We all understand tomorrow. I’m goin’ somewhere. It’s not dishes. I find my boy, bring him home to me and do something bigger than life right there in my homegrown. It’a about my consciousness and its see. I arrive my boy first, giving him healing. This is a new brand we will get good at so it can be mass-produced.
I’m in enlightenment shares healing my boy, a spiritual consciousness override. They’re dealing with a mass showdown. Right now it’s all black. Not even a pinpoint of light gives hope. It’s all gone, the whole save my boy plan, and spiritual practice has fallen by the wayside. I’m merely drifting to no ends.
I count my stupidities now, where I am half-crazy in rants. I sound good on a piece of paper: I’m gonna see my boy; I’ll get that spiritual consciousness again; it’ll all work out. I talk to his parents like I have the power of God. His parents have the absolute power to rule his life. I just make them mad and guard him more. You’d think I’d learn by now my voices are deceiving me; my voices are derailing me.
You’re in trouble. You’re on a stage. Are you there with anything bigger than life? The world’s not gonna listen to you. Everyone ignores your pleas, and your knowledge don’t turn anybody’s head. You just sit there and sing. This is the gist of life. This is how almost everybody feels the world. It’s impotence sings.
I’m a diamond in the hall. I’m on top of everything. I really know my business, and I understand the rise of the world. I don’t spit there. I feel humanity like it’s my very self. I can see the cutting edge of time. Movements I see, world shaping movements, that give me a great yard. I’m of few people see them. Now I come back to myself again. I’m not the stupid guy.
I have reason to believe my boy’s comin’ back to me, and I will put on the Silence once again. It’s evidence I can get big as the world in tellin’; I can wrap the hours around God, and I can make you examine yourself in your hands on children. You sit there and believe me, some of you, because you hear the angels sing in this poet’s gut. I’m a strong one you know, and I hold up the world an Atlas unknown. I really do it, take the ideas that change the world and transmute them into verse, one rocket at a time.
You know I’m there because I love you in that special formula that makes you feel me in the very place we meet, in the intimacy of a poem that’s got handles on it that bring the world closer to you as God sees it, dangerously in love.
You must have some grace to journey this day. It’s the vulnerability of a poet I give it, just role of bein’ hallelujah. [line heard sung to tune of Leonard Cohen’s song “Hallelujah”] You doin’ okay?
That kid sees daddy God’s will. That kid never sees daddy again. His parents are evil saying that. Evil and horny, they market this child for themselves. This is bad business. They stomp on him every day. They can’t help themselves. It’s gleeful. They like making this boy suffer. The power surrounds them. They feel like Gods in his presence. They get off on his pain. They know he loves daddy, and they punish him for it, every single day.
They are beside themselves with hate— their child wants to be with daddy, and they know that. The terror they put through him to force him to keep his mouth shut, or to force him to lie, is what you do to your child when you’re monsters. He is so scared of them he has thoughts they will kill him, smother him in his sleep I’ve already told you in another poem. Can you imagine doing that to your child, being the terror of his life?
They revel in this, will not let him up, and the power they have over God, it’s where they find themselves stupid. God does not honor them or what they do. How God allows evil to take us for a ride, is everywhere apparent. You saw how long the Nazis rule, how long Islamic State cut people to pieces. Then God comes in, and evil forces are destroyed, like the Earth itself does it. You see it happen every day. Evil gets reckoned with.
Evil gets changed, can we show you the gist of this story? Nithish is not here to suffer so his parents can be punished for it. They will know what they did, and their love for their child will show them, what has been there a measure on the situation, keeping the beatings to a minimum, keeping the abuse from killing him. You know he thought of suicide. What this boy has done is shown what child abuse is when it’s not recognized as abuse, here in India where you can beat children and totally and absolutely control their lives, bend them to your will, even expect they worship you, and even adulthood does not find freedom.
