Fermenting the Milk From a Prophet’s Tongue

In the Finnish language, the words patience and suffering arise from the same root.  Patience is Kärsivällisyys.  Kärsiä means to suffer. 

 

Chase away all the restless warriors

Where there is patience there is also pain that can lead to suffering

But patience is the only way to the right resolution

It is the only way to watch the embers glow

And rise to the aubergine sky of cataclysmic

Renewal of the soul

Sit through it all

Allow it to percolate

Even if the mind warns you that patience is injuring the soul

It is not

Where there is patience

There is acknowledgment and acceptance

Of pain and suffering

Resistance to nothing

Will not make you bleed

Acceptance to all

Will reunify the soul

And steer it away from any resistance to pain

Leaving you to rest in the simple stillness

Of the correct result

Of patience

 

In my mind’s eye I see no righter result.  There is nothing else that could tempestuously tear me away from this moment.  Other than the lack of patience.  Allow everything to develop as if you never intended there to be any voluntary displacement.  Any displacement will come from the involuntary movement of the soul of the universe.  This haphazard plane on which we sit.  Waiting for moments to envelope us in the goodness and grace of just allowing. 

 

Allowing everything to be free and uncalculated.  Allowing everything to be free and uncallibrated.  Allowing everything to be free and unmeasured by any swinging pendulum embracing the distance of perpendicular time. 

Of a hand set in the moment that was only measured by the gravity of hourglass sand. 

 

There is no time moment.  There is only everything that surrounds us in elliptical circumference.  A never ending pull of gravitational force through the channels of undisrupted graduation of evolution of the soul.  That would never be bound to any measurement of how many times this terrestrial plane would revolve in revolution around the kindred star energy that creates the vacuous gravity, that pulls the rolling ball through the elliptical circumference of non-time.  Of never ending salutations to a dawn that measures nothing more than the continuance of breath.

 

In the incandescent glorified revelation of all of this to the watcher within, that is when we would recognize and find profit for the soul in the observation that because time has no meaning, patience is the just vehicle for adherence to the path we are set upon by universal direction.  Speeding up only finds dislocation.  And there is no need for it.  Because time does not exist.  And where there is pain and suffering along the path, it is only an invitation into the evolution of the soul.  Resistance to pain is suffering.  Acceptance of pain is the immolation of suffering.  When the watcher overrides the doer, patience will abide and pass over the pain with acceptance.  Patience will allow it.  Patience will provide the anarchical force to override the impact of suffering.

 

This we must know. This we must see. This we must be.

Was the harpooning justified?

