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 by the author, photo of the Earth by NASA (public domain)
Upholder of consciousness, can I call you a name? You just got laid off, and you’ll get laid off again, and there’s nothin’ to get ready for tomorrow. You’re not a big man on campus yet. You’re an embarrassing little thing, and no one will hear you sing. This is not standin’ in the air. This is not wide enough silly in the air. You’ve got tall trees growin’, and you’ve reached the limit of your room. Things get bigger. They envelope in consciousness.
Wow I believed you this time. I thought somethin’ was gonna happen. I don’t even worry about the fish, the fallout from this. Nobody understands my shores. Take ‘im away Bob. The irony in all this, and I have the light that shines on Earth. Foiled again at the book nodes.
Where’s my superman, my help you with it? I’m not just a fly on a coffee table. I’ve actually seen what I saw. Answer your question: your art and poetry put out, look what’s happened. Nobody wants to see you. They’re all put out, and they’re hungry from guess room again. How can you say such things you measly little piece of paper? And we shut you down. You are not making us mediocre; we are.
Now let’s ride to the end of this chapter. You won’t get it, and I will stand by your work. You’ve got a major 2 o’clock comin’. It’s in your show/window now. [two above words heard spoken simultaneously] Don’t sit just there read somethin’.
He hadn’t looked around. He was not just a horse in time courting sincerity. He grafted you upon the tree of life where you mattered and held count. One, they don’t know you play ball with God and life and time, and second, they don’t know there’s more than what they’ve got. This played with you, and it didn’t mean anything a thing you did, and you were not big in that boy’s eyes as you saw him lookin’ at yah. You were not important to him, as you saw him glow. This bothered yah and really made you think. Listen to her, listen to that boy in pain. You alleviate it and he knows it, and he can’t wake up to himself yet. That’ll come soon enough.
Oh wonderful thing hide in Their character, hide on Their tongue. To discover the hidden reasons of the Gods. [vision with the line of my own hand writing this in cursive on a sheet of paper] To come down on student terms and find out why They tick. Why are They a decade ago, never where man is right now? They don’t know people like we do, and They can’t gauge human life in our exact location. They are tall and kind, but They propose to us things we can’t do.
They do not understand the human state. They punish us for our condition, and there’s a discrepancy between time and fate that no amount of mercy can absolve. We are lone here, surrounded by Gods. They know our every thought and deed, climb your mind like it’s Their jukebox, but they don’t know how to understand you in the ways of sin. They say no. They don’t heal. They do not integrate the mountain with the sea. They meet each other and collide.
They are on our backs all the time to ever showcase new lore, to be an instrument for Them, but they cannot reach us with the love we need when we need it, and they will let us go down doing Their work. They will take from us our most beloved just to test us. They will treat us like human souls not like breathing men. They can’t be trusted. They will always put Their work first. In the quarries of the Gods we labor under the breath of death, and we don’t get out of it. We don’t even see it.
We can’t know it’s there, all the labor for the God, least we separate our life from our sanity. You can’t take a God’s force bearin’ down on you, a God’s thoughts. They are too immortality for us. They take on airs we cannot breathe. They give us one commandment: worship Them in time, letting Them be the light of your life. You cannot go astray from Them. They will hound you in life’s deeps, and you cannot stand against a God. You can only pray.
Why am I telling you this? The liberation from the Gods is our aim in how we count human. We don’t need Their scaffold that stops us in midair, that bullies us in time. We don’t burn Their scaffold down. We understand how inadequate it is. We accept Their help but go beyond it. We go to the back of the plan, what started all this universe and show, a whole other order of being testing limits for itself where no limits are, its growth by us into the unimaginable of its see.
We are bringing this order down now in the great upheaval of the Gods. Can you fathom this change? It’s a whole new way of doing things that has harmony as its base for righting wrong and oneness as its lookout for all it sees. It does not shy away from one. It incorporates all into its grand plan. It is the substance of itself it’s planting into the universe. It knows its great self by itself, and it knows itself as all, is not some cosmic God looking down on the riddle of creation.
This way of doing things, this Supermind, knows by identity and never strays from that. It’s a Truth Consciousness. It’s a vast Truth Consciousness, the exact truth consciousness ridin’ everything that is behind its base. It does not lie, knows not error. This is what we’re bringin’ down. This is what we are. It will change the world. It’s what we need to see today. It’s comin’. It’s here, and that’s the master plan. It’s the truth of the universe understandin’ time.