Nithish has gone through this so you can see this. They’re not expecting art. They weren’t expecting mine. His parents aroused a poet to defend his boy, to help his boy, to save his boy, the likes of which you’ve never seen, have you? A power of poetry that gives God reign, that let’s Him do His business, you hear it now.
But we find another poet here, tender in years, his parents have tried to murder because they associate it with me. I opened up poet in him, and you’ve heard him sing. He has the future in his hands, a poet of prophecy, and he prophesied this abuse and his waylay in it. Read his poetry this can’t be denied.
Can we come to terms with Nithish? His future poetry writes a verse that will finally free children from being someone’s property, from having the status of slaves, not to buy and sell and trade, but to make them obey with no say in the matter, and to make them do their parents’ will regardless of the cost to the child, to make it as though the child was born for them, for the parents’ pleasure, for the parents’ rule, to obliterate the fact that a soul came down on this adventure Earth to work out its purposes in time. This slavery we need to see, and these slaves we need to free.
To abruptly stop his childhood in the slam shut of school, when he has a learning disability they do not address, they know but will not admit, will scar him for the rest of his life. It’s their thang with him, and they love it there. You’re meant to be crisscrossed. You’ve stolen the boy’s life, but you cannot see you’re wrong for the trees, the stupid people who back you up, the negligent police, the blatantly ignorant Child Welfare Committee, and a school that is so backward in education they let parents abuse their child and don’t even know what a learning disability is. They are ridiculously called New Modern Vidhya Mandir Higher Secondary School, and they’re not going to stop me from showing them to the public when all this is over. They need held accountable for this. I will see to that.
Interstellar from national backgrounds, I will show where Earth is wrong in school, school responsible for the shape we’re in, and school we need to change. Academics take a backseat to being human you colonial legacies fillin’ the Industrial Revolution’s need. Antiquated, outdated, and on steroids, it’s destroying our world. Beavis and Butt-Head are to help us through kids to their appointment in time, to their children now adults later, to the sting of childhood making us examine ourselves in roles as parents and teachers crammin’ adulthood down their throat, and they are yet but children. You very ignorant and narrow-minded, corncob stuck up your ass, uptight bunch of people, did you hear that?
Good, I’m weighin’ on yah now. Just wait till that boy regains his pen you stop shoving school down his throat and let his poet speak, his purpose on this God’s green earth you won’t allow cause you’re dim in the head and give his parents absolute rights. Just wait till he gets that pen again. Just wait. Nithish will give us the right ideas to parent children, and that is his future fate. That poet is among us now silenced, gagged. You think so? Let’s wait and see.
I’m a bleeding article from your last test, a hyper-hypotenuse. I say the line. It’s a dynamic field. We don’t get there soon. We don’t even see it for awhile. I hate to be the seeding can. I’m not celebrated in the streets. I can’t get my name across to change the world, but I tell you where God’s made, Mr. and Mrs. People.
God grows distant here. I am so tired of institutions. The institutions of marriage and family break our social fabric in adhesive bonds. We can’t get away from them. They test our social fabric with what can’t be named, a guttural possessiveness that puts us all in hordes. We tarry there eating each other alive. It’s needed for our ship, a family of parents that brings kids into the world. It’s not what we need to survive. It’s what we need to get rid of as the managing arm of society, as our social fabric dies.
We can’t raise kids that way: listen to me or die. My life you have made whole by your coming, and I will rub your nose in it all life long. You can’t be free from me where you go against my purpose for your life, my need you for my own ends. Society balks at this: give that child freedom to manage freedom. Why must he live his parents’ life? Why must she be the daughter of their destiny?
Why do we have to do this all the time: uphold the parents’ rights to determine the will of their child? Can you count this in terms of freedom? Step back parent and let your child play outside no rulers present, no supervisor gag models. Alarming this is on humanity’s plate: Big Brother rules the child just in everyday parenting.
