Stop trying to send it, the right posture. I’m a dog. I can’t handle this. I just know I’m sick. I don’t know what to do with you. You are too big for me, and I am so out of place I look for you.
What is the background ruler? You’re in my consciousness a healing element all the time. You have your episodes. You’re trying to heal me. You see my pain. I don’t know what to do about it. Not being able to tell my mother that you are good for me is my special cowardness.
She doesn’t understand. She could care less what you feel. Her hatred is so intense it scares me, and why did it suddenly come? She’s not the right person for it, remove you from the scene. She can’t even do it. Okay do I need you?
You are my living defense, no matter what I do to you. You have love in the places I hurt you. Why can’t I do that? Do you know that I’ve thrown you out in the street? I do not place my hand on phone calls. I am through you with you, finished, but I don’t know how to do that. You’re so alive in me. You’re so there.
What do I do about you? I keep asking that question. You are so there for me I can hardly believe it. You can call yourself love.
A fine touch on that consciousness I have started your hand. You will bring him back to you shortly. He loves you so very much. I understand your misgivings about Us. We must seem horrible, and you don’t know the reasons for things, and you don’t know how to tell the muse. It just runs with things and gives them pass. Your hopes and fears are a coloring sensation.
Now what’ve We done here? How have We surrounded you with Nithish? You will greet him you will see him you will be with him in some short meeting on the way. This has got you down because it hasn’t happened and looks like it never will. You think this present attempt has failed, and you’ve started your hunger strike by announcing it on the news, not yet though in your arms.
You’re sure right about one thing: We’ve messed up with Nithish. We don’t know how to lift him. We don’t know how to care for him. There is too much in the way. We don’t work directly on people. We send them influences, suggestions. We don’t make them act. We can do nothing with this boy. He does not field Us. He is too scared and alone, and he won’t listen to you.
That’s texture, and he needs your paste creamy and smooth, like you gave in the lucid dream where you held him so tenderly. Every chance you’ve had with him, you’ve messed it up. You are in the same shape he’s in, unable to handle things, a filibuster, and Sandiya revels in this, like you’ve suddenly lost your mind: “See there! See there!” Is that what the boy thinks? He knows you’re dad. You’re not given any slack. Every mistake you make is exploited for political gain, and it’s not fair.
We’re tryin’ to arrange a room where you and the boy can meet, and there’s no one there yellin’ at yah or tellin’ him what to say. That’s Our next move. Please be patient with Us, as we take these world forces and put them together. They may not work.
This is terrible sweetheart, and I know it, but We’re lendin’ a helpin’ hand. Can you come with Me I’m sorry? You just want the boy in your arms, and we’ve got to get back to a sadhana room. You got so close last time, so very close.
Sit Bruno.
Sit media.
People are searching.
The official account sucks,
and all the fringe theories comply.
There you are with question tape.
Are you a fringe theorist too,
no different than all the rest?
You’re media worthy.
No one can deny that.
You’re not a division conspiracy.
You promote unity.
You give answers to burning questions
in the literature of true mysticism.
There is no fake in your account.
You weigh on things,
go deep into matters,
expose the core.
That’s not valueless.
If you’re gonna trust someone,
tell me why that wouldn’t be you?
You know how to speak the truth.
You just protect yourself.
You will land a lot of votes one day.
Big deal you say.
You’re in the thick of it now,
feeling like a fool.
I don’t want any of those kitchen parts.
I elevate mass shooting to lie.
We hear from the conspiracy keepers.
I think the mainstream media has a fact sheet,
and they got it all wrong.
It’s not individuals with guns;
it’s the whole damn society,
and we listen to man.
We listen to man explains.
Honey a higher power called.
It’s on alert.
That poet explains.
He was a link sunk because he was honorable to my heart.
Trapped in this animal explains.
This is not a localized crime.
A thief in the night has come.
He’s carried away your children
in body bags.
