Clothing is scattered across the carpet
And dinner plates pile up
On all the tops of tables.
Books go unread
And phone calls go unanswered,
While the patients of my mind–troubled thoughts–
Remain alone and without cure.

The dial of my day
Has wound tight
Around the sun,
Pulling quickly its trip
Between clouds across the sky.

The sand falls gently,
The hourglass grows full.
My lungs swallow precious air,
Gulping down life,
Just to spit it back out.
My heart beats rhythms,
Drumming in red,
Through limbs and eyeballs and stomachs just fed
‘Til the river runs dry
And the last notes resound.

And I wonder through all this despair,
What am I missing about the stars and the planets
And all that space out there?

Are they really so far,
All the lights in the sky?
Don’t they wiggle and fall
And send signals to my mind?
Aren’t they mirages of time,
Tunnels of light twisted
Through the galaxy and
Bent around black holes
At the speed of photons
(The infinite, where fast and slow unite)?
Don’t they have planets to circle them,
Like Saturn and Venus and Mars,
Like Earth with life and words and wars?

The wind is not dead,
But alive? We can’t say.
It blows through eternity,
Giving breath to the trees in spring
And death to their leaves in winter.
It comes from the east, moves to the west.
But east or west, it never rests,
It’s always born and never sets.
It has no destination, no reservation or respect.
It carves mountains and carries seeds.
It gathers storms and blows ships across seas.
It spells release and spreads lightness and peace.

And the winds of the cosmos?
What of their gyres are we to make?
From whence did they commence,
And just how did they become aware?
Mere vortices of light and dust
Sprouts life, a spark from nowhere?

One cannot imagine how it could be done.
One cannot see it hear it taste it smell it.
It arrives before our eye like the morning sun upon waking.
A dream image without cause or explanation.

Our past is but a story,
A fancy tale without beginning.
Its ending, no longer in our future,
Has been written and prepared.
We walk across its pages daily,
Smudging letters
Causing people to go crazy.
Erase and rewrite, go ahead.
But beware of what you want;
You may end up knowing less
Than the fate that knows you best.

Peel away the clouds and pick stars for midnight snacks.
Lay down your telescope,
Point your eyeballs inward.
Focus your attention on your attention
And mediate your own mind.
Find the circuit through the center
And puncture it straight through.
You’ll hurt and feel a pain you’ve never felt,
But the bleeding is temporary,
And soon your pulse will return.
The king is dead, but his kingdom lives on.
Point your sword now toward the sky again
And behold!
Night and day become one
In the marriage of moon and sun.

I have a message For the world.
Not to scare you,
But I think it
Should be heard. People ought to
Let themselves
Get hurt and get lost.
Suffering is the shortest route to
Bliss is the sound of serpent’s tongue
Who was guilty of a sin
And whose nemesis
Was his reflection’s grin In the mirror of the mind
Who is larger than us all
But smaller than us
Too is the number that makes
One not a blunder.
Like the mindfulness
Of water from a
Spring Is the season of
Rebirth into time.
So release comes with
Winter when we’re all
Frozen and sublime.

Originally posted Nov. 25th, 2006

Where does fire come from when it’s started? Is it the same place it goes when you put it out? Or, is it that the fire was never there to begin with? Or even that the fire has and always will be burning eternally? The fire burns forever and yet it doesn’t exist. How bizarre. Take them to the land that’s pure, where words and names are experienced rather than exchanged. When a good artist paints a picture or write a sentence, they do so without worrying about convincing others of anything. A good artist isn’t selling anything and cares not the least for economics. The values agreed upon by the masses, by media, by political propaganda and the number game played in the stock exchange do not influence the artist’s pursuit and expression of his own inner truth. With money, we exchange objects of value. With words, we exchange ideas of value. With art, we create value out of nothing. Why do we so admire and standn in awe of a smiling woman painted 500 years ago? Art should always stand for itself. It shouldn’t be a symbol that merely points to something else more important. The Mona Lisa is now a symbol that freely circulates through our media-saturated culture. it is no longer “merely” itself. As soon as art is understood it becomes artifact. it becomes initiated into the mind as another unit of culture, as a meme. It becomes eternal (at least in our minds) when we name it and make a symbol of it. Art can only be experienced now, in the present, as something spontaneous and unexpected. Art is ineffable because the self who creates it is ineffable. Art displays the inside on the otuside, but the image is fragile, not only to decay but to time itself. As time passes, the work’s image is highjacked by the social mind and its meaning is commoditized. By who? By us. By our desire to control ourselves and one another. We carve up mental territory and try to sell it to one another in order to convince ourselves that we can really own something.

Originally posted Nov. 26th, 2006

What does it mean to be enlightened? Surely, it has nothing to do with knowing the answer to every question. Enlightenment has nothing to do with knowledge. It has more to do with asking the right questions from the very start. To know something, anything, you must have not known it at some point in the past. So seeking knowledge has to do with some kind of quest to become more aware of what is going on. All seekers begin their search for God by reading books, or studying under a guru. It all starts with ideas, with abstract notions of what enlightened life would be like if I had it. Or, does it start with that initial experience of something beyond words… something that can’t ever be known because it can’t ever be expressed without contradiction using words? So the seeker experiences God spontaneously, then begins a knowledge quest to explain the original, transitory experience in terms of what can be known. Seekers want to know God, so they search for a medium of expression that could encompass the ultimate. Eventually, they come to find that God cannot be conceptualized. God’s wisdom can’t be translated into English, it can only be lived. So what then? One must stop seeking. But what is left? What, in short, is enlightenment? Would anyone who were enlightened still speak of it as though it were some higher state of attainment? What has been attained? What does a Buddha know that a seeker does not? If enlightenment is not knowledge, it can’t be much… so what’s the difference?

Originally posted Nov. 28, 2006

With all mind and no body we become like a monk. With all body and no mind we become like a ninja. With body and mind together we become a master. A master has realized his Way. He has recognized himself. He flows with the Tao. He is One with God. It is not occult to experience God. The experience of God is the foundation of all religion and, in fact, all reality. Thousands of years ago, people didn’t have many things to base reality on aside from their own memories. Today, we have such an extensive supply of media that every moment in history is available to us. We therefore base most of our perception of reality on the way our sources of media portray it. Culture is most powerful in this way, when its memories have been mediated and centralized.

Originally posted Nov. 25th, 2006