Look at it in the hours, and you are in transformation, God’s glow. I show this to you now with my head half in it. I’m movin’ forward now towards a completeness of my see, towards supramental change I see in my Lake, the figure of Silent Mind flagging me its approach. I stumble and fall and can’t keep up, and it’s an everyday pick me up, but I can see it HD.
So I sing my songs early morning vision brings, so I can look out now on what needs to be done. You’re in my field today. Hello, are you there? Auroville, are you there?
The epicenter of spiritual change, modern life Auroville, it can’t see itself. It’s bigger than the sky no. It grapples with human problems. It grows its children to grow nature in her room, to be the normal round of human being. It has high ideals that are not in the hands of the city in daily worth. Impossible to describe, the mounting towards a change in consciousness that’s Auroville’s aim. Human unity will not field show.
Where is the city goin’? Can you see ordinary where Auroville meets its road? No amount of spiritual-mongering can put it there, the spiritual consciousness. The gap between Auroville and her spiritual aims throws Auroville out the window as a city of spiritual change. It’s a city of proud belief, yoga tags, conferences, spiritual workshops, sound gardens, the green munchies. These move the city along a false bravado. No spiritual revolution seizes its day.
Can somebody tell me what we’re doin’ and why’s not the change? We’re in plans with yesterday, not the new planet in the making now. I ring this to you now. Can you ring with me and not vote me out? What’s the plan? It’s not the issues that divide us today. Are you gonna help?
The drawback for spiritual change to say nothing. We substance where we change. We tell you in the manner befitting our service. We tell you spiritual change, how it’s happening to us, when we can tell it without spillin’ it, the purpose of art and poetry when you’re undergoing spiritual change. You talk about it the inner voice, unprompted by your decision making process. You don’t let out a word, otherwise. Now it dawns on your community.
Got so many minions, so black, speakin’ in the voice of your word. This is not a mere dictation. It is a battle of the spiritual word. Great variety sees that, honed in occasions. We ride versatility to its source. Okay I choir now.
Who inspires me but not the Gods? The runner up open to Supermind. To see this distinction’s life and death for the city. Crucial for the city to go beyond the Gods, the strength of Overmind. I explain to you now. I explain to you how. Lemmie guess, you’re starlight? The advent of Supermind where Overmind opens to it, you know this source, the Mother and Sri Aurobindo, their hills, a few that give us their glad tidings of wide birth. Here we establish things, put them in order. On top of that I show you a weapon master, the rays of the Sun.
Insulated against it, the Auroville that makes its bed, that Auroville that goes international. I have this title goin’ international, The Writing on the Wall Dummy’s Paradise. You don’t know you’re Belushi’d out a poet in Auroville on comic stops. It’s behavioral 9, and it’s comin’ soon to where you can see it in Auroville’s front page. It doesn’t suck they way they’re doin’ it either. This latest poem is his Red Cross, a fix it paper. You know how it ends. They’ve made their decision. Just throw it out but keep the paper. You too much for them, and they Riviera the day. Donny this looks terrible. Thank you.
Finish the job. I want a divine crossword puzzle. You’ve got branches on it. You’ve got the cookies stuff. It’s delicious. What do I do with the title? Tell God to show up a whole little ice cream. We get our pieces together. Larry Seidlitz, empathy? identity? Ah here, declined.
Do you know what spirituality is? To feel right at the zombies zone. Donny draws the neach of us. Speak a following a fluid law and love from your mistakes. It’s Auroville’s paper we need in Auroville’s hands, true points of the consciousness of God. Round house to an extraordinary boat on the sea, we can lift the consciousness of God up to new heights and stay there. Can you count Auroville’s aim here, her mission in words?
You climbed to the top of her mission with children. I know; it’s that background girl. Nithisha not there. He’s missing from action. He reads his own music a sad story, and I’m mentionin’ firecrackers, indo in human hearts. How is the school? You’re gonna help us out then admire how beautiful it is. This is his nanny, Earthen Pull.
Now we met each other in consciousness. I’m about the boy’s height, and I’ve got a poem to show yah, where we live, talkin’ about consciousness one night sharin’ pizza. Open the door. Watch how that decline button does things. You miss the table with that. You miss everything. Can we call you Auroville International, giver of gifts, provider of boons?
You will delete me for this, if I don’t hurry up. I would like to stairway your mind. Why is pretentious the first word that comes to mind? How do you talk about facts you know? Hurry, you gotta see this. I have, saw it with my own eyes in just a seconds’ grab up out the top of my head to that nice familiar form you know Yourself perpetratin’ all these lives without involvement in them, like remains untouched by the whole show.