Now let’s control this demon.
You think it’s a hack job,
some guy alone in his underwear
just does everybody in.
We can’t lift our feet from this.
It is so in our face.
What do we do about it?
Study the phenomenon in aftermath.
We look at individual responsibility and gun ownership.
No one sees the ticket.
It’s a hate crime.
Hate is all over the place.
It’s gotten in our underwear.
We pick it up and shoot people with it.
Hate kills.
Hate is ever present among us.
It’s difficult to follow.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
That has come from an inner leaping.
We share consciousness in shares.
Ideas and memes flow between us
and the feelings we all share.
Pick up that gun and shoot it,
this is inner wear.
A thought has come
from the crowd.
It’s packaged hate.
Everybody’s doing it.
The inside thought process,
people hate each other.
Now this is the remote.
The lone gunman’s a brand.
He has all the right equipment
to pick up our hate and kill the crowd.
He was raised that way.
This happens everyday
it’s so big.
A suicide vest determines it
in other countries,
or a car murder weapon,
a knife or an axe.
It’s the same phenomenon.
We all do it.
Why?
We’ve picked up the virus:
we’re hating each other in our thoughts,
and we imagine violence,
play that in our mind.
Don’t call it a mass shooting.
We handle our brains,
punching people,
tellin’ them off.
Imagining more calamities
an exercise.
Well just do your neighbor in
if he offends you.
We box his ears;
we just send her packing,
all in a mind’s eye.
And there it goes,
straight to that rifle,
and a lone gunman
branded, look:
he carries everybody’s hate.
How do we profit from this?
Let’s go back to rooster crowing at dawn.
You just put down that gun,
that rifle,
give good imaginings to people
in your feeling thoughts.
I know what you’re saying.
I can’t get it in.
There’s a whistleblower.
It’s this specific hate you feel in a crowd.
Somebody’s hurt you
or your family,
or you see them on the world stage doing that.
They’ve done wrong and need to be punished,
even if it’s just offended you
by calling you names
or putting you down,
undermining your position.
You want them to pay for what they have done.
Can we see this is epidemic now?
Oh yeah,
cancel everything
to do with gun control.
It’s a family weapon.
We need it to shoot intruders,
protect ourselves from the vice.
We won’t let you in.
We imagine horrible things
in any commotion you make.
We use guns in our minds
to straighten people out.
Are you a gun owner?
Ever done that:
they just need to be shot?
Is that a meme?
It’s comin’ tomorrow
we control our guns
much better than we do now.
A daily gun,
systemic hate,
we take this around and show it to people,
all over the place.
We unfold as humans,
learn more about our stuff,
the inner side of relations,
and become more kind to everyone,
where it really counts,
in our minds.
I’m yesterday.
Nobody knows it’s there,
but I have to tell you about it anyway
and be not listened to.
Ladies and gentlemen,
it’s got our progress,
the poetry I share online.
You’re dismissed.
You hear the voices, don’t you?
an illustration by Margaret C. Cook for a 1913 addition of Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass
A poem by Donny Lee Duke
He did.
He figured it out.
You haven’t seen it.
Oh my God no one has even read it.
What is your name?
A holistic reader.
There’s a lot of censorship
of the ideas that make the world.
The world ran out of culture.
It couldn’t see itself.
It didn’t care.
It couldn’t come up with itself.
It just stayed where it was.
It didn’t know where it was.
It had no means for improvement.
It was small and intimate.
It was huge and dim.
It didn’t know where to begin.
It’s stomped on itself.
It raced ahead.
It lagged behind.
It wore horns no one could grasp.
We sit here and stare at it today,
just confused by what we see.
This was self-taught,
how we reach out and touch the world.
It didn’t come in the papers.
It wasn’t on the Internet.
No course in university taught it.
No book could grasp the whole.
It wasn’t in speech.
You couldn’t find it anywhere.
Everybody was afraid of it.