The belly of a whale

Distended and lost in

The relentless waves rolling on the surface of the boat

The ambergris will never be recovered

The subtle diabetic gourmet truffle spoon

And the lantern oil

All of it just disemboweled into the ocean

To be consumed by the chemical breakdown

Of saline calcification

Or consumed by the sentinel creatures

That follow the harpooning vessel

As far as the length of their aquatic forms will take them

The whale had been assassinated

But this was nothing more than thick besotted flesh

Dragging over the canopies of sales

Nothing that remained of any value

From the chronic misguidance of deeds

Of the whaler’s fingertips

Circulating slowly across the crusted remains

There would be no need for the cabin boy

To descend into the skull of the whale

To retrieve the remnants of vital organs

Every harpooning was unjustified

He knew as he sat idly by

And reminiscing for nothing other than the sheltered shoreline

Where he would angle up his feet above the water

Clumsily in the toothpick awareness

Writing the despotic angel words

On parchment paper

Just mindless dribbling

Awaiting the sunrise of admonition within

That would cause a caustic uprising

A cetacean inspiration

There had been nothing but lost wandering

Ever since the remnants of his father

Had been shoved into the earth

There were scattered relations

That would assign to him meaningless tasks

Trough feeding

Shovel expurgating

Lessening the assent of weariness into the blindness

Of stoic banal de-inspiration

There was nothing that had elevated him above

An unenhanced lifetime of pressing

Each trigger finger glow worm

That he had pulled from the soil

Into the bedroom light of inhibitions

The stable had been calling to him

When there was nothing more than a beckoning to the slough

At first there was a deinvestigation

A surrender to the likelihood

Of encaptured slavehood to the wheels and ploughs

Of upstate New York

Until he had decided

Without any real anticipation of anything more

Than a simple release from earthen fermentation

To set his eyes towards the sea

The whaler’s den beneath the slow arc arising

Of Halley’s Comet

As it circled the sky

Richard Henry Dana

And the Knickerbocker report of Mocha Dick

He would leave his tenement hovel

And make his way towards

The momentary slavehood of an uninitiated

Troglodyte platform angler

Into the wasteland of cetacean grapplers

When he would assist in the dying

They would all die slowly, one by one

As the ship reached the crest of waves

And dove into the unrighteousnesses of harpoon warfare

Unaware of how his soul would resist

Unpalpable preterition in the steady

De-accumulation of gray and sperm whales

He allowed the eagerness of the moment

To push him towards the plough of the sea

Shipwrecked and disproportionated by the weight

Of the pornographic ocean

He would stumble into the hallucinating graveyard

Of cannibal hosts

Who would tether him to the fire

And unleash the genesis of parliamentary words

That would subtly dissect and enamor

Encapsulate and derogate

Plummet into and

Catalogue by categorization

All the internal and external deeds of mankind

With verbal harpoons he would assassinate

The despotic internal assignations of the egoic mind

To lay out the remnants of a precipice

Where they could each be labeled and incarcerated

Beginning to unwind

The psychological web of

Mankind’s dissociation from himself

“We experience the world as we are; we respond to it as we are; we are continuously reshaping it to how we are.  That is what the Christian mystics say mean when they say. “My sin is stamped upon my universe.  But the Hindu mystic would say, “My goodness is stamped upon the universe.”  Both statements are true: one simply takes the perspective of the jiva [the ego], while the other looks at the world through the shining Self.”  — Eknath Easwaran, The Bhagavad Gita for Daily Living, Volume 3, 15:7-8.

 

Meandering trepidations

This is the police force of the mind

Looking for transgressions

To fill a place of playfulness

Where it can spend time in derogated torture

Of the Self

To unwind a mystic spell

That would have placed you

Infinitesimally close

To the divine

 

Rugged mountain passageways

This is what we have hurdled ourselves through

Aggrandized like Cyclopian giants

We have engaged misfit legs

To transverse the subcontinent

Of listless dreams

And arrive in decadent barren wastelands

Where there is nothing left to still do

But slowly release the bondage of erect form

And crumble into a slumped over child

Energetically emaciated

From any further tasks

To be done

To be undertaken

To be utilized to distract the mind

From any ever present dislocation

Into the effervescent heartbeat

Of just being

 

We have been clumsy

We have been slowly activating our corpuscle driven

Slave tentacles of the spinal elongation

Creating slow movements

Of the inorganic organs

Of hands and feet

Elbows and wrists

Toes and fingers

Legs and arms

Until we have reached the edge

Of flailing centrifugal pantomime

Exorcisms in the phantom muscles

 

They are all directing the body

Into slothful regurgitation awareness

To activate the sinful mind

To call out for carnal retribution

From the catharsis devoted

Police force of the mind

 

It would create movement to punishment

There is nothing you could not do

That would not defractally mobilize the

Condescension of the mind

When you would perform deeds

For which it cannot fabricate awareness

 

Subtle movements of the soul

To abstract the nestled movements away

From the recriminating actions of every

Integration into the material world

 

When you are hedging yourself forth

Into the greatness of grace

The spinning wheel would not slow down

The karmatic spindle would continue

To obfuscate ascendance

From interplanetary existence

Focusing the police force of the mind

On your caustic development of misdeeds

Of karmatic notch see sawing

Through the wooden features of time

Through the uprising verticality of the totem

 

Wanted posters on the post office wall

Detailing all the aspects of what you have done wrong

As wrong is defined by the moralistic implication

Of the police force of the mind

Trapped in dogmatic stage play recreation

Of the soliloquy of societal crimes

 

But all of this is only

A halting edifice

Martin Luther nailing his list of misdeeds

To the cathedral square walls

 

There is no list of anything you have done

You could have done

You have contemplated doing

That could not be unwrapped

Opened up

And exposed to the light of the soul

 

You may have done it

It cannot be undone

The karmatic wheel may still be spinning

Awaiting the metronome momentum

To slow until it targets

The wooden notch of your

Collective ensnarement to one more

Bardo dive

Before the reclamation of the soul turns forever

Into the beacon waterfall of enlightenment

 