The fear of outside unsupervised doors, sex resides there, doesn’t it? Your fear of sex rules the show. Your fear of sex rules everything. They get scared of their own front teeth we put sex trafficking models on them, a child molester behind every bush. They don’t know what it means to be normal with the fear the news media raises. Add that to their own possessive accounts, the parent that raise them, to guard that child at all costs from perceiving another parent in someone else, and you just explode at the seams with a child that can’t reckon itself, and they will grow up unable to handle society.
A new institution will make the new man. A small group of people family size will orchestrate the new human being. They still visit their families every damn week, maintain those close ties, but any kid that can relate a dream, old enough to, becomes part of a dream group their dream calls them to. This is a sadhana watch ladies and gentlemen, and a handful of people call its name. They are near the child’s home forming all the time.
It’s what society does now, spiritual growth. No clogs in the machine, children will grow up to change the world. A spiritualized society comes about from its own accord. It rises from the soul in things, and we almost see glimpses of it now. No government can put this in place, nobody that makes steps the criteria to get there, and no organization makin’ people do it.
I’m a sadhana watch ladies and gentlemen speaking its piece, and we’ve lost our youngest member to parental overreach, Nithish, a prototype of the new human being. His stuff is on the web for you to watch. His tale is told in these crawl spaces of his life. Jealous of the songs he was makin’, jealous of the music, his parents made a big mistake. They tried to take out his soul in great abusive waves that tore down his life. No reason for this except jealousy.
It’s heartrending. Their cruelty destroyed him, and he was left a nervous wreck scared they would smother him in his sleep. In such an environment he turned off the new human being. Betrayed by God, whom he adored, he stood helpless facing time a growing rage against the machine. Parental rights determined all, why I’m fighting for his life. You hear me now, don’t you?
I can’t do it anymore, just stand by and write poems. I’m a half today. The other half is his, and we make a whole of action. Finally, inevitably, we come together on freedom. Hear us Lord? It’s Your horse we ride the day we certainly dare, the day we certainly keep.
What is the reality of love? Also whisper. Facebook items, the key story homes. Nothing else taps it. I go through generations. Hear what was going on, my falsehood— I will stop him from going into silent night, silent ground.
But the graces of life protect me, and I look over it. I’m a field study. I’m an alpha nigger, higher than perfume. I get into cars, laptops and computers, and go the distance. I recharge my phone with the very ground of being.
I am so low I see high. Humility has me by the balls. I come upon sudden mastery. I’m not about to endanger your skies, and I have the formula for world change. We can’t brag about it. It’s hard on all of us. I just sit here and die in my tin can, and then all of a sudden I’m walkin’ the moon to its orbit. I have the sun in my eyes, and I don’t blink.
I know the power of the world. I am sure God’s there. I see Him on His rounds. I am commensurate with that on the top of myself at dawn. Nowhere in my being reaches that but there. It’s a knowledge I breathe that I can’t get out of, and I’m a little man doing little things as the day wears on. I don’t pride there.
I’m never alone. My inside is full of deity. You better be careful. I’m on the standin’ line of deity watchin’ the world, because I know They’re there. We need to open up and see this in each other. We are both stations of God, you and me reader. I die there sometimes the knowledge is so heavy, immense. I just stand and take it and come back to joy before long.
I know the knowledge that made the worlds, and it tears me apart, because the power does not come to me to change one single goddamn mind, to reach out and be seen, heard, to bring my child out of trouble, to even know the wind of the day. I am a barrel of monkeys to what it takes to perk up the world, and I have seen the world from God’s eyes, in a station beyond the universe right here intimate with man, a few glory-filled seconds, long enough to know the origin of all my lives, long enough to know that I am He, long enough to look up and see more.
You would not know what I’m talking about. It’s bigger than size and measure. It’s what the worlds was made. I can’t get away from that vision now. Oh how we but little grasp our day, little doings we try to put in big pots, but I know the pot you see. Can I study you the stars? They are wonderful in magic, are the Heavens we adore, but they do not bring us to God, and it’s God on Earth wore.