Anyway I was up there. Let’s go. I am at the period in this poem you hear me, like really bold perfume that talks about the important stuff. Meanwhile on the ground I have reactions and do my duties. I don’t react half as much as I used to. I’m gettin’ round that. Calmness is a commodity that comes in long waves, and then it goes out again. I’m waitin’ for my boy to come home so’s I can see it. He’s safe and sound, and that removes the ants on my consciousness floor. Children come first in the scheme of things, and I’m holdin’ mine to safety. Bear with me here. You don’t know the half of it.
Okay now start your poem. Can you leave me alone? Come here mountain climber. Okay do it, behind the scenes you weren’t lookin’ for in her gala. Where you goin’? The party’s just gettin’ started. Patience man patience. You’re not gonna trip over wires. Alright put your feet on. We’re walkin’ to background love. It’s an emergency. Auroville’s dyin’ all over again. It’s not the first time. God gave her a bulletproof vest. Bet you didn’t know that. It doesn’t work sometimes, as you can see now. Roll a joint and pass the ammunition. There’s a fight goin’ on in Auroville over spiritual aim. No worries, many efforts bless this mess.
And now you think I smoke pot. It’s just a figure of speech to unhand you. It’s a flashpoint in Auroville, and people don’t like it there. The Mother said so inflexibly no. And you got her lists. Not all of them work, and she never got down to business with the master plan. I’ll tiny tiger this in myself, somebody that listens to her quickly in tales of the inner voice. I don’t believe it’s me either, but there you go.
My little boy was complainin’ the heaviness of the knowledge of God, oh for example, did you know daddy the world’s in pain? He calls me grandpa. I’m his spiritual teacher, and he’s woken up to world pain, bein’ yanked so hard by his own. You got to know consciousness as a spiritual aim.
Now let’s go to district 9 and give this poem some perspective of the deepness of the knowledge of God. He calls me master. You know the relationship, and they lesson there. Wow, kangaroos, and he really matures in that pouch. That’s been keeping me here. [heard spoken in Nithish’s voice] Gonna go soon, back to daddy and our spiritual endeavor, the node of our relationship. Where is it? In that field of love.
Now the brass of Auroville don’t stomach these waters. You have to admit a little Reagan post. Carrying a seditious act, no I’m not. You must be mistaken. You must have me confused me with the wrong Donny. The scaffoldin’, it’s too much. Find it on paper, consciousness poem.
Huntin’ to see you again, your big-eyed boy. He lays in bed at night sleepless worry, and he can’t soothe himself. Headaches and dizziness spell his day. This is suffering. Glued to him from the inner consciousness, you manage to hold him and speak into his mind where his heart meets the road. He knows you’re there.
I’m sorry sweetheart this is burnin’. Warn title, will you lie to me? A terrible story that come in the place of him? Another body than pain he had to be aroused, another program: he loves the Mother. She was something down where you lost God.
You know what I mean: you were born in my commitment. Now I need yah to look up and sound off the important test, a poem in your stadium write that helps us all to be feet to the Mystery who cares, balancin’ time on a rainbow, the supramental transformation in children, what is on your tops, I kid you not, waiting for Hollywood to get with the lesson plan and surpass Disney there’s a child in need of imagination. Get it ate at the light of the new world you’re figurin’ in the verse you’ve already written. Hold on I’m comin’, my sweet, beautiful boy.
Town’s end, and miracle show up, wonderful ridin’ spiritual love. Honestly, this is brand new eyes on God.
The above poem too was declined by the admin of the private Facebook group Auroville International. My muse wrote a short poem in response, suggesting what picture of go with it, “A picture of a rainbow,” before I even found that out, which I posted on their page and which will, no doubt, also be declined. Postscript: it was declined.
In Sudden Splendor Facin' Rainbows
No one has ever done this before. I'm a threat to everybody's system of order. I want a new world see, and I want it to work, and I want it to plan. You delete that in Auroville, too ordinary to let the world happen there, oh you bunch of men and women blocking the Sun. I'll tell everybody. [a link I left to this post]
Auroville International
Auroville International (AVI) is a worldwide network aiming at the support of the development of Auroville in all its aspects. Founded in 1983 it is legally registered in the Netherlands, with a representation in 34 countries around the world – nine national centres, which are registered associations in their respective countries, and twenty-five liaisons, which may be smaller groups or single individuals.