They thought it would bite them.
How to reach out and touch the whole
came from inner experience.
It was deeper than the world.
It really tested your boundaries,
and you had no choice but to surrender to its process.
It had your very being at heart.
It schooled you,
showed the inside of everything.
You never saw it completely.
You just handled it with care.
It would eat you alive
if you affronted its mission.
You understood it was a Larger you.
You saw it dream
a nation of particulars.
It gave you vision,
spoke to you with the inner voice.
You held it close to you
and processed its thought
into the unknown.
Great the days lay
the seat-point of vision.
You just studied reality
absolved in yourself.
You had no way to communicate this to men,
wherever you came from.
No poem would read it,
no prose spell it out.
The visual arts could not express it,
no drama act it out,
no dance routine show it,
even in its living room.
It was beyond itself.
If you got life that need a poet,
I’m your subject right here.
Now go floss
with the rest of that form.
You’ve left something incomplete.
If I just listen,
I’d find it out numbers me.
I’ve encountered a different verse.
Its form is amplified by common speech.
There is the line.
Give me back my lunch;
I can do nothing with the way it works.
See there
you’ve been taken in.
Now tell me I’m a Great Lake I’m ready to play.
Now tell me I was murdered.
You know I just heard the news and wrote it down.
I’m a five star hotel,
and I’ve got the muse
in poetry form.
I mean inner voices speak.
It’s the divine muse of poetry.
How raw and off the cuff.
It has every name involved.
It won’t leave you alone.
Now say I’m silly
understanding prose.
All is said
to top off the mountain,
to be a governor unto itself,
to let you fly in the word.
How could that be?
I don’t think I got all freaked out about it
as grey mountain.
The poetry of redemption lands here,
the upper money.
I will just let you fuck me,
give in.
I’m about to be homeless.
That death I was telling you about,
they take my sky away from me.
The ground of silence eats me up.
I become a Silent Mind.
Realization proves my calling.
There’s nothing else
to realize:
we’re in love
with the whole thing,
each business and everybody.
We grok this.
It’s standin’ on your shoe.
Great the papers play
in the immediate seat of your room.
Welcome to the lost word.
That’s the sound of silence,
a preface to Enlightenment.
A shortcut,
I can write it down.
What else
can we do?
Headphones surround—
you’re hearin’ the interior music.
You’ve opened up that wide.
Wrap up some milk
left you some poetry.
This is your ticket.
For you it would be nice
right here:
the grinding of the dog.
I’m a farmer.
This is my business.
I keep business spoken.
Pinecones have left to a civilization.
What are you guys?
TikTok
describin’ the universe,
time of missed a keyframe
and causality.
Whether you want to or not,
the movie echo system.
You said what?
Reality in this page.
I’m gonna listen to yah.
Good mornin’.
I’ll loosen poetry I’ll listen.
Find that way offshore.
But Enlightenment seeks.
Ask her about the whole thing.
Did you tell ‘im you’ll take the horses,
make that your team?
Not that saying but keep
outside science,
and never cry wolf.
Read my full exposed.
My hands are tied.
Make me feel better.
Make me feel so much better.
We’re in this cut;
at least our voices aren’t.
He actually science.
Cosmopolitan
I understood it,
no doubt.
He’s right in front of me.
I could sing up here for hours.
I have everything I need to start the revolution.
I’m a purpose.
I want a bigger world.
You can keep me out as long as you can.
I’m not gonna die.
I’m gonna change consciousness.
Look me over.
I’m real.
I am so very real.
You can’t get around me.
It’s reality I’m showin’ you,
all holistically laid out.
You can dance all you want.
Reality’s not goin’ anywhere.
It’s on the way to you,
even if you don’t want it.
Reality’s comin’ for you.
Hold your head up high and embrace it.
A poem with your name on it Marginalian.
Poetry works
I can’t ignore.
She’s busy,
clean up what happened:
showed herself a calloused human being,
with no feelings at all
for the man everybody hates.
