Into the summer pageantry, I go forth unfailed by noon, unhanded by time. My spirit’s lonely shell in diabetes lay, is fretting upon the Earth. I can’t seem to get lost here and forget the Infinite for whom my life’s pay. Golden bridals of dawn have lit the morn, and I suspect Earth shakes. I suspect I’m wrong. Too horrible creature for words I belch poems of fire.
I don’t know where my destiny lay. It’s deeper than me. I don’t know where I’m goin’, and I’m in a car upon the roads of time. I just sit there and wait, going forward, lifting up my voice to fate. I can’t catch my dreams. I don’t know where they’re taking me. I’m in an uncertain moment, labeled a monster of the wood by someone who gets away with it. My home I fled from. She’d put a gun to my head, nobody to help me but this old guitar on the lifebeats of time.
Will I wake up and understand the morrow? I don’t know what business there, and I can be crucified today. Oh foolish Sun, is so much wasted on thee? What am I doin’ it for? Why do I plot my life towards the Spirit’s call? It is within me and I do it that is all, and I’m frying in a frying pan, having melted my home for her, where she had all power. Where did God help?
I suddenly escaped, and great large forces prepared that, and people did help. Fine, fine, I’ll go. I’ll transcend time and climb out of time to see my Face once more. I wear him still, where I find him today a necessity, the greater being that I am, so close it’s a million miles away, a chariot on my moon. Stronger now I gather evidence.
You don’t know what I’m talkin’ about. I just want to lay me down to sleep and be oblivion to all that encompasses me. I’m watchin’ the freeways turn to some other destination I can’t read. I can’t even see. I was born to put the incarnate in verse. I cannot count the cost I’m done. I am the uttered word taken apart by kingpins and pushed into the dirt. You see the history of this? Jezebel come forth. I am writing on the Sun.
Are you sure you’re led halfway? What rallies against your speech now? What blinded impulse urge did you do? You are innocent of her charges. Where do we get this out of here? There is nowhere where we haven’t drawn our horses. We are an envelope on our soul opening it. When I walked my soul I was in daylight. Love is the threatened of my feelin’ knowledge, the smushed of the prepared in my shield. I feel my stomach in it, all this mess. I spit it out my room. I’m not a devil. I’m not even a bad man. I’m certainly not raping my dog or about to blow up and kill the neighborhood or kidnap Nithish from India. Why would the cops take her seriously and come to my door and harass me?
I don’t understand this murder or the threat of jail for weeks afterwards, or that they might take my dog. This is ungodly. I didn’t commit a crime. I didn’t even do anything wrong. Where do this lead us? On the wrong road. We are not Bridal Falls, Minnesota. We’re Hell’s bells in this situation room Florida. Why would I suffer here? What’s the door? Poetry I let out. I called Trump out of office. I talked about infant orgasm I received, not condoning it nor encouraging it, and I didn’t let Christianity get away with it, putting people in Hell for all eternity, even most voters in the world, because they didn’t vote for Christ, and what about ICE? I’ve poetry’d against them, their murderous ways, their racist endeavor.
Okay you found me. I’m a poet you need shut up. I’m a poet you need out of town. Did you do that? You let it happen. No one came to my aid, except who I’d reached through friendship, and they are great on that, but we’d shared life together, and we’ve been in the presence of each other’s eyes soft and warm. They came in and helped, put me on the road again and a place to go to, and they’re ground guiding me in. I discovered reef, what the fishes know. It provides for me.
Okay now where is your soft and warm, your care and concern? Where do you hold freedom as a value you prize? Is anybody listenin’? You know what happened to me? Can you understand this in America? Poetry got me in trouble with the law. Nothing illegal I wrote. Someone took my poetry to the police and alarmed them with the accusations I’ve mentioned, no evidence provided, no evidence needed. This woman had power. She wanted me removed and did it.
What do you say to that? Do that for lunch, crap all over somebody, show them to be a monster, try to remove them from society, because they’d written poetry that offended you. The patriotism of this lady would turn your head, her salute the flag, but isn’t this typical of Americans nationalistic to the core? They will take your freedom away from you if they don’t agree with it. They will burn the Constitution, if you’re protected by it, and they don’t want you to be.
I’m still tryin’ at your door. Who does a poet talk to anyway? Who does he appeal to, the lawyer who wants ten thousand dollars just to investigate this case, the civil liberties union, who won’t even answer your email, the legal aid society, who won’t give you a dime, if the matter here is crime? You’re a warped society. No protections for someone such as me, who has no special name among you, who is not rich and doesn’t need one, who’s not a member of a minority. I did not carry a gun to a protest. I did not hit a policeman with my car, even a little bit. I wrote poetry and got in trouble for it, and you only give those murdered people credit to get protection from law enforcement, from cops carrying guns who unfailingly use them to murder citizens. What about a living poet? What about the rule of law that should in theory protect him?
Do you know what’s happened here? You think it’s dictators. It’s your worst nightmare made real. It’s your apathy and compliance to the mass enslavement of people to the cruelty of the machine. Another man taken down, so what? Do you hear me people? So removable, the awakening of the crowd. Storm Heaven with the right to be not a Christian. I think you like this speaker. He’s American. You told me something. Put on the vote get power out of office that’s goin’ down these lanes, where even art and poetry is in danger, or even freedom of expression they take from you now.
Am I a flywheel? I am the culling house today of let’s make this real simple. We’re lookin’ for a depository where instances of fascism can be recorded and set up criteria for the legitimacy of that reporting, a national hotline, an email you can tell, a national depository. You’re online, and we can review these cases ourselves, see them grow. You know, we’d get somewhere. We’d see it happenin’. We’d know it’s there.
On Old Galveston Road, or just down the lane, I rose up into Wonder’s sphere. My seat of consciousness came out the top of my head several meters into a whole other plane of existence, the larger I that I am beyond this sphere of lives. It’s conscious and it’s free. Several seconds I sat there. Then went back down to myself driving the truck. So, I know it’s up there above everyone, a being so unimaginable, it is the divine self of you above, the divine self of everybody, individually sphered, is the innumerable self above. It is one being one in all. Yeah, I ride that the poetry I write.