But what is done cannot be undone

And it does not matter to the present you

Release it all, the sorrow, the pain

The suffering of internal recriminations

It is the only pathway to evolution

To the next stage of recovering

From the five thousand millennia

Of the dark night of the soul

 

The police force of the mind must be

Relieved of duty to the task

There is nothing it could do

To balance out

The deed to action to repulsification

That arrow sequence has been set to flame

 

It is now that you can walk away

From the phoenix fire

And find the strength to rise above

All the admonitions of the past

And more fruitfully, gracefully

Find present awareness

To the solemn truth of who you are now

 

Shining, not rusted through

You are only who you are right now

And you are ever changing

Each and every rehearsed or unrehearsed step that you would take

Must have a fastened down tempestuous platform

There is no action you would be able to take

Without some level of measured repercussion

All that you can do is manage the damage, the reactivity

By choosing each action with mindful ascendency

By taking only the steps that would infuse this ethereal plane

With the organic energy

To fertilize its fallow fields

 

How can or should you be able to do any of this at all?

Seismic volcanic eruptions would lay themselves out eagerly before you

Awaiting only the activation of the footfall

And we cannot engage in existential planning

To set up bastions of protection against it

 

All of that would simply lead to acrimonious events

That would tangentially remove us from the present

And leave us fixated

On what could be

By every fluttering of a butterfly’s wings

By every attempt to predict the future

We would only modify the path, inundate the cosmic forces

With buckshot rifle cannons to disintegrate the truth

 

We can admonish ourselves not to do or say

Anything that would not bring kindness

To steer away from any events that are not the result

Of compassion

This can be our goal, our intention, our resolve

 

But we must always be wary of the hidden volition

That lies within

Sits around and awaiting

The threshold of the task

In order to steer the course away

From the right outcome

By interjecting, propagating, internal egoic stimuli

That would steer our course away from what is right

From what is the dharmic path

For the ego thrives only when it causes suffering to others

 

How can we control, or wrest away control

From the inner volition of the savage ego sabotage

That occurs when we innocently and passively

Without recognition

Permit the ego to take the wheel and steer the course

To clandestinely modify the volition of the task

Of the speech, of the motion, of the action

To reach an outcome for which we on the surface

On the highest level of conscious awareness

And interactions with the material world

Had no intention?

 

This can only be accomplished by complete and total awareness

From the expansion of the mind and the soul

Like the exponential weavings of the spider’s web

To draw out the encapsulated vessels within

That would harbor ill will

That would sequester and allow to fester

The unnamed and unclaimed

Animosity within

That would trampoline forth when the moment arises

To steer our feet away from the karmic path

 

We must expand the mind, the awareness

To pluck out all these cells of derision, indifference and scorn

Expose them to the light

Wrestle them into the refracted gaze

Of universal consciousness

Of the eternal campaign of the watcher

To tether the indiscretions of the past

To evacuate the freight-train persona

Of the egoic mind

To jettison the surreptitious plans

Of the narcissistic hidden volition

That rests within the shadow night of the soul

 

To be ever vigilant, to evolve and grow

Until every breath we take, every step we take

Is undertaken without the potential for hidden

Corruption of the soul

To eliminate all the deceit within

To expose it all to the evaporating light of nirvana

So there is no other path to take

But one that leads us to peace

And loving kindness

The Mediterranean coast, the birthplace of the rest of the world that no one in the enclosed four walls of the Fertile Crescent had ever seen.

 

Was there an entrapment of the mind, an abdication of vessel searching for the planetary rod elongated?  Yes, the belief was that it circled around to fingertip touch the edges of the Iberian boundaries.  In accordance with the fragile longitudinal measurement of Ptolemy, who was right about so much else, this was a truncated vessel in which we lived.

 

The center of it was Jerusalem.  That was the lionized core of the material plane imaged by the Sanhedrin foreheads of the god that ruled everything below the heavens, some corporeal manifestation of a reflection of the earth where choir angels sang forever embolden by some Mithric discolonization of time.  The lord was above, we were below.  And the Fertile Crescent, the Levant, abrogated integration into slender tendrils to expand out 90% of the plundering girth of this corporeal plane.