Can I tell you about history? Knock, knock, God is entering every room on the planet to happen here. This is inevitability rides the sun, and the years are carrying us there, one by one, evolution’s minutes wrote. Are you startled to see this? This is not a junk call. This is the hypotenuse of time, and high and lonely seers, we grasp this with our hands and spill the beans to you.
Are you sure you’re puttin’ me on hold? I have more to tell. I’m gettin’ down to bare bones now. I’m showing you creation’s ways, and I can see the world arise right in front of me. Awesome, ain’t it?
What do we do with it? We put it in its place. We don’t let it get away from us. We know that every day can work out the formula of impossibility and solve it. I’m referrin’ to us, where we love each other and why, and how do we make that love true? It’s the danger of the years, love’s high gamble in the face of certain death. We lose each other you see, and that just kills us. We hold our loved ones we hold death. How’s that for a keeper?
What brings the salvation before we cross that gap between love and death? A spiritual consciousness that’s bigger than us, and I’m sorry there’s no other remedy. Love hurts. Enlightenment’s wings unheed pain, and we do not suffer the pain of loss.
I’m there you see, in loss looking at the spiritual consciousness. I’ve put it on a time or two, short flashes that tell me know it’s there. It’s surety that rings it, sooner or later.
Now laugh at me, slap me, ignore me; I’m on ground-field Earth liftin’ up the sky. Shoot me; I’m a real thing, a genuine who done it, made the grass match the stars. Roll the planet down, and I’ll ride it like a speaker. Yah hear me kids?
This is what’s going on, and God opens His eyes. Tryin’ to interview Pitch Thought about his character, you gotta draw the line somewhere. Ode to the line, a good friend to you, I think your security blanket, and I’m a top down answer.
I had a momentary experience. It’s all written. I had a visionary experience of every local thing on Earth realizin’ dream to catch up with God, and you had just told me look bread. Oh, I didn’t realize it was me. Anyway, look bread.
This poem was posted on the private Facebook group Auroville International. If you have been following recent posts on this blog, I’ve chronicled how they’ve declined everything I’ve tried to post on that Facebook group, totaling nine posts. Now, do I erase all I’ve chronicled? No, I think this might be valuable to show what it means to be heard.
Many a short to a poem. They won’t do definition. They get Auroville working in its nitty-gritty. I’m a mountain boat. We’ve gotta come up with a freeway to blanket taxes. Are you on the hate side of reason? Does anybody get your goat? Would you like to see them punished?
I’m a round about can. You’re supposed to do this in your underwear. I’ll let them know they have my vote today, and I will drop all punishment lists and let them be there, on the star of human unity, and I will include them in the new human being. How can I ensure all this happens? I don’t require of them anything. I am just kind to them, whatever they’ve done, whoever they are.
If it’s really close to home, some dirt they’ve done, my gee that hurt I will tell them, but I’m not going to hate you in this conversation. I’m going to battle you with love. It’s my duty as an Aurovillian. Can’t you see the problem? Human unity cannot hate. It cannot exclude anyone from its acceptance speech, meaning you ignore no one, and all get your goodwill. Are we right on that?
That’s the holistic speaker. That’s how we bring human unity into the room and not just talk about it. You with me kids? I didn’t think so. I’m just teachin’ yah how to be human, and you refuse me. Are you still a mountain to my molehill?
Unconscious everybody take the city apart. It can’t stand from within. A foreign body of law then comes in and lords it over all of yah. Let’s get the goats out of the shed. She’s not gonna happen you have no more scapegoats. That’s a big horse you’re ridin’ Auroville, and you’ve achieved human unity.
What else is it but including everyone in the worth you give human being? You don’t have to take them to lunch. You don’t have to tie their shoe. You give them the time of day like you mean it. There’s nobody that gets excluded from this. Alright Aurovillian, measure up.
Now look behind you. I’m on your report card. I open to you a scientific altar ego, the scapegoat of the day where sexual sin meets the railroad tracks. Nailed on the Cross to suffer with Jesus I said this isn’t working. I can’t author you along. I can’t show you art. I can’t startle you with spiritual experience. World experience doesn’t impress you or the quality of my education Classical Greek and all that. Even that I’m a kind human being that cleans his own house and makes buttered bread for yah doesn’t move your feet. Tada! It’s a miracle my boy back this evenin’, and it wasn’t supposed to happen in a million years. That made me human to you.
