disappear in the deep pool,
The whole world would shine
With dazzling pureness.

~ Hakuin

* * * * *


waves rise and waves fall.
bodies come and bodies go.
all forms born are destined to die.
all things appear to disappear.
these are the facts of death...life...
construction and dissolution.
the cycles go on recklessly and mercilessly.
and their constant movement appears to veil,
the very thing that neither comes nor goes...
the very ocean from which all things come out of
and readily recede into.

to know the real nature of all that is here,
is to realize that nothing of value is ever lost.
to think that what you love and what you are...
is what comes and goes,
what is born to die...
is to have misunderstood this whole thing...

for in thinking in such a manner,
you have not yet come to know
the primal nature of
your
very
existence.

Saturday, November 3

unexpressed

the uselessness of words... of... writing... talking... is that they imply that there are two to interact, to relate... when all there ever is... is nothing... no one.... zero.

Thursday, October 25

theater of the absurd

it's unlikely that you would blame a rock for anything, that you would hold it responsible or culpable for anything that goes wrong in its environment.

to proclaim that a rock threw itself at you, would indeed be a very kooky angle to admit. surely, you would claim that the rock is nothing but an object. and if anyone was to say "the rock did it" you would exclaim "that's just absurd, rocks can't do anything!"

well, a rock is a rock. and a shadow is just a shadow - both objects without any being. yet there you go placing all sorts of responsibility on your I-concept with your "I" this and "I" that.

find out where "I" rises from and blame That substance for everything.

for to say "I" did anything at all, is a most nutty notion to entertain.

it's elementally my dear Watson

SI (DEATH)

(Without knowing life, what do we know about death?)

To live, to die, facts of life.
No life, no death, Chuang-Tsu lives.
Life and death are rooted in illusion.
Without Mind where do they attach?

Ichin Shen


* * * * *


in this space of a headless universe, where nothing can come to really know its presence but rather only know its absence, what is there to understand and who is really there trying to understand?

in a place where the only conclusion one can come to is that there is nothing and that inevitably all there is, is this nothing... processing the endless apparitions is merely only about getting lost in the maze of mind stuff

how to process appearances, events, happenings, when upon questioning they turn out to be the backless plays of the elementals?



what happens, happens. but the critical question always is...to whom does it happen?

the elements combine in ways to put on an unimaginable show. and it may be easy to get lost in the colors losing sight of who's doing the watching.

the thing to ponder is not "what does this mean?" but rather "to whom does this have meaning?"

our mind will readily provide theories for what is happening and all that it could mean, but it can never answer...to whom.

so as this dream unfolds, it's apparent that the equation goes something like...

oh hell...i don't know.

Tuesday, October 23

No I, No Problem

How One puts on conceptual (or linguistic if you please) garments to perpetuate the dream of an individualized existence is by far the most interesting topic of contemplation, discussion, and observation.

“I am the seeing” is quiet a different kind of statement to make than the common “I see” - as both these statements point to different points of identification. What does One identify itself with in this dreaming? And what the heck is meant by One?

I’d dare venture to say that the thing to be observed in this being human thing, is the functioning that naturally takes place and the interpretation that so quickly and noisily follows it.

Identify with the interpretation, and the perceptibly secondary mental reality it can weave, and you will readily say “I see” is the truer statement. Identify with the natural organism-ic functioning, the immediate happening that is prior to translation and interpretation, and you see “I am the seeing” is the truer statement.

I am love. I am knowledge. I am truth. I am…insanity.

Oh Absurdity, how thy name is “I.”