I have breached the spheres, and I know this is all bullshit, this whole damn ride we have down here, but it’s not an illusion. Nor it’s a lark. We change it one combustion at a time, until the Glorious comes down here to work more often than it does now, the Being that surrounds the universe with its gaze. Of course I’ll be persecuted. Of course Jezebel will hunt me. Of course these things happen. I’m on it. I’m right here describing it to you, fillin’ the details in with know whodunit.
Left lane ends one mile. This breach in the reality of the universe, the reality I’ve described to you that is the sole heart of this one, will be addressed and repaired not long from now. Can you get that? I will not be persecuted much longer by these people. I have some poetry to write. First thing I need protection. No, I’m talkin’ in a space that can't do that? Careful, you might lose your own freedoms in your notebook.
Tryin’ to humanize the experience. I’m tryin’ to show it to yah. It started when I lost my job for poetry months ago. Before that in India I got kicked out for writing poetry, separated from my family. I think you think it’s okay there, but has America lost democracy too? What are we tryin’ here? The way of the world. Do you know what engines are about, the directions of population control, the implements in place for that? No, I’m not talking gruesome they kill you there in mass droves. The everyday means of livin’ are being turned into a cattle bin. It exceeds any report about it. Look at your phone. Look at all the control devices. Look at the rules and regulations to even open a bank account, to rent an apartment, to put vehicles in the street, to go to the doctor. How hard is it to get a job, and what do all the questions ask you? Are you friends with the machine?
Everyday liberties are being taken from us, and it is as though they never were. This is insane, the normal people operating in society rule checks the automaton, is a pipe in a machine that pipes to no thing that eases its desolation, is a calling card to the Man to check the citizen's every move. We are becoming unmanageable as isolated freedoms. We’re too expensive to just let loose. We must be bound and carded. We must toe the line. We must do all this and merely say it’s fine. Dissidence is becoming too dangerous to harbor. You report dissidence to the police. That’s what happened to me. That’s what’s goin’ on now.
We’ll see yah tomorrow mornin’ chicken noodles into a fight. Are you gonna fare me? I’m not gonna shut up. Leave us alone. Take down my playbill, you can see they’re experienced today. Everything’s written around that. I was there in a Haight-Ashbury’s shoes yoga year. And to think that you’d become on the ground of being, often on the road, a vehicle for God’s registry to put his voice, a lone weaver of the hour of God, and what do you do for a livin’? What cycle do you wanna take? The song of poetry, my voice lifted high to the sky, my words reverberating on earth matter.
Is this a dream? It is thy wild wood. It is thy heart’s desire to thee. It’s where we go from here. It’s the stadium we pass now. It’s yours for the beholdin’ kin. I can do that. I can land on your word the vehicle of my speech. I can land yours in mind and plant mine on your feet, so the heart shall know love crude as a peacock has glistened his moons today, has arrived with liquid voice to show you the Sun’s risin’ ways.
I am a purple heart, and I dance on you now the purple pageantry of love putting hate in its place out of bridal dawn. Fine, I’ll grip your heart today. Will you dance on me now love’s pageantry today, love’s high noon? I’m the alien to all your notions of time, to what you view as the larger picture, to any answer that you’ve come up with to our state, because I’ve seen what I know, experienced it firsthand, and no amount of convincing me otherwise will prove it to me that I didn’t. This is my livin’ faith. This is what I hold in my hand. This is the knowledge that parts the stars.
Fine, I’ll be your bended wood, the poet you won’t give that title to, the one who stands here and sings like I’m in a vacuum. I know I know who I am. Gonna pull over somewhere and realize I am you. This is the knowledge that welds together the stars. It’s all I really ask from you, the empathy of that name, the identity that helps. We’re in the zone now I reach all the way to the public. We will see if you care. We will see if you know the difference between love and hate.
That’s what you guys for, to engender freedom and our care for one another. Corona’s the last time I saw you just shoveled aside for. Herd you away from the freedom we need to breathe almost everything in society now. Somethin’ is not right in our day to day ritual. I have the field glasses to see that. I have the equipment. Wrong kind of recipe you put under freedom. I gotta tell you somethin'. You’re makin’ some big mistake puttin’ poetry in the corner.
Now you can play off of my poems that I give you. I’m givin’ you poetry, and you’ve completely forgotten we manage by it freedom and help to wipe out hate and to be a true language model. What is this world? I’m late. We’re supposed to manage this world a better friend to everyone. Why on earth would you not agree? Why on earth would you fail here? That’s for poetry to answer, and I have. That’s the start of you wiping it out our rise to the occasion you take a poet and shoot ‘im or take his freedom.
Run up to see what you’re sayin’— the freedom loving individual. You’ve done it before. Remember your Walt Whitman? I fly my seat upon the roads of time. He axed; he falls more gravity than I can bear. I just look you back here, all that’s gathered back there and start doberman. Readers pipe in. I mean you gotta go down something like this don’t look at it all— Mrs. Mean Date in the earlier walking. Another purple heart. The first two, they will blasphemy.
Somebody spittin’ you and you go right down there: just as I am I cross thresholds. I try to be myself all the time. I don’t exaggerate my being. I want you to see me as me, and we identify with each other from there, from that bake, a humanity seeing, a humanity start. We’ve got to stop this revolution that puts us all as automatons at the hands of society, that takes our lives away, and they become the machine, that puts us at odds with each other so we change our core being, and you are not my brother, my neighbor; you’re a stranger we can do away with when society says that. We want to stop the revolution of ourselves turning into a mass of product. Can you realize that far? Please, come with me.
Sitting with Luna on the porch of The Planetary Court, Koreshan State Park, Estero, Florida, photo by Douglas, Easter Sunday, 2026
I am a monitor on freedom, molten lava, right now. I ICE —at his age he should leave them alone— and trap them in their wheels. You know the function of poetry, to open the heart of mankind, to get bigger notions than guns, to put ideas on railroad cars and pass them through each checkpoint of the limiting reason, to make language say what it can say when it’s not the mattress in your room; it’s the hope, and field, and trust of more friends than these, language expressed to the zenith point of our field of dreams. It bakes there the ellipses on the page the ellipses can’t show: a poet has gone off the page and entered your life, touched your things as he does his own.