Okay let’s go. We got so many who just need good faith to add to their humanity to make it work, or at least put try on the table. Come on let’s go brother, and let’s get goin’ sister. Made you human enough to look center stage, and that’s where we need to be blessed, oh people of Auroville.
That was an impossibility you threw away my opportunity that boy’s comin’ home. We’re going to do some work in other children’s bedrooms, and I’m just going one, one, one. Silly boys, eight girls, this tie your shoe. In the nominal, in the history of God, where will we hunch those things? I want you to lay down, and we’re gonna move through dream to spiritual experience. That’s my forte with kids, and I know how to do it, and I love it there. Not the shoes. A little open-minded— if I don’t touch a worry root, okay? Now let’s get God manifested on this Earth.
I don’t think it was specifically because of this poem, but Auroville International posted a poem of mine in their private Facebook group some days after I posted this poem to Facebook and here. I think it had to do with the quality of the poem they did post, maybe not in terms of poetic merit, but in terms of being sincere to the goal of Auroville International, which they seem to be. That poem is called “Prayin’ for the Hour of God” posted on this blog a few days after I posted this one.
photo by Nithish
Not one star Auroville International. These are the streets humanity is lost. Wow, could you say the Mother’s will is here? Fuck this assistant, is that what you say? I give my critique to the Sun. A poet’s basin it hears, and that’s how I write this poem. I’m a rose for my little boy, and I’m fighting for him here, S. Nithish. We make music together. Hear it?
Stop quivering old D, your fingers will look like the attention, and they are. Alright rebel, steal the show. I have my own blog to put it on, to make sure I can be heard. I guess you don’t have anything to worry about, and I’ve just processed you with the snake. Auroville International, here I leave my calling card you hateful organization hellbent on revenge, and that’s where we find your attention.
We’re all completely naked. All of you need to get off your thin horses and see this: that boy needs Donny. I feel like a fundamental character. I feel like a plot. These are ice to snow more shoes. We’re both realizing we’re here. Our mastermind sets people free. That’s the long and short of it. Now terrible channels go home. I’m about to go on the other side of the wall. You will see me there promptly. Then you can count grab ass and green cards, you holier than thou bunch of people, you people Auroville don’t need.
Just look at the character you endow with. You come upon the scene with the hatred of the machine, and you throw people away. Self-sacrifice to help your brother, go out on a limb to speak to him, you can’t find that in yah, because you’ve agreed among yourselves to hate and rob people of their right to exist and banish them from the land, and not even eternity can redeem them, oh you Christian bunch of people where your bones meet the land.
Stark naked I am in front of your mow me down, and I ride vulnerable and sweet to your execution where you ban art. I ride healing in the midst of your hate, and I’m here to stay. Are you gonna shoot me? There is no love in your ice machine, and that is pitiful and strange because you are the consideration of a city that seeks to grow new men and women who want to radically change the Earth into a paradise of brotherly love and hope that dares bring God into our human flesh and divinize the land.
You are that change, oh you normal people putting hate where God grows. Old system be gone, old ways, that punishes you an infantry of hate and ill will that has no means to grow the integration of society in healing’s ways. You destroy that too selfish and a pain to the officer of love.
See this and change or lose your raison d’être with us, the people on the groundwork of human unity, harvesting it into the hands of the city to realize this on Earth. Now take my sin and look at it again in light of the art I’ve given you. It’s the end of harm isn’t it? Paid for by penance and long years of learning the pain that I have caused. Can you grasp that? Goodbye. Auroville International will you answer your position?
When you meet people, it’s said to have a book confession. Don’t you like camera? There goes my hand in. Unlimited her tools, creation mother. I am really serious about my tea. I don’t pick up girls at happy bars. I’m bigger than that. No I live and learn. I too must lift the curtain of worn-mind. I can’t go overboard. I have to go to somewhere. I can’t get there too quickly.