Saturday, July 28

Your True Love

The truest of loves is That which accepts all things.
True love is the immediate instant, that’s right here and right now.
Nothing else.
Rest assured, everything else is transient; and the transient can never be the source of your security.
You don’t have to wait, or need you wait on this instant.
There is no question what is here and now.
There is no doubting what is here and now.
It is utterly, totally, and completely all here.
It is complete.
It is full.
It is This, What Is.
Perfection.
This and only this is your true love.
Always here.
Always now.
It has nothing to do with bodies, or words, or thoughts, or anything else.
All those things are, because This Is.
You can never long for it, for it is always Here.
You can never desire it, for it is already Here.
There is no other time.
There is no other place.
There are no faces for which you can attribute This to.
It is the faceless.
It is the formless.
This is your true love.
Look for nothing else but This.
Not inside.
Not outside.
So, introduce yourself.
To This.

Saturday, April 28

My Timeless Eye


Feeling more than I have ever before,
I know that this must be The Love
Its light shines bright into the core of this soul
And now I am made to see clearer
As it melts the crystals of my coldest winter
I leave my doors wide open
I’ve invited him in
He is the Sun
The center of a heart undone

He’s a Timeless eye
An inviting smile
And he’s taken residence of my mind
He’s that silent witness
The cure to madness
An unmatched brightness
That soothed my hidden sadness
Bowing to none
He is a child of the Sun

Strange how such beautiful scenes
Can scorch the breath that can’t be seen
You grow accustomed to the burns
Knowing He is the remedy for which your heart yearns
And while we remain locked in this gaze
Making our way through this timeless maze
Our words will not keep your eyes for long
So we leave you listening to his silent love song

Brightly lit over the skyline
Centered in his way
The unseen power of this Great One Lover
Is the light of my day
And though I tried to keep him at bay
He is a Life Line
Wholly mine by a Divine design

He is the love that puts me to rest
And as the ears of my silent nights attest
I prayed that his light of day
would come closer that much sooner
He is my Sun
The subject of a love, before time had begun

Tuesday, April 24

a mental reality

My peculiarity is the immateriality of my externality.
Where blindness and knowledge meet, as I’ve bought into my own deceit.
I’m superficially inclined to be in service of a blind mind casting aside the truth that abides deep inside.
I’ve become ignorance’s fool and materiality’s dumb mule, with my head up my behind I robotically wind to the grind of time.
Time ticks and tocks while I follow the flocks of blindness into the abyss of my inevitable undoing.
What I see in this illusive surreal wheel has that tempting appeal, but it is not real.
It is not real.
The mentality of reality is in actuality an illusion, and this causes the mind some serious confusion.
The freedom from this conundrum begins with the inquiry…Who Am I?

I am the disappearance of “other.”

Monday, April 23

Cosmic Dancer


When I breath in the stillness of that true life and take a moments pause, what comes into view is the rise and fall of the most delicate and subtle silhouettes. These formless forms of mist rise up to dance in freedom and then dissolve into the nothingness from which they came. I see them as they interlace with the ruffled seams of my own threading.
This is my doing and my own undoing.
The magic and the madness of these dancing silhouettes devours my being hurdling me into a spiraling collapse that in an instant becomes a soaring flight into the emptiness from which I descended.
I have fallen.
Collapsed.
And Now I have risen.
I call this my life. I call it my story. A fictitious tale of silhouettes going nowhere.
I am soaring above the aggravations of the subtle deceptions.
From this restful place all there is, is this wild dance of forms I’ve called stories orchestrated by an invisible and extraordinary story teller.
I’m that story teller and the one living out the story.
It’s incredible this view and this viewing.
I am a cosmic dancer, a silhouette of invisible strings.
I’m the weaver of the stories, and all the madness that it brings.
I am the madness, the maddened, with most poisonous stings.
I’m a lover of forms, and the destroyer of things.
I am the cosmic dancer, a silhouette of invisible things. And I am asking you to come and dance with me.