Girl get censorship out the window, so it don’t rob us of meaning now when we most need meaning to show. I’m that report card. Treat me wisely. Handle me with care. W-o-w I’m there infinity report, the whole starward page we reach beyond, and I am your long lost friend you found in childhood and never forgot. I’m there a poem for you to read, a poet on this marge. I turn it upside down, the apple sitting there we hung by. So hang there no more, and love will lead the way. That’s the caption of the universe in all its drift and bale, in all its lonely regard. Everybody it’s movin’. We gotta move, and this is just the start.
Wow, what a life. Don’t paint pictures of larger reason you pigeon shit— the sheriff county Lee department. I’m on mountaintops. I’m in the immediate see of my room. I want to get across time. I’m really right here on your basketball who will Trump shoot next? Can you get larger than stars and balance concentration camps? Can you protect a poet that looks at trashcans, showing you the infinity of the universe Florida in the way?
I’m about the larger than Earth view, infinity beyond the universe, as where we put our cars your poetry has gone over mountaintops, and it’s landed in the nature of a cop. Who draws understanding there?
Man I host a larger continent that ours. I certainly put it in my poetry, and I do that to get down to earth. I’m on the pier now, runnin’ lines of poetry to the undiscovered continent. Happy all the fishes are, startled at man’s intensity catch them in the eye, but they will reveal themselves in time the substance of things they show. First we get larger than Earth, go weapon on this now.
It’s not on Mars or anywhere in the world that you know. It’s not other planets. Is this the chalice? It’s unknown in humanity. It’s bigger than sin or any right or wrong. Do you see it?
How do I make this out to you? I can’t get in there in your mind and see it. It’s not a framework of your imagination. Nor will visualization do. I can’t talk about it and hint at what I’m talkin’ about. It’s like seeing reality after being in a cave; cave is your only experience; cave is not does not exist.
It’s mountaintops, and you won’t see it from there. It’s not a view. There are no points in our reality that can glue this together. It doesn’t exist, wow, that’s gettin’ somewhere towards how completely other this is. It’s over your head.
It’s a farmer’s market, and you’re listenin’ to the words. Too many drumbeats in them to pull this out of your pocket a grasped thing. I’m countin’ on reality to show you its further face, to get you out of your wood, to give you some luster of something you haven’t even imagined yet.
It’s bigger than stars, and the universe is too small for it. Impossibly it can be in the universe a station over our heads, and that’s how you experience it, but you are not grand up there. You are so huge grand is a piddly thing that might describe a sphere, a one-eyed seeing, a place where there is one pole of reality, one fixture that bakes time and infinity in it.
I don’t think you know what I’m talking about. Look at a computer screen. Imagine AI does this all the time, is open to multiple zeros, can simultaneously enter numerous computer pads and be a language model, or you might see multiple screens upon a wall showing these different locations. Even with infinite number of screens, or people at their computer consoles, you can’t get there from here.
There’s another way to see reality that imagination cannot visit, because its constraints are this one o’clock view. Now I’m on diamonds now. This is the greatest experience of my life, the very meaning of reality, in our neck of the woods, the thing that all the universe shows if you grab ahold of its handles and see its meaning, and see its destination, and see the platform it wore that sprung forth it into being.
This is larger than time, and you are not hindered by time in it. The conditions of the universe do not apply. You are in another ground of being that sees past every limit we have and is all-encompassing. You’re spaced out in there. You’re humongous, and you are not one field of show. Nor are you multiple things that you see at once. There’s another way of seeing I cannot describe.
And when I sat up there I knew that this was incommunicable to the little person I was driving the truck catapulted on high I was. Only one word describes the confined I down there— prison. I was myself above, in a larger than field view I cannot describe. I saw myself down there not in myself as I was driving, and nothing obstructed my view.
Direction my gaze still bore. It was an all-encompassing view I could pinpoint knowledge in. Do you get my broadcast? These were all my lives I knew I was the origin of, these lives cast out upon time. The return I was I was sure, an infathomable endgame that was me. After my many lives I would meet myself on high and be who I was, a return journey that encompasses life.
This stings in the eyes how could you have forgotten yourself? How could you have forgotten who you were? It’s unbelievable the forgetfulness the loss of our very person.
Now what do I do with this? Describe the many points of seeing, the perfect stillness of that air, the excitement I felt a child in excitement, letting the game pass down below me I was a spectator of? And I was its origin and the director of its gaze. I cherry open it.
Where is this hub? Is everything just happening at once? Where do we begin and end? Where are we at now? Where is the destination point? What’s going on with us in relation to up there?
I cannot claim authority on these matters. I was myself on high several seconds. It did not go higher than that. I was knowledge by identity, and that’s how I saw everything, one with everything I saw. I had my identity with it but not bound by it. I was free. It was great, it was fantastic, it was true. I had pierced the veil and gone home.
Now who do I tell this to? How do I process the experience? I’m just this wooden man, and I have things wrong with me. Do you hear me shouting mud? I use the vehicles of this world to describe this world, but my aim is transcendence. I am a wide open see in my departmental thinking. The things wrong with me I have cleansed, and I’m a harmless being now to other human beings.
That did it. I took what I had seen and plugged it into my life. I saw that I was an actor, an avatar, a front man, not me personally, all of us. This is the video game fount of this thing called life. We are all actors in it, or movie stars, or stage performers, if you want to use the known to describe the Unknown. This frees you. This is the truth that sets you free— transcendence.
Now I’m not gonna fuck everybody to give you some guttural word that has so many strings attached you think I’m bad for sayin’ it. You cannot deal with these things: someone crosses your morality; a person uses the word nigger. I have no choice but to test you to challenge your operations of seeing. It’s not who we are, and the unreality is killing us.
