sleep that long sleep

to let the head unwind

and stuff away

a galaxy

of unwanted thoughts—

I ask why they arise?

I am perplexed

as to how

anything

undesired

can force its way

through the great canal

of birthdom (birth-dom)

into being-ness—

there must be a fierce

power that propels

life forward,

else my aching brain

would not be burdened—

Or, maybe,

perhaps,

I have not yet expanded my perspective

to catch a glimpse

of a more complex design

which

burden

simply falls within—

like a feather

resting upon a cloud

within the infinite expanse of sky—

it's mine to ponder,

but what can I do

to send burden on it's way?

far off mountain top
with far off dreams
and far off visions
of worlds
the human mind
can only see
with eyes closed—
in complete and utter
peaceful empty tranquil trance—
yes, the worlds are coming
mmmhmmm graceful
from beyond the clouds
where there is no sky
only a half moon rising
in blazing sun
to kiss the stars

every single thing
and I mean every particle down to the last drop
quivers
around us—
like the ripples in a pond
where a rock is thrown
or
like
the ringing
and reverberation created
after a piano key is struck—
except,
a rock does not need to be thrown
nor a musical instrument hit,
because there are hidden ripples
and an invisible reality of sound
constantly
extending out
as psychokinetic vibrations
from
even the things you would least suspect—
so, if you
are one of the few chosen
to be more attuned to these tremors
than others,
treasure the gift
and protect your own uniqueness
at all costs—
never get sucked down
by primitive intentions
for you must endure
you MUST endure and safeguard the forces
that drive
evolutionary complexity
forward—
the saving grace
of this beautiful world

once a day
upon awakening
we feel invincible
when the sun rises
and for a brief lapse
in the ego-dominated mind's eye
we are lulled into eternity
because we have not yet been presented with an occasion
to be pulled down
by the world of ten-thousand things—
the hope is,
the goal is,
that we can remember that feeling
of how close we felt to God
when we first opened our eyes
and have such inspiration
innervate
the entirety
of our daylight hours—
so when the sun sets
and we question
our own mortality
it will be a simple thought
that is laughed off
on our way
to sleep

i don't believe in death—
i don't believe there is ever an end—
your soul
is in your keeping
alone—
so remember
that even when those dark forces
in power
seek to sway you
by
insisting
that you can only live
if you can be perceived,
just look to your heart
and know
that your capacity
to live on
is boundless—
this is why
i gaze towards the sun,
fervidly,
because I know
that i will be there
someday

the only reason something becomes lost
is because
the someone who does the losing
feels
'I own that'
which is why
nothing is ever lost—
there is only the recycling of what is
so that it may be used again
in another way—
you cannot own
a piece of dirt
anymore
than the sky
can claim
a drop
of rain—
for all of life 
is a complex medium of repurposed matter
so
you must come to see
that when what you 'have'
is gone
it
has found another home
in another place
again

we all have our troubles

but if you think that yours

are any harder

or more noble

than anyone else's 

sadly

you are mistaken—

so let go

of trying to place

your variety of suffering

within the context

of the Great Story,

and focus your energy

deciding upon

the lesson to be found

because

that is the journey

and that is

the joy

I sit in silence and contemplate the stars
The day is spent chopping wood
And gathering water from the nearby
stream
To drink
I have visions of loveliness
And a happy life

What is a poem?

a poem is just an arbitrary
arrangement of words,
that happens to have meaning,
which negates its randomness,
because there is no meaning
that occurs
by accident—
and for this reason,
there is no folding up of a poem
into your pocket,
just the admiring of Order
in a random moment
when things come together
and you can sigh ahhh

Let The Light In

the trees can only breathe when the sun can shine
the earth only spins because of empty space
gravity only exists when there is relativity
disease emerges if sickness is ignored
wisdom evolves out of suffering
pain is a perception
freedom is always there
negativity is not healthy
profanity is easy language and the easy way out
beauty will never dissolve
music is the outward manifestation of the beating heart
sound is a function of the senses and can be lost
words are sacred
pride is the opposite of courage
fear is the flip side of productivity
protect the oceans
preserve the forests
treasure the mountains
love yourself
love the world
wake the fuck up
contradictions are inevitable because they are one in the same
history repeats itself and you will find yourself full circle
don't make the same mistake twice
sayings can be witty and mindless
don't be mindless
the richness of life is for the mindful
travel is not obligitory but kindness is
superstitions are patterns of anxiety bundled into a moment
troubles come and go
give everything away
materialism is a concept developed for exploitation
you own absolutely nothing
there is only light
let it in
there is only light
let it in 