We challenge each other, and you hear that basket in my house: my gravities have to be steady. I can’t pull the plug on reaction until I’m right where I need to see it. I’m pretty much a whole too. I see my desires. I’m not habituating them, and the sex chakra says no. Hang on, to the orgasm out the top of the head I am loyalty tower. I guess that’s way I rise behind this consciousness and enter the Silence again.
Astronaut, I am that astronaut torn the curtain between Nursemind and Supermind. Okay, if I get mad at you for up us in Elvis, I should just poet you shut up. Is Goofy’s rig not bad for sellin’? I’m at the end of my ferter of dynamite. You are all young. It’s a bit of closed up there. Can’t touch the Gods.
It’s not me didn’t see. That’s some awesome shit. I’m half-grown. Did you bring it one possible? Here it goes. Been there done that, I need you to do that, then study me some. Boy do I look different. Comin’ here’s comin’ here; I tried comin’ here for basketball, and it left me singin’ monster. I think you should just go inside.
He’s finished with the pencil, he’s ready for the expense. The world is not there with any street signs on it, how about that? Horse please, you can’t see the world as a substantial form. It’s a bare outline. You’ve lost the world right in front of you. It kinda gets me in my brother, and everything’s silent don’t you see you’re in the background noise?
Oh God it’s principle arrangement. There’s nothing in your pockets. You’re not tryin’ to get anything. There’s no motivation on your own. The world is just there, and your oyster’s not in it. You’re stunned. You’re taller than mankind. You’re deep in the Silence, and you come upon God ways.
We’re almost there. Just shimmy up that tree and stop field mouse. I’m breathin’ hard, but I’m right there at the gun a pageantry. Don’t throw me away. I know the business, and I put two and two together. My little boy’s the land rover that principles enlightenment. He’s got the starry list, and I’m in my union circle. Is no ants get to bar. He gets held and catered to, healed, and I reach the 5th dimension. I’m a bullpen for he comes home tomorra. I’m in the Silence come home. Enlightenment is it, a shoulder's worth.
I’m on the edge of time. I stand here and sing. I’m not about the braggart of time. I hold my voices down. I’m all the way down where you know me invisible. I did not carry this to my car. I banished it. I operated on you right where it hurt. I hit you in your social glasses. I tried to be free.
For all the noise I made a scarlet letter came down and banished me, but it’s not there where I pet my dogs and clean my house and cook for my best friend caring for him. I greet people like they’re the node of the day. I want them to know they are big in my eyes, just to help them ease the day to a better feeling for them. I hold knowledge in my hand, but I cannot shake their hand with it. It’s an alien spaceship, fairies in the wood. It’s who they are beyond time, and it is what I can see ails them. I turn the page and spew this out on a page to you, dear reader, where audience is as big a mystery as God. Do you hear me?
I see where the world’s going and how it ends, edging universes towards yah how the impossibilities of the one fulfill the other. Look at our goat today, but look at our supernal skies. I’ve painted myself wood of a lone seer in time. Silly me I bark too, and I cry for myself in moments of abandoned self-love. I hold in my hand the wrong sort of type, the wrong font for you to see reason, because it is way out your door. Can you gauge me?
I’m in your toilet bowl. I’m in your lunch pail, and I’m around your cookery at night. I get in bed with your children, and I’m in the love of your dogs. I take your glasses off to see society, and I break you down to see your soul. I’m a view of the vision of God, and I’m this little man next door. Hear me climb to the skies a poem rider, a poet mile, and I’ll get you one day, to get you to say hello world it’s me, and I love this poem. Don’t you see?
This poem also was declined by the private Facebook group Auroville International, and neither their admin nor anyone else from their organization will yet speak to me.