It must be said that the Facebook group Auroville INDIA approved and posted this poem, as they have several others everyone else has declined.
To know on the edge of your screaming that you’re gonna be alright, to see it plain as day in the darkness, you go on steam engine, you take your task with God.
I don’t know if it’s gonna rain mud puddles in my mind, firecrackers in my heart, but I’ll be okay. The world has caved in, and sunshine has found me lying in the sun.
Do you know sleep? Do you know how to sleep? It’s a ridin’ all night long the team fellows of the mind with what you need to know liberty while you’re still in bonds. It’s a conscious sleep. You hear it talk to me now.
You can’t spend me. I’m a waste of your time, but I will speak to you from the hours the training of the ways, deep soliloquies of love that hasn’t found its purpose yet but challenges the world with it anyway.
You will laugh at me, but I know time like you know your own hair, and I can stand up and sing when God is killing me. What is a poet for? Can I quote my little boy? It’s for blankets in the sea. I can only grasp his hand in verse. I can’t see him anymore.
Whales sing, and they bring in the ocean round to itself. It’s more than call letters. It’s an attempt to dare fate and expose ourselves to bright shiny blades, so we can give time its meaning, even if that’s just a language cloak. You sit there and read us those bright and shiny blades.
Fuck you I love you the poet says. Nithish did you hear that? It’s how we meet the world Planet Us and not die in the telling. We undress in front of the world and give it its mic, all the while singing our hearts out in front of I don’t care.
I am loud in a sea storm, Prometheus battles night on top of an angry world because he’d brought fire down of the Gods into the people of his sleep, and lit the poet’s tongue on daily cares, common battles, and everyday falls to know we are more than these.
Father I can’t take this pain any longer. It’s an illness to slam you. I am not responsible at this, but I know what I’m talking about. Open mind comes with smartness. With an open heart comes the father. It has shaken my whole world, changed my eyes. My path is on a unicorn, a big one.
I look out my widow every day and ask for freedom from this barrier. It’s a block. You just got to take another way. You can’t go through it can you? What if my path is highlighted from the others? I have my own dreams to chase.
I just found this poem in my carry bag two days ago. I had forgotten about it. Nithish gave it to me some days before he was taken from my home on March 12th. He had been telling me he wanted his muse to give him another poem to his father to explain things. He wanted me to tell his parents these things so that they did not put him to one day a week with me. At that moment, he was living with me during the weekdays and with his parents on the weekends. He wanted to continue the arrangement.
He wrote this poem while at school from spiritual vision, meaning that he heard each line spoken into his inner ear, and he copied it down. He does not record the lines like a poem, just writes them down, as he is dyslexic and has a lot of trouble writing. If you have read his other poems posted here, you can see he has developed more as a poet and a writer, and you can hear his feelings and thoughts spoken very clearly, what he wants his father to know, but the poem never got to his father. He was taken just a few days after he wrote it. Below is the poem in his handwriting.
I am Nithish a growing poet. I will write for the world and me, and I will take big steps anywhere, anytime. I am opening (muse) my marker a bag with development. If the bag doesn’t get bigger I will fly away.
Oh I am high on poetry. Get me a ride home. Hey god, how tall are you? Ha h aha I’m going to my job.
2nd Part
Exchange the world for some divine, and my marker call the muse. Will you listen to the paper it’s right. Why are the poets here for?
I have the flower in my head. I just want to get it in the light. Can I just be in my life? Can I just get my life back?
I am running to the light again. Pull me up so I can join you. For next level it’s coming up.
I am crying I need sleep. They call me poison. That’s not my name I am Nithish. Why do you care will show my name to the world going down the road?
Ha! can you see that coming? That’s the new world formed. Pass it can you hear me out? Let me get back home. I am very loud if you know— your smartass come from the divine.
I am blinded from the light. Is that it that’s the start of the border? Wanna go beyond? Let’s go to the spark of soul that’s a frost fire running out of school. Run with me hear the bird. Run with me for good.
They judge me by any downfall. Well see my poem from God. Have you met my birds? To the surface we can go to New York, get the jet ski fly away from ground.