Bright Lights, Big City

The bright yellow glow of a city at night
sitting up
like a luminous, artificial cloud
hovering—
its noise
drifting off to a place no one knows,
or can name
'cause it can't be placed
or have a finger put down upon it—
but still it's there
the city
glowing
and still it's gonna dance—
yet somehow
there's no explaining
why it draws us in

The Dogma of a Warrior

My art is FORGIVENESS

My religion is EMPTINESS

My practice is BLISS

My food is INSPIRATION

My vision is UNITY

My intention is PEACE

My strength is FLEXIBILITY

My faith is BELIEF

My medicine is LOVE

My passion is TRUTH

My guide is INTUITION

My quest is MEANING

My shield is COURAGE

My destiny is BEAUTIFUL

My life is a BLESSING

for I Am a Warrior

and you are too.

The Annihilation of Self

The annihilation of self

is only

an intellectual process

insofar as that self can be carried

by a consciousness.

But,

a consciousness has limits,

and once we understand

that as long as we carry

a self

around

in our pocket,

it will never expand,

or develop,

or charge that cosmic gap

where our true nature is revealed

and our consciousness remembers

its place amongst

all of life.

Once fully awakened,

the self  becomes universal,

and once again contributes

to the evolutionary force

which motivated a self

to become one
with Truth.

Morning Meditation

I open myself up
breathing
deeply,
with eyes a-closed,
feet a-fixed
firmly on the ground,
barefooted,
feeling the earth beneath my feet,
while silently
reciting
a prayer for the Great Mother.
Soon enough
the mind sits still,
while the soul
goes a-floating
like a cloud
across
the great expanse of sky

I find myself struck
more and more frequently
by spontaneous fits
of laughter—
consumed by the sole thought
that life is a miracle
and it is beautiful
to be alive

Deep down

if you are ever wondering

about something grand,

if some astonishing energy

is bursting at the seems to meet you,

if there is some great calling

within you

and

there is no explaining why

it’s choking—

turn the mind inside out

so its electricity is dispersed

and can light up the surrounding sphere—

just as a leap of faith

often

precedes trust,

only when you fully let go

and fully surrender

can

such an act

render

you
multi-dimensional

It's up to you
to decide
upon
the person
you will become—
and, no matter the decision
you make
about
the integrity
of your character—
out there,
amongst the stars,
your destiny
is patiently awaiting
your choice
so that
it can
change
the world

The Desert Chrysalsis

Love
is transformative,
a variety of medicine
that tempers
the hard-rigid
outer layer
of soul
by perforating
greatly
the dispensable
guide
of self
until
those higher vibrations within
are engaged and developed
and brought forth
with a new
and refined
integrity—
an ecdysis of sorts—
and whether given
or received
love remains delicate,
like the wings
of a butterfly
at the tail end
of an epic migration,
yet
forceful enough
to pull
the heart
towards
divine proclivities,
as the moon
pulls the tides
and shapes the world
naturally

Gratefulness

Gratefulness is a word
that expands the mind
to the unlimited possibilities

of heart-astounding wonder,
that provides an escape
from the prison
of suffering
created

by the mind
to contain itself.
Except,
gratefulness is not just a word;
it is a feeling
that can dissolve
the ceiling
of limitation
and reveal
a cosmic world
of everlasting peace
and beauty
and
mindfulness.
Gratefulness if like a flower,
a sweet
and delicate
teardrop of the sky
waiting
to bloom for you
and nourish
that pocket
of your soul
searching
for honey.

First Snow

When the first snow of the year finally hits,

a wonderful silence permeates the air.

It dampens

the profound echoing of the buddha

mountains,

and the singing of the trees,

leaving only the wind to howl as it howls and barks

through the groaning canyons of antiquity.

It's this same dampening

coming to me

when the eyes are closed,

when the rhythm of the breath and my beating heart

sweep me away

in a holy trance.

The same charging silence.

The same

perfectly choreographed thoughtlessness

springing forth from the void.

Healing all the loneliness

the hopelessness-

erasing any sickness of the mind.

It hits you for a moment.