Image from Plate 14 of William Blake’s Jerusalem, 1804–1820 (public domain)
I hate the shoot up of this wad. If I use sexual imagery you’re bound to buy me. We are not at our survival, and there’s not a bear chasing us. You’re in your kitchen or master room, hanging on every word to get clear reasons to put me in jail or finally prove I’m wrong you public think.
Let’s unload this on the public floor. I don’t know what it is either. I’m hearing things write down, a used garbage pail to most of you cats. Chop me to pieces will yah? I’m on Earth today getting pretty desperate election time on that world bar America. Trump just got elected, and I’m sorry folks he’s dead. The vehicle would shoot everybody. We can’t have him in office, understand?
What’s gonna happen? You can’t get America right again. The Right will take over, and all the policies that will police yah, and religion will have a field day brewin’ public opinion Christianity stalks. We can’t even stop it only aware of our own agenda, not necessarily nice. The world will change. American mean in it. To grow up in the new country, to grow up in the United States, you will see foreigners as twisted sisters come here and buy all of yah.
What’s the inner being like? It’s your pick this evening, to bring that nightmare further: oh my God America’s change. It will really throw rights out the window. You can’t play anymore puddin’ and spice. Get fuckin’ outta here! Who knows how many crossword puzzles paid for breakfast, and they weren’t even supposed to be admitted in the news. I’ve been here my whole life, and I study reality. Never mind, they were makin’ I need paper towels, but this won’t happen: nobody mops up the spilled blood. They talk about more than fuck out.
I thought maybe you’d grab a horn and keep America from gettin’ in office where Trump runs it. It’s dire emergency. Get with the lesson plan: we need a new world, the divine human being getting ready on our tops, not the Bible said today, a religion in office.
Spider monkeys, somebody’s gonna have to put lead in their bullets, and do more than just chime, and vote them suckers down far out of thirty minutes, like a rollin’ pin. You need elections, this election, beat her up, go out there and get milk, from the Statue of Liberty. That’s not all she wrote.
My own show, it is very opening. (vision with the line of scrolling down my blog Harm's End, but the only image showing was one which illustrates a post, a photo of a Black man of about a 100 years ago holding a guitar, obviously an expert on it. The post is about my past life as a Black guitar player who was killed by the KKK, burned alive, for playing in White joints. The vision ended there and the scrolling down) Poetry as a means to communicate words of action is nobody’s pick me up. They suck. They tell the truth. I’m out of fields today, and I don’t know what more expression I can write, hallelujah, amen. Keep Trump out of office.
I’m actually a century before. I don’t know what they had in mind, the colony who populates divine word. Give ‘em an hallucinogen, the reader I can’t see. It heightens everything, even Auroville, but no I didn’t take one today, or since I became better at knocking on wood, years ago. I can’t stomach your audience. Is that Auroville? No I speak to America from, doggy style. Don’t get Trump in office.
Is this the Hallelujah Trail? No it’s not it’s language. I eat camera’s all the time, the one I told you about yesterday in your own cabin. In the history of Trump I stop wanderin’ around. These are the votes. I’m the vote that let’s you know divine will in the matter. Compared to our official engagement, even Saturday Night Live can’t keep up. This hole in the ground, this hole in the wall, has consequences I’m gettin’ away. Grandiose title, ain’t it, Thought About Rainbows? Try on Earth some more. You deserve them.
Jacob Wrestling with the Angel by Leon Bonnat (public domain)
You’re on live. You’re still switchbacks. Let’s see if I can find ‘im, wife beater. High on our side, you’re the premium. You prove the words. Put you in the dustbin. Where you think you are buddy? This is Afghanistan?
I’m gonna be sayin’ I’m really glad you’re here in the not too distant future. Agreed, don’t let him in. See you tomorrow. A new episode, Aimless By Elvis. We’re 9:30. Fresh took from the Mother they did not realize.
Higher law would you challenge? Listen to this bullshit. I like that medical. I like that emergency. Alongside I don’t wanna bother people. I don’t want to fucking bother people. So we pretend we’re okay. I’m the manager of a showcase word that’s totally unacceptable in society. No one listens to it, except a few who know what it means, because they write the stuff, or it’s in their hands to read.