If you have been reading these posts of Nithish’s poetry, then you know he’s writing this from spiritual vision, meaning he’s not making it up; it’s spoken into his inner ear and he writes it down. This a poem he wrote while at school some months before he was taken from his home at the lake. In one fell swoop he lost his whole life, me, Douglas, his dogs, his own room, his new computer, the farm, the lake, all of it, and he has not been allowed to return or visit me since, anywhere, call me on the phone, have anyone give him message of me, or view his YouTube channel. Read the last post to see why his parents have done this, and you will suspect, as I do, that they have abuse they are hiding, and they know the boy will tell me if he sees me alone long enough, and they are preventing that.
I don’t think I need to interpret this poem line by line. It’s obvious what he’s talking about, but what’s extraordinary about it, miraculous, is that he wrote this months before the he would be in the situation he’s speaking about, so his future self could read it and understand what is going on. His ‘wokeness’ to his situation comes and goes, more goes than comes actually, if my spiritual vision of him is correct, but I do know from others telling me that he is silent about me and the life that was taken from him, does not even mention me or it. That sure does make me think, and the purpose of his poetry, why he wrote it to his future self, was to make him think, understand what has happened to him, and stand up for himself. I do not understand spiritual process, all this miracle just to go to the garbage can of his mind, be deleted. He has as yet no interest in reading it.
Ha ha ha! I have ran to the divine false— call me a poet after 18+. I have time to die.
I call myself the poet for my life through the end. I am what do you call me, what the godfather? Oh no, that’s not me. My character is at the lake, aka the divine.
I have asked the god to stay. My life is always sour-like.
My mind turn the lights for my room, draw the lights for my room. I am going to wait for you through the light.
Nithish was taken from my home and subsequently brainwashed. I record that here, the eye-opening of Nithish. All you the pictures are aligned.
I will show his mother this, a mother mentally unbalanced in the possession of her boy, and all the abuse that has ensued from her possession. Find myself giving him the blanket he deserves. He will not look at me I know.
You’ve got, the people that are helping me, cosmic kitchen. Show him what he needs to see. Show him himself in the mirror.
The first poem Nithish wrote months before he was taken from my home by his mother because I mentioned to her a video she had made of her youngest son doing a sex act. It is not just a prediction of the future, what will happen to him as a result of showing me that video and telling me its context, but it is himself talking to his future self so to overcome the brainwashing, gaslighting and abuse his parents have put him through because of betraying them to me in regard to that video and the sexual abuse of his little brothers by his father. He told me very private things about what was going on in the bedroom of his family when his father came home from Chennai on the weekends, and they have made him pay for that betrayal and for his love for me.
“The divine false” is his parents’ rule over him, him turning away from God and spirituality and putting his parents in that place. His mother has said he cannot see me again until he’s 18 or over, what “18 plus” means. When he speaks about “time to die,” he’s talking about not only the death of his former self, the real Nithish, but his thoughts of suicide, which he has had in all the trauma his parents have given him for loving me. He disputes that he has to wait until 18 to be a poet, what it means when he says he calls himself “the poet for life through the end,” and to understand the poem, you need to know that being a poet and me being his daddy, or really, his spiritual master, his inner poetry teacher, are intertwined. He’s also talking about not having to wait until 18 to see me again.
In spiritual vision I have seen that his father plans to have me killed and wants Nithish to approve of this, but Nithish has not told me this, but has called twice to tell me to go into hiding without explaining why, not recently though. His father has officially murdered four men in cold blood for his gang, a gang of Lawspet whose leader is a notorious man named Sironen. The gang now feigns to be disbanded, but it is not, and Sundar, his father, feigns to have left it, but he has not. That’s what he means by people calling him “the godfather.” and those people, the you referred to, are his parents. He is very familiar with American movies, and I don’t know if he has seen The Godfather, a movie about an Italian mafia family, but we have talked about that film together. He will not approve of this murder of me, because his “character is at the lake,” where we live, at Usteri Lake, how he refers to the location of our home, which for him is synonymous with the divine because it’s here he is coached in sadhana to realize the divine in his life.
The god he’s asking to stay is me, his spiritual master, and we are in a union of consciousness, on the level of soul, and if you don’t believe just read his poetry and mine, and I have the power to see inside of him, be there in his consciousness, and he can feel me there, and he’s asking me to stay, despite his outer self seeming to have forgotten about me, which the phone call I’ve described shows is not the case. He’s told me he can feel me inside when he was calling me in secret. It is a divine power, a power of consciousness, and you will only believe me when you question the child about it, but no one will question him, and no one’s allowed to.