Jesus said this, Jesus said that, you can deal with, even though the flywheel was radical. You put it in church. You sing it in hymns. You preach this to people, but the reality escapes you of what we have that he said. You would crucify him with it if he walked among you today.
Tomorrow it sounds like you will be needing glasses to change the character of man. Blame it all on one man, blame it on several thousand people, the world is falling apart. It’s not working I told the Man. Two cops came to my door and wanted to know what I was writing. You know it happened on Good Friday. They had it in their hand. They were startled by it, because someone had complained. I would not let them into my house. Nor would I go outside. No laws had been broken they told me; I was not in trouble. Yet they came to my house anyway, and what for?
It wasn’t the tooth fairy. It was two persons who would kill me, if it came to that. They had all power, and I was on my doorstep maintaining my own balance. Why did they come, if I had not broken any laws in the writing of mine that they gave me? What’s goin’ on?
Will I see them again? Will I be dragged off to jail, because in Florida I can be kept for 33 days without charges being filed? Do you know what’s happenin’? We’ve reached a morality breach. It is so big and unwieldy there is no safety in it anymore. It’s not protection. It’s control people, control everybody, because morality has come out of the wood, what makes people look small in comparison. We can’t tolerate morality being questioned.
I’m in this field today. I question morality, not to fulfill my desires, not to be a braggart and kingpin, not to just waste your time, not give harm to anyone. I question morality to improve the lot of the human being, to wake us up on one another, to make us question ourselves, to put love there as the root of all equations, to bring a better society.
Those are noble aims. They are not base. Yet I am facing police harassment and a threat of jail. Is this a free country? No. In fact, police state is where it’s headin’, and you’re not even aware it’s goin’ on.
Have I read the last newspaper, the library of social media? I found cops at my door for poetry I’d written. Trump’s in office. What happened? Are they gone here, where we put Trump, what we allow Trump, the constraints in morality we are imposing on our population? You can hear Trump rant, say heartless things, about the men, women, and children his is killing in his war against Iran.
They didn’t do nothing wrong. Aggress against us they did not. They were just there a convenient target to take our mind off Trump’s sex with minors he Epstein’d. How many people will die for this? Do you even want one? Yet you won’t say a word, Trump supporters, of how immoral he’s being.
Our nation is crashing. Don’t you see it? We need to change the world of Trump. We need to be a good nation to other nations. Defend me for sayin’ that? No, I have not one defender. I am alone in my hour of need, and the police could shoot me or lock me in a hole, and the matter would be closed.
I have no friends or family who could help me. I stand here alone. One person on this Earth who lifts me up an adult who can do that— Douglas. Fine, beautiful, is that what you say? I can’t get over it, the hatred of the crowd, my fellow Americans not being fair, not being just, just wanting me harmed in however they can get that done.
Who sicced the cops on me? I bet Christians. Cowards. I can do nothing for them, but my poem’s here for them to read, and my poem always will be. I’ve reached a speech of Earth that figures in the world. It’s only a matter of time it does with the public and not only the cops and some special arrangements. People react to it like they’ve been caught on fire.
So far no help has come, no support group, no friends who I can count on, but I’m rilin’ the crowd with brotherly love, with radical sayings about the brotherhood of man, a social system based on love, even for the criminal, even for the poor, even for the nobody, even for myself, and you want me killed or out of town?
Stand up and be counted. Leave a comment here and show your face. You know what cowards are. Are you being brave? Call me stupid. Call me a fool a bad man, but I’m not a coward, am I?
So what am I doing? Conducting an open sacrifice of my best interests to communicate to you what I’ve seen, to show you what I’ve learned from that. Are you out there? Are you sure you’re in the right wood? Are you persecuting the wrong man? Do you have any guts? I’m hammer down on you wishy-washy men and women and on your meanness and lack of love, on your ignorance, on your lack of sacrifice.
There, you’ve got my message. I spelled it out in plain language poetry put. I’ve told you what I’m about. I’ve showed it to you, yourself. Where do we go from here? Let’s hope up. There’s always shoes you can put yourself in of another person’s. Walk three days in his moccasins the saying goes? Well, would you do that please? But anyway, I’m a sitting duck. That’s your right?
Fingership opening to the trails that made the world right here on my blog, right in these poems, and you wanna shoot me for it? Let’s see how it looks in the not so long from now, your persecution of me. Are you going to look like good men and women? Are you a good cop?
As in a chemical weapon, these cops are niggerin’ me. They put fear in the air. They try to intimidate me, make me afraid. It’s their tactic. They are probably Christians too. Are you seein’ a pattern here? Christianity is not a religion of love, as it expresses itself in political America. Anyway this cop has his eye on me, like I’m doin’ somethin’ wrong, but I’m only writing poetry.
They don’t know the gist of it, what it’s for or how it’s done. They think it’s intimidation they can use to stop it. Is poetry representation? It has that in it yes, even in its plainly spoken, but it’s aimin’ at somethin’, and that’s the strength to clear, get your point across a better world.
Poetry does that, but it allows any character to speak. Any opinion can be held upon the page, and the poet does not hold every opinion on the page and can express the opposite opinion of his own with the strength to say it as its bearer would. This allows for lots of play but also misinterpretation, with language at the center and ideas.
Do you know where that takes us? We arrive at art, the output of man at his best. Through familial decisions, the notions of a clan, art has been degraded today to hold no special status. Poetry’s just spittin’ in the wind. It has no directional paper. The cops can use it to put you in jail, and in Florida, they can do that with no charge for over a month. I don’t think we live in a free country, but you would call me unpatriotic.
A poem is worth something more than any other form of writing. It’s elevated speech. It’s priceless when it really gets good. We don’t honor poetry today, and reading it is like reading the newspaper. It’s literal fact and fiction. It’s not playing with ideas to sprout the Earth, as a cop sees it, or the people who called them on me for writing poetry.
I can’t tell you the significance of this as a barometer monitoring our freedom. When art and poetry gets the knife, calls the cops to your house, your nation’s in trouble. You’re at the red meter, and it only gets worse.