 

The oceans were mere puddles within the breadth of the continental mass.  The Indian Ocean was a lake on the other side of the Fertile Crescent.  There was a recognition of land mass north of Viking lands, north of the British Isles.  So there must be a elliptical of granular wasteland below the teardrop envelopment of whatever continenta reach below the cusp of Northern Africa.

 

It was a circular spiraling pathway that devolved into a flat encrusted mass, locked stagnant into space, without movement, but encircled by the moon, the sun and the stars.

 

A cylindrical flat block with some density that sat aimlessly tethered to some vacuous place in space.  Hovered over by some incarnate representation of an infinite eternal heaven — was it also just a flat plane in space?   Presided over by a menacing god evolved from the fingertips of Jupiter and Zeus.

 

And it was from this regal place in space and time, wrapped up in the imagined plethora reach of the Fertile Crescent, that Henry the Navigator set forth vessels to explore the outer reaches of this imagined dense continental shelf.  It was Henry the Navigator, seated at the desk overlooking the Mediterranean Sea as it coalesced with the Atlantic Ocean at the southern tip of the Iberian peninsula, at the pointed toes of Portugal, in Sagres, who unleashed the fertile furrows of the imagination to fertilize and germinate the Fertile Crescent plains that reached outside the circumference of Jerusalem, jettisoned forth from the broad reach of the Levant.

 

It was Henry the Navigator, seated at the Atlantic threshold of Portugal, in Sagres, the cultural designation of finite awareness, who would open up the confines of the mind.  Metaphorically.  All of the Christian dogmatic evolved western culture conglomeration of some un-mystified mind would be cast despotically to the shores of the coast of Africa, as the Portuguese fishermen slowly moved across the edges of the dark continent to eventually encircle the coastal edge of the swirling waters of the Cape of Good Hope and discover that the Indian Ocean had no boundaries.

 

And it was from the perch of Henry the Navigator, even though he had unleashed the slave trade, even if he had passed away, that Vasco de Gama, Bartolomeu, Magellan, Columbus, Amerigo Vespucci would all jettison forth and open up the closed parameters of the clumping conglomeration of the mass of Jerusalem.  Sagres.  The emanation of discovery, casting down the walls of the sequestered mind to open up to all and everything beyond the caged unreality of the dogmatic Christian western mind.

 

By dissolving these parameters it was not only the earth that was opened up, but also the dogmatic Christian western mind.  Adding continents, oceans, native inhabitants, stars, planets, universal expansion, would lead away from the strictures of St. Augustine to the expansive prodding spider tendril mind of Nietzsche and all those who processed our fallow minds with the fertilization that released us all from the encaptured prison box of consciousness.  When the western planes were opened up, so was the western mind.

 

And was it Henry the Navigator?  In many ways it was.  Without his orders and directions, Portuguese fishermen may never have meandered beyond the upper shoulders of Africa, and we may still be sheltered in no knowledge of anything beyond candle lit tenement hovels of captured religious rigidity.

 

Open the vision. Open the mind. Open the soul.

In his mid-life, at the age of 50, Leo Tolstoy suffered a chaotic bout of depression that eventually led him to a rapturous embrace with the divine…”Thus I hang upon the boughs of life, knowing that the inevitable dragon of death is waiting to tear me, and I cannot comprehend why I am thus made a martyr”

 

 

Mechanical unawareness

Drawn into nothingness

This was the escape from sensibility

Try as he might

He was always just lingering on the other side

Away from the awareness of the self

Penetrating into avaristic greed

Into dark polarity

Where he could become a tenement vessel

For loneliness

Trapped into forever longing

Indifferent to the now

Encrusted in unwillingness to shine

At all, ever

Before he would plummet into the depths of madness

 

Torn away by the train whistle alarm

From his melancholic enrapturement

He would wearily drag his feet

Off the end of his bed

To begin a new cycle of authoritarian

Interaction

By the confused sense of a sociological rite

That he had been governed by

Daily

In his fraught loneliness to design

An effortless work of art

With his fingertips

Drawing out an egoic mind

Declaration of proletariat uprising

That was always lingering

Upon the edges of a

Well-constructed paradigm of class

Of trombone willingness to halt

The transition of the body

And instead just sever the soul

 