Despite the special treatment he’s now getting from his parents, he still feels his life “sour-like.” He knows his mind is the key, as I’ve taught him that what he thinks he becomes, and here he’s trying to turn his mind to the light, and he ends by telling me, “I am going to wait for you through the light,” the light being all his poetry, and mine, that is trying to free him from the abuse and Nazi-like control his parents have over him.
George de Forest Brush – Orpheus, 1890 (public domain)
This is a poem written to G Surya Prakash Rao, the founder and managing editor of Muse India, an online literary magazine, in regards to their rejection and criticism of Nithish’s poem “Paradise Things With Lyrics”, which was submitted to their online forum Your Space, not to the literary magazine itself. A Twitter/X photo-poem of mine would give more details: “Where Were the Ones That Felt?”
And the poem below was submitted to Muse India for publication, not through their regular channels, directly to the managing editor, as we were having a brief email conversation regarding the boy’s poem. I would gather he doesn’t want to publish the poem below, and that in itself I find remarkable, and you will have to read the poem to find that remarkable too, but the fact that he won’t even bother to tell me, I find that absolutely incredible.
Human civilization is a world apart. I grab you by the poetry today. The overhead music, the overhead town, some suggestions for your unmanageable poetry scheme sir. I speak poetry to your sense of self, and that’s a long ride, half-religion, in the carnival of God. Do you wear zeitgeist on your sleeve, offended if I grab your ass and smile? Man I tell yah where we put poetry today, in the hullabaloo.
You give me 40 lines to tell. How people don’t know it, tellin’ poetry to be quiet is sexual reassignment surgery, cuts its dick off. Well foreign he’s brave. That room is shocked. That room is sorry. This one here, what do you do? Do you publish a poet, Donny Lee Duke?
Teacher of the day master of the poetry. Who says that’s prayer or insightful? That’s a line from the movie Beat Kids. I’m throwin’ at you rabbits to know the meaning of the word, its symbolizing form. Rabbits are a dictionary, and they fecund.
How do I open poetry in your heart that’s not a diction model, phrased put? But I’m putting sound down as a vehicle of meaning, categorically put. Imagine we lived in a rose, and we petaled differently, the speaker said.
You’re not huntin’ meaning. You’re all about sound rose a churppin’ model with words you can cut your finger on, your personal stuff that sees the corners of things, gets at feeling and taste, ode to a green jar and supposin’.
I wrap you around wood in a different kind of glory. I laugh-loud you to go get greater silk to stand your life, because I’m sittin’ here strandin’ mine, where it hurts, where it counts, and that’s bubblin’ up poetry.
That’s not it I’m listenin’ to myself speak, here I am on the table the thought of London, Batman in robes, lyrical put. A new generation of poetry, a new thought of poetry, here I am and you chase me down this mountain you tin can. I’m a dormitory of words.
Is that bowl I’m missing let’s listen to Tennyson? Grab your evolution by the poetry sir. Blast your pillars of salt. Blast your shadow kings. Don’t look back at some exam of poetry Orpheus. Grab your poetry by today.
To the editor of Sky Magazine: change Orpheus into a pillar of salt. Lay down your lines you’ve surrendered to poetry. Can you hear that? Muse India a scolding. How sad. You hear that?
The tops of teas lyrical ballads. Where am I at? I don’t think you’d recognize me. I’m poetry fits the day, sudden splendor.
Can we get to the top of that mountain? I offer you a chair. It’s closer than you think, a morph of Orpheus, of your kind. You open it binoculars.
Peace is a drug that you get from the upper store. [above line Nitish’s muse, my 12-year-old grandson] Nithish’s smile. Your anthology papers, post my letters, it is very change. I’m not lookin’ forward to the new ghost story. Oh man, do your ignore me? A new music, a flute overhead, we need that to survive. Things are not going in our direction, and can we just change the tunes? What a poetry says a culture does.
You’re not playin’ around with smithereens. Come on don’t groupthink and let poetry rock. I don’t understand you sir. Does it have to be highfalutin? You stuff shirt, come out in the world and see. Am I wrong? Do we need something more out of poetry that we’re not getting?
Come out of your damn ivory tower and touch the world. Is that so hard to listen to? What are you doing that you can’t see this is poetry? And I will haunt you for the rest of your life a poetry gun, a poetry speaker, a poetry man.
I don’t think you realize the power of poetry, the muse today. It will be inevitable we dance along the Thames putting it out like Shakespeare. It will come out of its bottle and change the world. Too strange driven, you think it just needs to be thrown away, like this email’s cut off here. Are you kiddin’ me?