Did anybody today benefit from my poem? Are you open-eyed and see? No, it’s not that simple. Hearts closed are hearts closed, and a mind of no light has no light, only the rule-beats of the crowd, or some scriptural layaway plan. Hand over your right to be, that’s what that cop told me.
I did not chose my nature. It did. I have to deal with what comes. I can’t live by my impulses. I have an ordered house. I don’t harm anyone. I control myself day and night. Am I stuck in the rafters? I’m not having difficulty with this. I have put sex to sleep and thoughts of sex. I keep anger out of the world over and over. I’m not a jealous person. I’m not lazy either. I do not lie, cheat, or steal.
I’m sorry, the truth comes at a price, and if I’m hiding Jews in my basement, I don’t tell the Nazis they’re there. I use common sense as I employ morality. I do no rigid rules, except to keep from harming people, but I do keep my hands from harming the people around me. It’s this I have to give, because my nature would burn people otherwise.
I’m a flexible soul, and I don’t expect everybody to hold the same ideas in motion. I realize I’m dealing with the crowd when encountering individuals. A storm I encounter when I do that. Everybody just thinks they’re free. April 22nd I’m on a collision course with reality. I didn’t know that. What does that mean? Is it a prevision? It doesn’t sound like it helps me.
How can I get away from here? I can’t. I don’t have any pistols. I can’t afford to leave. What’s comin’ my way? What am I gonna collide with? I can’t tell yah. I’m a vulnerable man siting in his house writing poetry. Will they shoot my dog? Will Boogers get burned, Luna baby? Why should a citizen go through this? Is this the sin of poetry? What’s goin’ on?
I’m into this up to my neck, and it gets deeper. Will you help me? Oh course not— like, like, like, like, and if I’m lucky I’ll get four or more. There will be no more help. Southwest Florida’s ultraconservative, does not have love for your neighbor. Gimme that alcohol! So many drink here and lead nice ordered lives that no grills get in.
Do you know what’s goin’ on? So many of you are hitting rock-bottom in how you encounter the world love in it. They don’t know it’s not a social persona hug you wear, a smile broad as the sun but not real to the wearer. It’s not how you shake hands, how firmly or with device. It’s how you are with other people who you don’t have to be good to, who you can take that mask off with, and right buddy, I’m right fuckin’ there, a nobody with a stigma as wide as Texas?
When we first started you were good to me, at least here on the island. I wrote poems, and you dropped me like a hot potata, and that was that. What am I sellin’ in my poetry? Brotherly love I kid you not, love all people and every livin’ thing, and I explore that with myself too, but love’s the keynote of my speech. It’s where I bring my poems, asking you to love too. Love dropped me out of your room. Love is what you’re mad at about me today. I call you to love when it hurts.
I call on you love now, whatever you’re feelin’. Put a higher ideal on your play, have that higher ideal lookin’ at you through everything. Get mad sure, get frustrated, but always come back to love before you grenade somebody, before you try to get them shot, take down their life. You’re just bein’ petty and mean, lowlife.
Do you know Steven your name’s been called? I could call it every day, and you would not respond. That’s just hateful, Steven Step-Brother Abbott. What’s goin’ on? Are you there? Hey girl and everything’s not peaches and cream. Emily you just pretend to talk to me and want me on the end of a ten-foot pole— my niece everybody. Can you like, get some guidance from somewhere inside, and you guys higher ideal love? I didn’t do anything to you, either of you. You see the stigma, not the man.
How far will you go with that to improve your world? I think you’ll go backwards. If it’s poison from within, I can help you there. Just give me a ring. Alright family? You’re all that I have left. Do you understand that bit? I’m fighting for my life here. I can use some support you look up. I could use that, the understanding.
When I was a kid and playing football, we had one more game the Thompson Lions. I was third string, tailback of all things. Got chased with the ball more than I ran it. It was a fiasco I tried to play catch. I was in the adolescent showdowns, pimples all over my face and pigeon-toed feet. Do you see that levy today?
I just want yah to leave your phone number at when I can call. I can’t even sit at anybody’s table. I’m a bigger voice than that discovery teenager. I’m about the world now, and I keep the juice in my gun and don’t masturbate, and I give harm to no one. Will it make any difference Steven, Emily?
Alright I’ve pulled you up on the carpet. Mean, is that mean? I’m in dire straits here, and family is given to me as the model of who you can always rely on. That model’s bullshit, but almost every movie plays it and so many of our songs. Open it, let’s open it, we are family. [sing above line, song title, Sister Sledge] Total perception, there’s what happenin’ in this poetry seer. I see you’re not organized enough to see it. Calm down, I’m not mad at you. I just need some help, okay?
She didn’t have little kids at her house or any sore thumbs. He might represent ailing mankind. They’re gonna get that option too, the program I failed. Where’s history draw the line, option failed? I think the world’s bigger than that and conscious too. Wouldn’t you want to see that in my eyes? Talkin’ to you my family. Lip service, you know I don’t play that game.
Now hypocrisy, this is exactly David Koresh, the stupidity he treated kids with when he put them in bed with him. Are you going over that with me? Even if you had doubts you know that’s not true. There is a deeper interior you haven’t gotten to, a more profound base. From there, if you’re connected with someone, your heart reached out and saw if they were right or not. If you had a perfect comeback, you could judge me in sin, but I’m not in sin am I? Your eyes can see inside that far.
So now you will ignore me and not hear my plea? I’m here man I’m here. Will you send the cops and try to kill me, or will you purple up this paper with the royalty it shows, the kingdom of love? Straight as altitude, I am the seat on my helmet. Listen to me quick. I won’t leave the world behind. I won’t leave you behind either, if we have an opening together.
Now tell me, is truth worth Supermind? I’m all ears, and a book really turned me on at the sap, Hand Over That Mountain, and it looks like I truly am. Just dry and soft no. It’s the tallest thing you’ll ever read, and nothing can match it watch it grow.