Wednesday, April 4

She and I

Empty promises made in between the dreams of this wakeful dreaming.
And I’m paying her dues.
She sleeps through the tears.
While I weep for her fears.
As she asks, “where have all the promises gone to?”
I cannot answer her.
I submit and let the agony of her longings trickle out of these eyes.
Who promised her the sky?
She speaks stillness, but I do not understand.
What isn’t she telling me?
I submit and feel the pangs of her aching heart until the rising temperature of this body subsides.
I’m tired.
Let me sleep dear soul.
I toss and turn.
She won’t let me.
“Something big has already begun” she echoes into my ears.
Oh foolish heart.
Will she come to realize it is already over?

Monday, March 19

The Heart of a Leaver

Have you ever been left behind?
Have you ever thought of those that left you as…unkind?

Father, mother, lover, or friend…the heart of a leaver is all of these, yet knowing this gives you no ease.
They come in love and leave you with the sorrow and the pain…that turn your tears to acid rain.

They promised you forever but forever wasn't theirs to give.
They promised you the world but this world wasn't theirs to give.

And in their leaving you found yourself bitter, parted from the heart that was once warmed by the thoughts of you and…he, she, they…

They came in love…and they left you…cold.
They left you alone with nothing to hold.

But dear soul, as it was Love that brought them to you, it is Love that takes them from you.

For in their presence and in your togetherness you grew as two…
And in the coldness of their leaving, you alone must grow into what's true.

It is Love that makes them come and it is love that takes them from you.

So in their leaving ask not "how could…he, she, they…do this to me?"
But rather "what does Love mean to teach me?"

Life's lessons come not by the birth of togetherness alone, but by its death also.

After the tears cease…
And the bitterness ends…
After the anger and the hurt…
Ask…"what did Love mean to teach me?"

The heart of a leaver has one lesson to give my dear…
"Forever" is simply not here.

This is a world of temporary things.
A world where promises of forever don't mean a thing.

But there is a world where forever is true.
A forgotten world for me and for you.
So dear friend, in their leaving ask, "where is Love calling me to?"

I'm a lover of leaving hoping my leaving teaches you something.
Your Home is not this world of temporary things.
And our leaving is not meant to clip your wings.

So in our leaving ask not "how could…he, she, they, you…do this to me?"
But rather "what does Love mean to remind me?"

It is Love that makes us come and it is love that takes us from you.
And in the coldness of our leaving, you alone must ask to remember what is true.

I'm a lover of leaving hoping my leaving teaches you something.
That the truth of our Love is not this temporary meeting.
For our Home is no temporary thing…


I'm a lover of leaving hoping my leaving teaches you something.

Wednesday, March 14

Confessions of my Self

I’m not the voice you hear
And I’m certainly not the face you see
I’m not the touch you feel
And I’m really not this “me” here.

Your eyes show you a body.
And through ears you hear a sound.
Your hands tell you what’s at the surface.
But Spirit knows something profound.

I’m not this short story
Of a twenty something girl somewhere
I carry a much larger history
A truth your mind can’t bare.

I’m the house for time spans beyond count
But you won’t believe any of this
For the little “I” in you is drowning in doubt.

Evolution.
These genes carry this code of expansion.
They tell a story of things unseen.
Yet Spirit shows all that has been unfolding
I know where it is all going.
It is an epic in the making.
No where and every where it goes.
But how it goes, no one knows.

And you won’t believe it if I tried to tell you.
For the little “me” doubted just as the “I” in you.
But let me tell you once again.
I’m not this “me” you seem to see.
Some day some how you will hear this subtle plea.

Don’t be fooled by how I appear
For who I am is really unseen
Untouchable it remains.
Don’t be fooled by what remains.
You’re so fooled by my remains.
You’re so fooled by your remains.
This’ll dissolve before your eyes
And though you think I’m dead and gone
Your Spirit knows what your mind denies.

You won’t believe me if I tried to tell you.
For the mind in you knows not what’s Real and True.

The End of Time: The Next Revolution in Our Understanding of the Universe

When a book clearly articulates a map of "time" that makes the most sense, you have to go get yourself a copy of that book... “N...