There is no Whole behind the whole—
she shows you what that does to you
when you believe that.
You don’t have to love everybody,
and you can pick and choose.
You don’t even have to treat them human.
Your ethics just come from ground zero,
and you make ‘em up on the spot.
Okay Riviera,
let’s see you explore your consciousness.
Can you do that?
Wow, have you blocked things.
You will not be happy with yourself
on the other side.
Maria Popova,
live up to your ideals,
and that intelligence of yours,
taking it
to some encounter on the inside
you see the whole,
you see it all means somethin’.
Put your finger on it,
and let us hear your own source material.
Has the jacket,
a lonely packet,
of quoting the right material.
That’s starfish.
It says more than what you want it to say.
Okay I’m outta here.
I have to let you everything,
be a work in progress
understand human.
I’m reminding myself
of what I’ve been taught.
You can have this.
It’s a seer’s wisdom.
Handle it with care.
They were talking about
y’all are choosing the apartment
you’re gonna let this seer in.
I’ve reached out to so many people
over the years.
A big no they wouldn’t even tell me,
usually.
They just read me and tossed me aside.
Put up his banner,
that’s where we go.
Who stole the cones?
You know it’s not coming.
You’re here for the Rachel Carson.
Write someone back.
You never had more powerful that was the end of the game.
One of the ones that let me in,
that touched my soul,
profound mailbox.
I came homeless
year after year after year.
We’re good.
We don’t understand your concept,
the jolt in the room.
Let’s keep busy
so we don’t have to reply.
Is this license
to just take the trouble to ignore someone?
Seldom I got a reply.
The root task
and how profound it is.
It’s indeed the world.
It’s indeed larger than the universe.
I can’t carve this out for you.
I can only sing.
I don’t know the Rumpelstiltskin of your life’s work.
Your struggles are a Banyan tree to me.
See the consciousness there?
It has handles on it.
Study books and thought process,
I don’t think you’ll arrive at the explanation of the universe.
Can we hold a tree?
What do we do with time?
How do we say the world to ourselves?
Do you hear the inner speech?
It’s spoken softly in so many inner ears.
You’re readin’ it.
It’s what you hold in your hands
in an ancient text of wisdom.
Not everyone has the fire.
Not everyone can read the text right.
And we’ve come back to your story:
not everyone has the inner fire,
though they long to see the universe as it is,
though they long to be more than what they are.
Can you grasp this?
You light it that way:
the object of your romance with time
the inner fire
to see the Invisible.
I think you’ve accredited universities with this task.
I think you’ve stopped at representations.
I think you’ve stopped at outer process.
Hidden meaning.
Self-doubt see
in your own blue pen.
Who am I cooking?
Jessica Frazier
the academic.
Have a little
finger pointing in your own direction.
The TVS fixed.
It was incredibly difficult.
Why do you believe in miracles?
I’m standing one.
You hear my measurements?
The boy in the yard.
Bigger then reality
I have not made them.
For years I’ve been sending emails to scientists and academics, or I’ve commented on a tweet of theirs, usually with links to something I’ve written involving inner exploration. Less than a handful of times have I gotten a reply, and when I have it’s just to express thanks for reading them, not to engage me over the importance of such experience. This is the latest example of such an email. If you’ve been reading my latest poems, I’m trying to show where we fail as a world. Here, it was not from reasons of moral outrage, but it was one of the titanic: the best minds aren’t. It was from an ‘expert’, i.e., a person influencing world opinion on an official level, in this case a person assigning meaning to the world, not listening to someone trying to get their attention, someone who just might have something valuable to add to the conversation. Click on the link at the end of the email, read the article, and tell me that’s just not possible.