Tell her to turn down please, turn down. A student’s library run any bounds here? We need to change the world. Put paratroopers and airplanes and drop them over everything. Why are you so disguise my bucket? Do you think I’m molestin’ the world? It’s medic though. It gives you the real thing.
Trust yourself first you’re not limited, and that’s the axle of the program, the inner guide. Come on people hear it now. Hear it give this voice a song, and hear me sing it loud, my sweet Lord. [sing above line, song title, George Harrison] Am I standin’ on whodunit? I’m clear as a whistle here, hallelujah my dear Lord. [sing above two lines to tune of “My Sweet Lord”] Did my song reach you? Did you come on board?
Heavy duty, that can do it, and I’m right in the middle doin’ it, right in the middle of everybody, on mountaintops. There I am with you, but this was a job to have by the economies, and now continue you’re wrapped around. Diego your boyhood answer, how it followed you home puppy love.
Am I missin’ beats? It was a host’s problem we couldn’t buy, sell, trade just makin’ stuff up. This is the inner voice you know, and it gets down on the inside real clear, line by line’s you’re good at readin’ that little girl with her cat. Pussy, pussy, [sing above line as poussé, poussé is sung] and you heard that before by John Lennon he heard in a dream, changed the lyric to not get censored, and right here we gold rush his song “#9 Dream” the pussy he let up to survive.
There are a lot of interesting places I kept Gemini freeways where I went with a song. You want that, my God do you want that. You want the truth of that song. Not gonna fit in our helpless lesson plans. Motivational speakers, they get banned. Bullshit. Well I’m lettin’ the inner voice out. Maybe if I can go all the way to town with it, I might get in trouble, but here I am, [sing above line to tune of, “Turn the Page”, Bob Seger] and we’re on the last line.
I was lyricist nine ruly women making all ideas, making the sound of ideas, out past all forms and last lines a breach loved it of the Unknown. Who can say no to that? I’m at the stage. [sing above line to tune of “Turn the Page”] Fine, I’ll come home, in the right caption. A parting shot: am I going there alone? Sell my own question those mattress or we’re dead, what we lay on together son, get right down to it higher life.
What are you doing? Miss further if I don’t cut off now. Round Tree followed the pix moon trail. Silence? That’s where this poem comes from, and that’s where it returns. Reich Train wants your Jews and holocaust. It’s a matter of board. That’s always on the table. It has somethin’ to do with the Israel lobby yeah, but more than that, much more than that, we don’t want it in our society again, the organized massed destruction of people, the systematic butcher, the very precise and orderly killing machine, the very mundane of massacre, done like you go to church or to the dentist’s office, so fucking banal it drives you crazy, so ordinary it flips you out.
Don’t laugh we’re approaching that again. ICE and its niggers bring that to mind with hand and feet. Now could they do a holocaust, Trump and his regime? If they could get that far. Look at the climate today. What does Alligator Alcatraz mean? Look at the lip behind it, the flippant notion, the c'est la vie, the wear it on a t-shirt, and we’re talking about people put in a prison for deportation, men, women, and children (the latter two on the way) in a swamp.
I can gather other bright ideas from what’s goin’ on, but you see the mounting wheels. It can happen here, believe it or not, immigrants, pedophiles, you name it. We can stick anybody into that Shoah. Look at public opinion. Who’s vermin? The people that ICE murders, and don’t you find that odd there’s no remorse? Oh I’m sorry I killed a mother and her three children. That woman barely did an infraction. Talk to her children today. Where’s momma? I want my momma. And you’re okay with that? She got in the way. It was her fault she was murdered.
You are so stick in the ICE. Are you from Naples are yah, Bonita Springs, Fort Myers Beach? I wrote poetry and you put the cops at my door. You could be a killing machine, oh yeah. You can support massacres. What do you have to say for yourselves? Come on, leave a comment below. Will you send more cops to my house, because I’ve made you mad? I’m on the island. Well, hey, you can give me to money to leave. Happiness is seeing Florida in my rearview mirror, and I’m not in a police car. Could you help me with that? Well I do appreciate it. I thank you, you rich people. Oh eye of the needle is waiting for you, and I bet you must be Christian. Goddamn hallelujah, and pass the ammunition, right? Yeah.
Some kind of return to luminous secrecy, I sat immobile on life’s verge a witness self not yet achieved, but the sun is out, but the Self is out. I turn in thoughts of Self and luminous change, a heretic in your eyes, a monster in some. I spy the Earth right where I am, on your doorstep, poetrying your hatred to sleep, or opening your eyes wider, if your heart’s on luminous change. What are you doin’? I sit and wait for change. On a bottom line I sit and hurt waiting for the police to show up. You into that?
If we gave ourselves, we cannot see the trail. We’re haphazard in the dark in our guessing lines. I can’t see a good on the horizon comin’ down the pike my way. Can you reader? Oh reader can you?
It’s not about harming children. It looks like you’ve won the fight there. We just don’t know about your guitar. Is it a Shakespearean tragedy? Anyway, you’re really down to massagin’ horses. You capture me with verse. You’re on your pen a poet deals with the world, and you poet the skyline to where we go from here. Thank you devil. Thank you bullpen. Thank you the right thing. I’ll punch my time card right here in your verse, and man there’s a lot of people down there could discover your book. It’s another thing entirely. It’s a Shakespearean sonnet William Blake wrote. It’s so up our horse’s ass it’s pretty. You’ve got the light on poetry, and you’re fuckin’ good. I’ll see yah at noon.
Damn, I didn’t expect that. I’ll set the books down and jump to sleep. A reader made my day. Give you an orange. You picked up on a reader focused in the house, let him speak, but you put the poetry on ‘im. Now girl, she’s got somethin’ else to show yah more concerned with the kiddies, as women do, but you should get passing grades with her too. You’re just not in fancy school yet. I mean your verse is there. There’s no line of acceptance as a poet yet. You are often weird, your style too complicated for people to read like contemporary poetry. It’s out of style, the verse you put out. That’s okay. Out of style once, and style won’t be your main concern when you get landed on by the public.