How long he had danced within the meandering borderline

Of palpable playground vibrations

Drawing him to the ilk and kin

Of what he believed to be the

Moral-less vacuum

Of every creature’s birth upon this ethereal plane

That had generously fallen short

Of sapien arousal into incarnate knowledge

 

How he longed to be the breath of the dog

Barking haphazardly at the skin of

Any organic vessel

That did not provide instant satisfaction

For temporal drives of momentary completion

Of every act of simple reintegration

Into what must come next

 

He had lingered pretentiously

At the core of the myopic vessel

By the chauvinism of his age

Unsullied by the mistreatment of misogyny

Ever awaiting all of the acclaim that was

Pulling up around him

To deliver him from the darkness

He had receded into

 

Was there ever a moment of escape that he could find?

Jealously seeking the disintegration

Of the animistic soul

From the replication of divine cosmic awareness

He would dig down into dog rot

Hoping never to recover back to a

Land of consciousness

That required any adherence

To mankind’s developed delineation

Of the right from the wrong

 

He had been methodically contemplating suicide

After every eight hour cycle

When he put pen to words

To recreate the mythology of castillian

Fraudulent socialism

 

Until one day, within the heart of hovering

So close to the edge of the well

Where a dragon tongue awaited for him to plummet

As the mice slowly picked apart

The limbs of the branch

That tenuously tethered him to the cistern wall

He had thought he was done tasting the honey

To his lips, to his tongue

He was not

 

It was here, at the edge, hovering

When he slowly released his clinging to the branch

And plummeted slowly into the graceful waterfall

Grasp of the divine

That billowed him up and saved him from

The dragon’s tongue

 

Engaged now in rapture

Excreted from the core

Of the belly of the spineless whale

He would begin to write

The words of freedom

That would transcendentalize everything

And unleash the prophet’s sword

To tunnel his way back

Into emancipation

There is an historical aftermath 

There is a rhetorical divide 

Of all and everything that has occurred before 

Every scene of every play that you have ever taken part in 

Was an egoic translocation to the despotic millstone

Stagnant pond depths  

That your feet have been fastened to now

 

There does not need to be a repetition 

There are patterns, of course there are patterns 

They are always looming without 

The oratorical refraction

Of the mind

 

Everything that has gone before

Yes you can allow it to refasten your feet

To the linear railroad tracks of your existence 

Or you can just cast aside every moment

Where the egoic exoskeleton 

Covered your soul in the fetid remains

Of past indiscretions

 

Yes there are patterns

Yes you have done wrong 

Yes you have followed directions that you never should have taken

Yes you have allowed everything that has transpired 

To dehinge you from the core

 

Yes there were patterns

Yes you have allowed the tertiary disfragmentation 

Of desire 

To disturb you from the path

To dismember you from the soul 

Yes there are past misdeeds

And now there are recriminations

 

You can allow all of it to cast an oceanic darkness 

Over every moment that you draw in breath

You can sit underneath the penumbra of the shadow of the past

And allow it to adhere you to what you believe must be your fate

 

But there is one realization you must come to

One fundamental truth you must recognize 

You are not who you were when you plastered on the skin

Measured integration into this material world 

 

Yes you plunged in

To become who you never were

Who you were never meant to be

 

You were in the process of evolution 

You were learning.  Not just who you are.

But who you are not.

You have engaged in scaling all the heights 

All of the vast inconsequential barriers

That have been placed before you

You have escalated the body and the mind 

To slowly draw yourself up and over

The verticality of your engagement in this material world 

To bring you to a place that you have arrived

 

But where you are, where you have arrived to

Where all of this escalation of illusory heights 

Has brought you to

Bears no location accuracy to the place where

The Self

Would truly reside

 

Yes there are patterns

Yes you have lived through them 

Yes you have allowed them to frame your feet

Within the place, the location 

Where you have found your material body to be planted in

 

But it is not here that you must remain 

And every pattern that you have established 

Through your connection to and engagement with 

This material world

Does not define who you truly are

And does not need to direct you to where you should

Allow yourself to be

 

Everything that has gone on before

Every misdirection of the soul

Every pattern you have allowed your external construct to establish 

Does not define who you are

Who the Self is

The Self has been sequestered 

And hidden from the truth

By the imprisonment of the egoic mind 

By charlatan establishment 

Of samskara armor 

By the ego waging battle 

In the samsara envelopment of the mind 

 