A star is born between us. He never did intended to become Puget Sound. All about its eternity: let me be the souls you can stand on. [above line heard sung] Believe it, huh, go back to Hollywood, where we find poetry today, where conscious entertainment walks with her fascist in pearls. When she gets to the Lake, when she gets to their alone in the dark, fascist quivers.
God grows in the hours, takes His first steps in the wherewithal of man, in the audacity of man, in the growing of man. We’re here. This is our livelihood. This is our pain. We kiss each other with this. We kill each other with its denial. We play together God-children.
I cannot fathom this. I look at it and stars, but there’s no name that I can put on. No concept carries this. It billows out a jutting of nature, seemingly meaningless. Where is righteousness in That? And godhead? The forms of things are too much for me, billowing God.
My God I think I will lose the world just sitting on a park bench. It’s embarrassingly strange. I can’t feel this with godhead fingers. I only see the road ahead in headlights of my be. Frozen fingers point to frozen books that spell this out to me, and I’ve been there, where God sits billowing Earth. I cannot contain that now. I don’t even know where it is in all this hullabaloo.
I am beside myself with this seeing, and I can’t take the world. It is all too deep and meaningful. What gave rise to forms at all, that He should inhabit them? Weird has me by the hand, and I love it there. The One who inhabits forms has bequeathed the world to me. I am a passion of its movement.
This marriage of life with form brings out the good in me. I can access myself, ponderin’ realities. I am here I told you, inside myself, a multiple see. Can I scrub my room? I can sure get down on myself. What do I have special that’s given me form? How indigenous to the moment I can feel foreign to myself, and I see aliens in spaceships where people pass me by. So alien world this, a feature of the Void. It rocks.
I’ve about had it with this. It’s too much to see. It overwhelms me. I infinity stare, and the forms of things are will-o-wisps around me, like existence cannot last in countless time. Will it all never be?
I want to look at it from there: I know I’m the One. I’d like to sit in a thoughtless temple and feel absorption unto myself. Do you know that ride? I spin it on my head, so close to realization’s axis I can just realize it’s there. I can’t climb into the module.
This is dynamite, and I’m happy to have it for a little while. Can you shoulder my room? I don’t think you’d lift there. It would scare the daylights outta yah. It’s ungrounded you see, in infinity’s swirl. You can’t touch the side and bottom, but the Top is smilin’ down at yah. The larger You is looking in on you, where you meet waves. You’re naked in front of Him, and this is good business cause you get soothed.
And that’s a ring around the wherewithal of That. It holds your hand, and you can see it better unhinged. The wisdom of insecurity Watts said. He had no idea. I’m a public project. Come up here, and we can manage some how we find hope. I’m a clear regard. You can see eternity from here.
But I’m about my room where I gather field. I do stuff. I get things done, cook and model people, deliver them to sum. I can see the problem: starward, we don’t gather ourselves there, or neglect this great big motion field play, like it’s normally down. If you do that those have been cleaned: a stranger looks at time’s eyes. You will last the night. You will hunger some for realization’s pinnacle, but you will certain see.
A joining: hey look at this picture with my other one, internal let it go from here: daddy! daddy! Kid’ll give you a pin down of where things go. Realization’s coils the delivery room. You’re okay there. Okay you’re up. This is a violet test: come warm infinity through halls of room. We will give you another mile.
Vision of matter materially investigated, I guess that first step. But isn’t she gorgeous? That guy is free, free for both of us, because May after we have to do another one, where we inhabit this planet Him. We will live in freedom pronounced by God. Join me there on your eraser, and erase all lines but God. What do you see? Perfect freedom.
Euthanasia of the Spirit you entertain anything else but God. That was a bad night switch, to lose this from our origins, but we’re back there at bright staples today. Any way you look at it 12 noon.
I’m so sorry for this point. I just wanna rub my face off. I’m a graveyard of the best intentions. I feel so inadequate to time’s doings. I can’t even communicate with you, where people are heard these days. Nobody can find my stuff on Twitter. It got shadowbanned. I don’t know how WordPress is gonna treat the length of these poems. YouTube knocks down videos, and even though I’m there I’m not.
Do you every have the certain futility to look, I mean at the sky and everything? It just mows yah down, the big of everything. I’m here I said, and yeah that’s little. I can fit into a little cup of everybody’s been here. That blasts, you know?