We’ll check the fire station what fires they put out, people readin’ your verse. Oh, one question: do you make a livin’, yes or no? No I don’t. I don’t know how anymore after my knee got torn. Now I just sit and write verse a lot. That’s a job. That’s an honest day’s work. You’re helpin’ society with its needs. You’re openin’ the frying pan and puttin’ yourself on the fire. That’s valuable, worth somethin’. Would you be opposed to charity donations? You’ve offended all the rich people, but hey, maybe somebody’ll give yah a hand, and you haven’t made the rich out to be bad. Thank you. I’ll keep up the good work.
Darlin’ dog, it’s time for papa to go to sleep. I’ll just squeeze you one last time, give you some pettin’ to put love in my sleep angle. Goodnight honey dog. It’s just not gonna go in there, the keynote express. Alright I’ll lift the moon. Oh yeah, gonna sing and dance all night. They call the restaurant kitchen, and divine beings fill the room, I mean in its thought spheres. I’ve got some things to show for it, this poem the Muses bring. God on earth, let’s get this party started.
Can you connect the dots? The indescribable undiscovered continent, well it comes down here and inhabits us just above the top of the head, I mean inhabits our universe, divinizes our world, and we see from there. Isn’t that the process of the ages? It’s what we’re doin’ here, discoverin’ Ourselves, that Person I described up there, where it wasn’t manifested yet in our neck of the woods, I mean in mine. Impossible as the long is day, we’re gonna get up there, and it’s gonna meet us there in our new station above the top of the head, just as pretty as you please.
And now I lay me down to sleep. I can find it better where I’m not seekin’ playin’ cards. Goodnight muse. Goodnight people. Goodnight dog. Goodnight poem. I’ve said it all. The clear factor, oh my goodness, I’ve put my room in there. Not this mission is a secret, and it’s no tragedy you bunch of hound dogs. Fine thing, you should hang out with us. A chocolate program that’s alone in time, that’s our little village Triumphant. We need to put that house in the woods somewhere. Okay, open to ideas. You got an intentional community you wanna share? Give us a call at BR-549, the email on this blog Hee Haw, and you got a donation button right there at your fingertips put us on freeways. You can call it emergency. You can call it we need help Rotterdam. Well I kiss your wood goodnight.
He got it well from within. Who plucked sin from nature’s view and came to the world’s window for all to see? That’s I am. I am the duration of that ride. Oh what are you on TV for, to see the bad guys win, to see the Earth fall apart, to see yourself in the mirror? I’m the initiation of the world. Look who’s spoken. I am the process from on high. Do you know good?
Original TV, I resist your darts and arrows and sling them back poetry. You are not on that mountain: to be the bringer of change, to be the poet at hand, and you will not understand I’m talkin’ to you about love where we go to from here. You want to shoot that? I got some ocean front property in Arizona, [sing above line, “Ocean Front Property”, George Strait] and you are lying through your teeth. I joined the hemispheres, and I’m not backin’ down from that wooden sacrifice. I’m the real thing. I lay down my life for freedom, and I give my all to love. Listen, do you?
This is a work of poetry, all names, characters, and incidents viewed through that art lens, and the whole shall not be judged by any part, because it speaks in representation and gives characters their voice, / who's liable to say anything, and the author's there to sort things out if you just wait a minute dew. That's the shouting line, even if you think censorship's top dog. I got your number. It's hangin' on this book what offends you.
The barriers of time, I don’t think you ride them very well. We come up against them all the time. They’re in our shoes. They hurt a lot. You can’t see this for the daylight, the great big prison playroom we are in. It’s got walls to it intrinsically built into each one. That’s where our cameras go. That’s how we feel this test.
Your loved one’s on the other side of the room bakin’ pies. In symbolic meaning that’s a round of thought comin’ your way. You’re separated by time’s barriers. You can’t get at each other in the physical sense. Great big surprises come your way when you do, cramped experience that puts relationship to the test. You hold them there sweetly, and then you may never see them again.
You don’t know what’s up, what’s goin’ on. I’ve left my poem alone in a fire so heartfelt in love’s embrace. I can’t get at the tires, or maybe death’s got your door, and your dog’s died, the great big sloppy-lickin’ dog of your life, and no ma’am I haven’t just lost a dog. I’ve lost a reality so big it took up half my room. She was always there lickin’ paws next to my life. Losing her took my front teeth— my daughter you know.
She’s melting time’s barriers tryin’ to see me. I don’t think you know the cough of this universe. It’s horrifying. I see her damn near every day tryin’ to reach through vision to get me near to her. Death’s reality would spook you if you knew it’s there. I’ve muscle on this, but I’m pigeon-toed. I can’t just hold my girl like she’s right up against me. I hold her paw in some astronaut’s gleaming Interstellar there at the back of the house. The confines of death, they break us apart.
The muscle of time, do you know it’s there? It separates you from everything— one little lonely being at a time. Times barriers put us in a single physical space where we can’t figure each other out. We laugh out loud, then cry.
You’re a pickup truck that can’t pick anybody up. You hold yourself the station of the universe, but you can’t move a goddamn thing if others block you. They are themselves the center station too. The great paradox of life makes you powerless to act where you would give your right eye to act but cannot, in those places most meaningful to you you have no power over. You sit in time scaling your life, a sheer wall of belief and hard fact, never any top in sight. What are you doin’?
It puts us to the test. Time’s warriors bake and sell us at the flea market, but this is not why you’re here, and you last longer than Heaven, a safe haven at the back of the house to get our strength back but that can trap us too. We are so much bigger than death that blinds us all while we’re still alive. Hold your child close. Can you protect him from anything bigger than your arms of control? Fiend death my friend, he sucks. What’s the answer to all this? What are we doing?
The answer lies on a page in a WordPress blog? Definitely, if you know how truth presents itself. It’s not haughty and it don’t wear spears. It might even be embarrassing, hittin’ in society’s low spot. It would be uglier than the norm, the vehicle of truth, but it would shore you up with sincerity if you test it. It would be one among a mass that your truth sense recognize, because it is beyond belief in name and form. It’s not part of the system that ensnares you.