Yes there are patterns 

No they do not define who you truly are

 

No you do not need to allow your feet

To maintain discursive discourse 

With the sedentary rails 

That you have established by the action of the past

 

You are now arising from within

There is now an escalation of the Self

Discarding every lost soul pattern

Casting aside every samskara scar

Pasted onto the body by the egoic engagement

Into unnecessary material world immersion 

 

After all of this has fallen away

After you have reached acceptance 

That none of this defines you

After you have stepped outside of the egoic exoskeleton

After you have surrendered and released 

 

It is the Self that would arise

And cast aside the patterns of the past

They do not define you

 

It is the Self, the truth of the core of who you are

That would soar you into

The greatness of grace

 

The elocution of transformation 

The regeneration of the internal soul’s revival 

To who you always were

Casting aside the patterns 

They do not define you

 

Yes, you are who you are now

Release it all and then there would be nothing more 

That could tether you to the indiscretions of the past 

 

And with this celestial aura of freedom 

We will truly rise

Never fall 

And never return 

To the callous dissonance 

Of the patterns of the past 

Chaotic acceptance of transference is now taking place. Within and without. Interregnum warriors are daintily placing their swords on the ground, picking up their crosses, and making their way methodically to the inroads, the places small and insignificant, where they could allow all grief and suffering to expire, where they could release all anxiety for the sins of a warrior and the karmatic resonance of violent inclinations, where they could set it all down, and rest in the chaotic indifference of the moment.

The crystal peace

The transcendental resonance

The placards waving in the air

Announcing that this is a tenement hovel

Where only the corroded compatriots could rest.

All the rest of us pretending to rise above all this will have to wait our turn to suplicate, to give in to the bastions of truth that would reclaim our souls from this rotted wasteland, make us kneel down and beg forgiveness. Beg that this lot in life will end without egoic trepidation. Beg that this all will be released, like the sacrificial knight, begotten all, begrudging nothing, making his way to the gallow poles, willingly, having achieved emancipated deliverance, and walked away from all the angry clouds that would whiplash lightning out in medieval resonance to inject his armor with the simple, honest, inescapable truth of this moment.

We are all thieves. We have all been guilty of sodomite rape. We have played out egoic tendril limbs deep into the placated hearts that are open to us, that were allowing a spectral visit. We could not avoid being a deliverance vessel for the terror of the night without the somnambulatic breath of escape.

We could not help ourselves. Fate would grind us. Fate would turn the screws to break the bones and slather out the muscles, the corpuscles disengaging the body into invalid gravy. We have all melted away and turned to volcanic ash. We have become stacked tetragonal basalt monoliths. And now await the rhetorical evolution of the next yuga.

Deliver us from evil

Thine is the power, the glory

Thine is the devastating whip

That would upset and unsettle it all

Upstage the universal content

With the next transition to the gold and platinum night.

The Iron Age is over.

I would not weep for it.

I would only await the regeneration

Of all that is. All that ever was. All that ever could be. It will become nothingness. And then resurge once again into a grander day. With clean clothes to dress up the table. Where we would sit, in calm conversation, about welcoming to the door the next epithet of everything.

It is the flood of chaos 

Washing over like rain that will never stop

 

Was there ever a time when I

Was without fruitful words, inside

Voluptuous and anxious 

Extrapolating, wielding good grace for

Tempestuous tremors 

 

How far away was I ever

Drawn from the Bardo, the well of souls

Not far enough to not be able to reach back

And fill this vessel with some slim

Measure of solace 

But often did I ever reach back?

 

Was reaching back a comfort or complacency?