The city of dawn don’t like it, won’t even give it the time of day, who it’s for where its record keeps. They don’t listen to it. They don’t want it. It’s a waste of time to write it. I look at the long of it, and help is on these pages I can’t get out to the public, understandings that would bring peace, revelations enlightenment.
I can heal, and I can just listen to sins. I sit here flabbergasted the world does not want to heal, and no one wants to face reality, and I’m reality’s keeper, the healer of old wounds. I can’t count this. I can’t see its shores. There’’s no end to the proud ignorance we all share. There’s no listenin’ to our faults. There is only straight ahead bullshitting ourselves we are honest and sincere, or just say fuck it screw everybody I want my MTV, a cultural allusion to I want whatever pleasure I can get to get lost in it, and some say really wanna hurt people and let that world end.
Where are we today? We can’t see ourselves. We are not there, honest to God trying to better ourselves, to make the world clean, to have a functioning society. We hate each other, and sometimes with good reason, but who thinks hate heals? It destroys our world. It’s a poison in your inner life goading your neighbor to sin, like pick up a gun and shoot people with it.
And here we are on the airways putting thoughts in people’s minds an unconscious contest. We are not ready for everybody thinks in the same pool of blood. We can’t see that, and it’s not a belief you fit into. Painstakingly over mountains of years, this comes up in dream and vision.
You see the inner connection interpreting dream symbols and see them manifesting in the outer world. You have to see it for yourself. It comes up again and again. This in itself would revolutionize society, make us kind to each other in the wheelbarrow of our try, make us join together as one people that holds humanity at stake.
You can’t see it if you’re a scientist studying dreams. Their field won’t allow it— too many rules, but take a choir and put it together, who sing their dreams to one another over many long years, and you will definitely see it in the songs that you sing, and you will change the world. God no, you won’t even get it to listen to it, and I’m comin’ from one choir. Hear me speak?
I don’t know what I’m lookin’ at. Check this out, there’s this guy on the radio crammin’ religion down our throats, the nut, magical thinker pattern picker-outer where they’re not there, magical thinking fool. We can’t get around this introducing consciousness into the picture in a world of material thinkers who bargain for the day.
AI speaks and everybody listens, or enough that endanger our world. Can I crawl this to you, an innate speaking system that spiritualizes mankind in great healing waves your own inner voice speaks? How God you have to be to get there, how many trials.
It heals humanity, like a rocket test. It won’t make the news because it’s individually run, a healing system on Earth, where the Earth loads itself all shame and everything, where we don’t want to see. This is the great test of healing’s ways.
You see the rulebook? I can’t get this across. So the city laughs at me you stupid little thing. Got no time for your poetry. We are too busy with our not see. Can I spell this out? Auroville created for great change, to create among its selves the new human being, based on oneness and I do care, that brings humanity to the mountaintops, is closed to it when it comes, laughs the poet off the pier, just wants him out of town.
Alright listen up. I’m here, and I’m not the new human being, but I got recipes children that’ll put this in our hands. There, there now no. I’m a fire speaker on your shores, and I continue with it now you know reluctantly all systems go.
Art in the nature of its see looks at us through tall glasses. We think we’re the audience. We propaganda time. Art, when it comes from its source, makes us move mountains to see ourselves, and therein lies its price.
It’s not beauty you’re looking at, or ugly turned inside out. You’re lookin’ at yourself in mirrors of our kind, so we can sit with it awhile and put the light on our lives. Can you find art today?
A little bit of Heaven is the maker’s bill we’ve lost in how it's made, inspiration’s golden ring. Would you throw this away because it wrestles with sin and vice, wrestles with the Gods to bring Auroville here to bring down God here on Earth unpunished Prometheus, ordered by the Gods no? You tell me.
Another poem declined by the private Facebook group Auroville International but approved and posted by the Facebook group Auroville, INDIA.
Harm's End 