[Subject of email] “Communicating with someone, and learning what they have to teach us…
learning to adapt our view to the information they give.” From your YouTube video Gadamer. Hello, I’ve just read your article in Psyche“Ancient Indian texts reveal the liberating power of metaphysics”. I’d like to get to the heart of the matter as quickly as possible please. “We can do something extraordinary: our mental parts can climb out of the window of the body, and up into the higher levels of reality.” What a wonderful statement worded so well, but are you speaking literally of actual hands on spiritual experience, or are you talking about using your imagination and having high thoughts? I think it’s the latter, and it’s precisely here your article doesn’t capture truth, that being what’s actually going on or has. “I might live in 2022 in Oxford, but I can share the experiences of persons in Thailand or the US, and imagine different lives I might have lived. With the help of scientists and philosophers, I understand levels of the cosmos that lie beyond the senses, and can access realities, values or ideas that cannot be destroyed with any mere physical body.” What it seems not only you are missing, but also the scientific establishment and the humanities, as university teaches them, is that it’s possible to have the experiences that the mystics (or metaphysicians describe). They are not only basing their ideas on the use of their imagination or on their thoughts. Many if not most are basing them on firsthand experience. Furthermore, though beyond this email, the authors of the Upanishads and the Vedas did not compose their writings but heard them via the inner voice. Do you know the meaning of Agni in this context? In other words, the texts came whole and ready made from their inner vision, one or a few lines at a time, and they wrote them down, something not possible unless you’ve had the experiences the texts they wrote describe, what would open a Rishi or seer to such inner vision.
Although I can give ample examples of the latter, the inner voice writing one’s seer-poetry (you can look that up if you want), I will only give an example of the heart of the matter of the email. It would be quite something if you even read it. There’s just so much vying for our attention, and something from out of the blue and from someone unknown, well, that’s usually what automatically gets sacrificed to the expediency of time:
We’re witnessing consciousness.
We are.
We see it in terms or a universe.
That’s not all there is to it.
The field in front of our face,
everything we look at is consciousness.
It’s fantastically long and deep.
It’s the field of God.
How many squares can you count on the head of a pin?
Everything reminds you of God.
It’s not hard to see.
Look at God out there
look at every single thing.
The wrapper has you confused.
You’re hearin’ a story told to you by God.
You’re hearin’ it loud and clear.
You just get lost in the storyline.
Wow, I am Peter Parker.
That’s just a character name you wore.
You bear down on your defenses.
You put your dukes up.
That’s not who I am.
I’m me.
Okay put on another life.
You’re just stubborn.
You can’t get over there’s evil.
You’re trippin’ up over its gotcha.
We roll the dice.
Wham!
How badly that hurt.
Okay we have all these worlds arranged,
a multi-leveled universe,
and there's many universes
—not meanin’ many yous—,
and even beyond universes.
Now where do we put you?
In the middle of the storybook.
It gets better quicker.
It gets much better towards the end.
Can you see you’re stretched out over time?
So many forms you put on as you grow bigger.
You gotta start as a tadpole you know.
Each world,
each evolutionary stage,
pits you against God
until you with your evolutionary self
know that you are He.
Why the struggle?
Nothingness has been breached.
It’s existence in.
Nothingness puts its stamp on everything
until a universe has been made whole.
Cosmic plan kids.
And there you have evil,
where a universe is brought out of nothing.
The clash of forces begets it.
It’s just a temporary stage
if you’re lookin’ at the whole plan.
Alright people,
got it?
I don’t think you understand.
The walls of the world are too red,
And your lover’s face is too sweet,
And your children’s lives just so full of need.
What do you do?
There’s God.
It straightens everything up, you know?
Gives you reason to live,
right relation with everybody,
and puts intimacy of God in your hands.
Amazing grace.