Was reaching back ever anything more than 

A disguised intention 

Working through the layers

Of never more than isolated understanding 

 

I have been a voluminous vessel 

I have been bred and ready

I have been distilled in anxious combat within 

I have been placed in orifices

From where there can be no turning back 

No remnants and remains 

No lost wasteland of dying dogs 

For me to find some place to bury

 

But it is now that all of these moments 

Have come upon me

They are rapturous in vision 

Disconsolate in texture 

Dead or dying in reticence

Lost or lonely in ever effort 

Clandestine hallows 

Descending in wrath

Penultimate in surrender 

Anxious denigration in conclusion 

A tidal wave of forgiveness with acceptance 

A wrought iron displacement with iconic wonderment 

 

Dying dogs are calling out 

Dying dogs are wrenching in sadness 

In discolored torment 

In isolated longing

In knowing that they are marked for the gravesite 

In knowing that there are tombstones 

To hover and enclose 

To demarcate but never

Annunciate

 

They are howling at my knees

Knowing that all of this will soon be over

Knowing that there will be an upliftment

An arising of souls

From beneath the tethered dirt of the earth 

 

There is continuous whispering

Drawing back the teeth from their gums

Knowing that there will come a time

When all of this has been lost from 

Its timepost of readiness

And there will be a steady relaxation 

Into nothingness beyond this sterile mask

That is asserting realism

That is accepting with pretentious livelihoods 

 

Of a life that meant nothing 

Without the fullness of the vessel within

When I look up now

I can see that the moon is rising 

I am searching for where to bury my dogs

They have passed away

And I am now burdened with carcasses 

 

I must accomplish dead with shovel 

Without ceremony or ritual 

And leave no targeted disposition for their remains 

 

Lifeness is never nothingness

It is not separation 

It is not evaporation 

It is only crawling slowly

Between the breath

To find the slim fissure 

Through which there would be an escape 

Back into the unwashed

Ravine 

Where all that we ever were

Is being collected, sorted through 

Into the next reentry 

To decorate the gateway 

With the ornamentation of medals 

Cast upon through deed and action

 

That is the place where we would collect and recover

Where we would find a place to bury our dogs

 

That is where I am seeking but not seeking 

I will invite it to come

I will allow it to claim

I will undress and walk away 

And discard everything that could ever remain 

 

This is the moment of recalcitrant reconnaissance

When we would recognize that we must not

Allow the aggressive tide to wash us over

And keep us from adherence to our path

Trod us all away

Into spectacular arisings

That would impede our circumnavigation

Into double helix ladder spiral circumference of peace

 

Is there a place

That is so unsettled by the uplift of joy

That we cannot see clearly enough to

Be able to decipher the aversive prohibitions

The longing

The lustful desires

From the moments of solid absorption and recognition

 

When we could see our way clearly

Through all the clinging hope

To be able to recognize

When the moment is right

For us to dive in and never be concerned

About the need to rise above the immersion

To reclaim some air

 

These are the haphazard moments of

Disconsolate wondering

Climbed over by the rambling of the mind

Lost in beatific haze

Of a fantastic moment of deliverance

That we had never expected to arise

That we had never expected

To dislodge our feet from the sequestered

Graveyard hovel

Quadratic meter crawl

 

We have been lifted up in salvation

From the quagmire of disconsolate complacency!

We have been invited, gleefully

To hover above the sledged-down space

Of reticent longing for spatial awareness change

But all of a sudden

Without any level of recognition of the slight

Dichotomy

We have now found ourselves on the other side

Where there was just disconsolate longing

 

We have now found ourselves

Floating rapturously above the

Infertile pit of loneliness

Where the soul has been bound down

By sequestered maniacal recognition

Into a place where there would

Never be peace and admiration for the moment

Where there would never be ease of

Being in transition

 

But all of this energetic hovering

Could gloss the mind, the heart, the soul over

As much as slave manacle plodding

Through an encumbered space

Of un-anointed duty and obligation

Of enslavement to the hardline obescience of

An indentured servant

 

The invigorance of the moment

Can lead back to pathological blindness

Unawareness of anything beyond

The egoic dislocation of the Self

 

It is all of this we must recognize

When the prana is engulfed by the shift

And we are newly energized life forms

There is still a time when we must

Drift downward into introspection

To recognize that the bellows

Are inflating the gondola balloon

And lifting us into space

Where oxygenation can be thin

And the vespers of air could be

Narrowing the veins of transfusion to the brain

 

It is this we must recognize

And not allow the waves to thrust us up against the rocks

And disembowel the soul

With the titanic wrath of

Egoic resurgence

Into the places

Where the divine was meant to be

To invigorate us into the steady gaze

Of seeing all that could be present

That should be present

Without deviation from the mean

Without dislodgement from the middle way

 

With recognition of the balancing of the plateau

Upon the fulcrum of deliverance