And here’s where I’m hooked. I can see the bigness, and I know I’m its business. How do I lavish to you the plan to be where poetry finds you today? Can I say the arc of poetry all along this poem? I want to speak need, not measure, where we find each other today in the lifting of our room. Come to me I’m poetry, is that where I find you? Shadowbanned in Carnegie Hall, this is the price is right to write poetry.
I’ll go the rhythm. You know I’m 10 feet tall. In this culture the number one is never far from shoot. You hold steps right about now to that escapade. Oh boy Rainbow Nagar, he can express His eyes when he speaks, but he put a poem out that grabbed them in the poetry, Muse India.
And I’m an indicator of where we find poetry today in India. That is not on our streets. It’s not even in our cars. It’s just billowin’ in the wind unread and unheard. Hear me people? Oh I can’t stand this new poetry. It juts out like a wad of nature and surprises yah in your sleep, all this regard, and that, and all eyes on God. Can we land poetry today? It’s got me by the book. And I’m reading you time said.
A different kind of story. I’ll write it across the sky:
I am a poet of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo. I’m a 12-year-old poet. I am an original poet. I’m a muse poet, no help given to the writing of this poem.
We have as little as possible to do with bounds. Everything, if you think of something divine, it lights up. Grape juice, what’s the price? To get this boy’s poem published? Use the excellent hunter witchcraft. This is by far the best boat.
We have an epiphany of being. It lasts. It shoulders reality. It doesn’t go away. It will be there when we get back. That’s an ankle torn, lavishly spent on nature. I think we disappear awhile into our compellings. This could be a shade of grey, or the self-righteous crowd.
We hang there. We brood there. We don’t know what it means. I think Earth has taken us by the hand to stumble some. Are we workin’ things out? We’re an operation reality. So many meanings made clear where we go wrong. Can you see this?
It reaches us right there where we’re at. There is no perfection slave point. We arrive there, post-stumblings. It’s as certain as Earth. This is all in a car now. We hump it some.
I can’t show you the Earth. There are no fields there perfection’s sum, the arrived at. I can only show you time in her suspended miracle. Each failing of Earth gathers us. It fixes us where we find wounds. I think the urge there is to heal, in humanity, and in ourselves.
What have we done to the Earth? And you think this is out of step with nature’s plan? Of course we rob/ruin it. [words heard spoken simultaneously] No other animal would do otherwise in the glory of its day. So how do we naturally put on? Give the Earth time to heal its man-plan. This is far away from us? You’ve got it in your hand.
We open Earth with it, one story at a time, stories big enough to see us, because they’ve hit us in the quick of ourselves, in what it means to be human. We lavish such stories in exaggerated can. There are all humans to meet, who spiritualize themselves and bring out of them soul.
You can’t see this plan. The story has made us discover ourselves in an avoidance of Mars, the tribe of our taboos, that can make you vomit if you find it close, that can heal your scars when you find it redemption.
What do we do with this? He’s a pedophile throw him away. You nincompoop, this blesses us, if we know it arrives at noon, if we can call it our own, sit with it and not react.
I can’t spy this in for you. You’ve got to see it yourself. You’ve got to be there with the Earth where she most needs. You’ve got to be open to chance, and from bad things can come good things, if we arrive there. The Earth is a joy shout out. It means somethin’.
Every separate thing loosened from its coils came from her divinity’s roll out. Some have become perverted in the mask of space. They have a divine element. They come back to themselves, over and over again, if we can find that purpose put.
And the pedophile becomes a purpose maker in the intensity of small children. Instead of sex he gives them stars. Your disbelief is operating now. It blights this page, and I’m stuck with it, have to sit with it and stare at time. You won’t release me.
And we’re crowdin’ in on time. My boy has submitted his first poem to a literary showcase here in India. There will be others. He’s 12, and comes upon us another snag: did he write this?
You maniac, you are horrible disbelief. You would destroy the world if you could, rather than read his poetry lie down. I’m making it visible now, Nithish’s hotspot, where he finds muse. This is in our certain poetry together in the soliloquy of love.
A shapeshifter, I’ve morphed into my true form: hello there boy, I’m intensity of consciousness open up to intensity of purpose, hanging your own star. Watch that glow. Good God that’s purpose, smellin’ salts.
Stories that make you puke, stories that rhyme with the Earth, calculate us and make us see. They involve with us to every hand’s on healing. Do tell, and here I am in that yard. Wrap me around the world, will yah? I’m certain. Watch it, a fuller opera, a zero point ignition, reaches Earth.
Harm's End 