Bigelow Aerospace President Robert Bigelow talks during a press conference shortly after he and NASA Deputy Administrator Lori Garver toured the Bigelow Aerospace facilities on Friday, Feb. 4, 2011, in Las Vegas. NASA has been discussing potential partnership opportunities with Bigelow for its inflatable habitat technologies as part of NASA’s goal to develop innovative technologies to ensure that the U.S. remains competitive in future space endeavors. Photo Credit: (NASA/Bill Ingalls)
Mr. Bigelow,
I’m writing in regards to your essay contest, advertised in the New York Times and other headline media outlets, where you hope to find someone that can prove by an evidenced based argument that there is life after death. If I understand it correctly, it’s not exactly to prove, at least not in terms of the scientific method, but present the case in such a way that, at the end of the essay, the thesis will be proved ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’, meaning most sane and reasonable people would be swayed by the presentation, assuming the person isn’t lying or exaggerating, why, I’d imagine, you require those submitting to be approved beforehand and want them to have some years affiliated with a credible research organization or institution, preferably scientists, according to the NY Times article. You’re vetting your submitters. Someone from the general public without such affiliation, someone coming from the grassroots I might say, need not apply.
I am someone from the latter category, a grassroots person, but I have an essay that would not only prove beyond a reasonable doubt that death is, at the very least, a journey to somewhere, but also that time travel is possible, only here not in a machine, in consciousness. The essay ends with an example of inner body time travel, where, in a journey out of the body, I found myself inside my grandfather’s body as he died two weeks before he did, and the cause of death and location of death, everything he was doing when he died, matched what I’d experienced inside him two weeks before, and I’d told no one of it until after I’d heard he died.
The essay details the inner experiences with lucid dream that led up to the inner body time travel, years of conscious inner exploration, including a near-death experience, what opened me to the possibility of experiencing someone else’s death: I had died myself. I’d experienced what’s called being twice born in the ancient literature that concerns itself with initiation into the Mysteries, that is, I was born from my mother’s womb and born again after dying and returning to the land of the living, a death induced by an event in the inner consciousness and not by outer means, but a death nonetheless. It’s a characteristic of NDE: you return full of life and knowing death is not the end, know there is a hereafter, not believing, knowing. I should mention, though, in regards to the ancient Mysteries, that is only the initiation, the very beginning of your long journey to know the hidden and unseen, the behind, below, and above. As it was for initiates, so it is for the dead. You would imagine that such knowledge helps enable the dead to begin their quest after death, now that they know there is more.
If you haven’t experienced a NDE, then you’d be skeptical if you don’t believe in life after death to begin with, understandably. What you’re looking for you won’t find, someone to give that knowing and not just provide credible evidence to base belief on, which few today would weave into their worldview and accept as fact. It’s like people who’d been to America before Columbus, or before enough people had been there to establish beyond a doubt it was there (to the known world at the time from and a European perspective). Only a few would’ve believed them. We are in the time before Columbus in regards to not only the existence of life after death, but of the whole field of consciousness beyond the present person that we are, of a great deal of things consciousness-wise.
Will be spotted as wizards in the evolution, a few climate changers. You’re a pariah? I don’t think you’ve done the business ends, cross-examined your own consciousness. Pay someone else to do your business, and consciousness runs on the business model in your end. You hit the jackpot you did not.
Where are we going with this? All the dead ask this. It’s death not revelation. Are you sure you know where you’re going? It isn’t to the supermarket. Bigelow Industries, can we consciousness the skies? I’m not a kingpin. I’m a ramrod.
Are you sure you know what’s at stake? Will you evolve or not? Bigwell Industries, can we say he’s climbin’? He’s got a business model, so dead system made it. I’m not barkin’ at your guitar. I have direction to travel. An evolutionary curve calls us all in from the cold. Open the inner consciousness Mr. Bigweld. What brought him here? Robots your own inner crowd, and fought cold all evening.
A play protected by a play yard, I’m a playwright. Can I startle you with truth? Mirror all the mind of God, no dust, no mirror; mirror all the mind of God, nothing in-between— the 5th Patriarch seeing beyond himself. Now I give you “The Epic of Man”.
Harm's End 