And when fading,

you realize: "It is coming.

So I don't have to wait

for it

any more."

One Rock Dharma

A Moment of Inspiration

The sun never sets on a September sky
It just keeps blazing
With that white golden light of eternity
And it dangles from pursed lips
Like the ember at the end of a cigarette
Waiting
Out
That slippery slope
Of inspiration and its translation
Into something communicable
That delicate balance of panic and patience
Not all of us have it
Some of us wish for it
Some of us let it fade away
That precise moment of clarity
When the sun hits the lips
And the world is speaking
Of a beautiful creature
That never dies

War

War- in its cruelest form

gifts a man with conflict

so that he knows

the horror of darkness

and can make a promise

after the war has been seen through

to retire to a quiet place

where the birds can sing

and the sweet smell of spring flowers

can draft through the house

on warm, sunny afternoons—

but he never forgets

that festering whore of war

where the soul is lost

and mankind sees their most dreadful days—

except in the most extraordinary of ways

war is the only way

a man can know peace

truly

in his heart

after living the loss of it,

and with absolute resolve

commit

to hold peace close

and never let

it be pillaged
again

Revival

There is a droplet of the universe

descending from the heavens—

A clear, luminescent bulb

of an electric orb—

Pulsing.

Beating.

I see its colors,

spreading out like veins

as it pulsates—

An image in my mind

of a cell

with infinite dendrites

all connected together,

all interconnected together—

the variegate web—

I see it coming

down,

to stroke my cheek—

the sweet shocking clip of a raindrop

on the jowl

it touches

and then is gone—

But I can’t stop thinking

about the fantasy
of it becoming me

Sun and Bugs

SUN AND BUGS

So many a-bugs congregate beneath the lights of street lamps

Believing it to be their sun

Little do they know, that another

Rests 10 feet away

With a separate population

But all the street lights shine brilliantly

Beneath a vibrant half moon

Illuminating the sky

And all bugs that reside beneath each street lamp

Are in love with the same bright light

That lies within an even greater light, the moon

And that, to me, is God

The lighting of street lamps

And the shining of the moon

And it all exists so perfectly together

Without any streetlight having anything to do with the moon

And any bug interfering with the light except to bask in it

Because the unity underlying all life

Is that we all seek to bask in the light

With out ever really knowing

Whether or not the same light

Rests 10 feet away

Themes

The Infinite

Nature of Light

Everything is Cyclical

There is a particular aspect of poetry that should, in the words of John Keats, “soothe and embolden the soul to accept mystery.”  Poetry doesn’t always fill in every gap or make plain the story being told; much is open to interpretation.  Sometimes the power of a poem evolves out of its mystery, much like music, which would not exist without its counterpart— silence.

I’m talking about bugs but I’m not really talking about bugs.  The reference is there to start you out on a microcosmic level before expanding out and referencing the infinite.  A population of bugs beneath a street lamp may seem as a world unto itself.  But a population of bugs is intricately intertwined with countless other populations, some of which are servants to, perhaps, a more illustrious source of light.

The streetlamps are there to accredit a specific method, approach, or design to worship God.  And although that naked truth is not directly stated, the allusion is to that of light— bringer of the divine, an envoy of awakening.  The streetlamp is not divinity itself, but a conduit for divinity.  As an example, organized religions are mediums for worship.  Muslims may have a specific text to pay homage to, or have daily practices, all of which honor and glorify their interpretation of what is right and what should be exalted.  And those practices and those texts may be very different for the Buddhist man who spends hours a day meditating or a Catholic woman who speaks with a priest to atone for her sins.  But each and every one of those spiritual trajectories are magnificent in that they find beauty in the divine and purpose for it— divinity elevates the mundane and considers every process towards its discovery as sacred.  In this respect, those who worship divinity all worship the same essence, which is why I say: “all bugs that reside beneath each street lamp are in love with the same bright light.”

The moon is there to play the part of a greater force, again suggesting the possibility of infinite layers of worship and indeterminable confines for divinity.  And how do we know whether or not we are like bugs to a streetlamp, admiring what we refer to as our sun?  There is no way to know, and that is the mystery.  But isn’t it beautiful?  Isn’t it transcendent?

So if we are all in love with the same bright light, it should all exist so perfectly together.  Without any streetlamp having anything to do with the moon.  And no bug interfering with the light except to bask in it.