Come to my party? There’s no snaking you there. You just have to realize what’s been true all along, but that you have never seen because it’s so represent itself, and you only see the representation, the figure in time, or the one who has wings to be your figure of God behind it you thought about a lot but never really met. The scientist would just see a meaningless void.
Can’t you see I got your skies on? I’m not pollutin’ the skies. I’m not anything wrong. Well how about that? I hold my boy in love’s embrace, and we figured out time. That’s the challenger for your social skies. I’m not doin’ business. I’m a love angle on time to make us greater in it. That’s the vehicle in the room. Can you dig it?
The limits of time, they are both normal and strange. You can’t be in two places at once a sudden trapdoor to a greater life. You are either who you are upstairs or the little I down there livin’ life. I’ve seen this juxtaposition, where I got out of time. It was a railroad. Greater times are comin’.
Now I just comb my hair and wash my face and shoot my gun? No I land this in your lap reachin’ through a poem to you. It’s fresh meat now, but where will I be when I am dead, and you’re readin’ these words? Look around the room. Am I there a thought stroke?
That’s life, you know the big one. Strict society belt won’t even let you think this to yourself. I’m bein’ looked in on by me with a question: how much longer you runnin’ half the house? You will have a future integral with who you are on high. My God this is big, and we meet time’s barriers down the because in the room. I’m comin’ after you foldin’ time, a lesson in reality completely out of the script. You’re gettin’ that script.
I’ve come all the way from the ground up. I’m not an existential crisis. I know who I am. I’ve been shot that’s all, ghosted by most everyone, put out to pasture. What do you do with that, and you identify with the world, hold it close your livin’ self? You have gone out of time and been the big who we are, enough to see it, enough to be it to know it’s there.
I’ve seen outside the symbolism, outside the roles we play. Even if you call it a computer simulation, figuring the unknown with the known, whatever you call it, I’ve been in compassionate reality, the bigger reality beyond this one. I’ve seen the real thing. No one counts this as a thing to be known where animals food our feeding faces as our reality, no depth to it, no meaning, nothing behind, except Gods to worship and obey or enlightenment’s sweepstakes that bring you empty shell.
Can’t you see beyond time? What’s bigger than the universe? Is that just empty skies? What’s bigger than playpens? I’m a figure on that. So like the show to give you the universal accepted scapegoat as the one to show. I can’t get my name in public. I can’t even write it down anywhere near heard. Is that just because I’m lying?
Can I show you my flag? It’s not rainbow screwed. It’s your heartbeat and mine symbolizin’ time. It’s where everybody goes to school. It’s the time of day in this poem. It’s where we all meet at the end of the classroom. I’m sorry it’s me, but hello I’m yours.
The terror is only a being in time. The face of evil, It can’t get at that larger you in transcendence’s sphere. It has no power there. It can only rattle your cage. Anything it does to you it’s not doing to you but to the actor in that cage. This is the meaning of no harm can come to you.
It’s beyond time time's relevant, time's keeper, truth's formula, but it can act within time and space with impunity, with absolute, unhindered power. It is bigger than evil. It has eyes on you, not to save your life but to bring you home. It does not stare you down. It doesn’t even guide you with any advice. It’s up there. You’re down here, but it’s comin’ to meet yah. It’s comin’ to be who you are down here. This is the plan of Earth, what her victory skies.
You are a crossroads to that. We are at Earth’s great turning point to land ourselves there. I am a seed bearer that is all. I come to tell you what’s comin’, and if my voice don’t get out someone else will. This is the mystery time hides, why it put you in a straight jacket, why it won’t leave you alone. Can you understand me? Do you see what I’m doin’? I’m meetin’ you with your maker who is you. I’m solvin’ the mystery of time. I’m giving you wings to grow. Take my hand please, these worded verses, and make it all worthwhile.
Protracted, a polar bear’s smile. It’s gonna take a long time to reach Supermind. It’s not there at our feet. It’s not your garden grow. It’s not at the hoof of your horse. It has to be as common as a cold for you to see it. The more people up there for a moment’s gleam, it holds you up there breakout sweepstakes.
This area’s comin’ into our view portal now the hesitancy in time. It’s comin’ your way in poems Emily Dickinson’s undiscovered continent she looks out on from her pier. Rumi’s love poem says you can only see the sun by the sun. Did we see him there? Now this poet speaks in plain as day. I’ve reminded you of Supermind in Savitri’s care. I’m just the outcast that says it.
Now hold me close. You don’t have to do nothin’, just read the poem the miles that you work today, the poem that you reach today. It’s such a piano to look at the subway and see supernal skies. Stand the subway of time. Is that tomorra mornin’?
Emergency level truth’s barriers, time’s walls. There’s a lot goin’ on. Right at the turning point. Except for the money I wanna tell you somethin’. Your morality drinks beer. You’re not the captain of the ship people. You’re who we go to to take our stories off. Right here for you on your mark, get set… The restrict we have, we put it on things. We use safety to protect ourselves from safety. Actually a lot right here. We’re movin’ on. What’s your plan, bring us all to safety? That one சாவி, I’m inside a poem.
Have brain damage, that’s not really politics. It’s a funeral. Who would see The Last Tree Trunk on Earth? Critics say it’s a good movie. It’s spills bad. It was filmed inside Iran in secret trees. It’s got a wallop to it. You see freedom up close thrown out in the street and beaten on. You see it shot with knives. This is a real camera folks, and girls just want to have their scarves not choke them to death. Is anybody watching this? Can anybody care?
The Seed of the Sacred Fig was put in the wrong house. Brilliant you hear the arguments at the table theocracy speaks, but it’s shot in red and white, and we practice human nature with a murdering gun. We do not show human nature. A father and daughter are not that red apart, suddenly, unexpectedly, so the plot can aim its gun. Would a family go mad, horribly so, for a strength to resist evil that none of them felt they had? An entire lifetime together with daddy milk and a mother devoted to everyone, it lands on the freeway I will hunt you down and kill you love said.
How tall these movies are in our backyard. They bring humanity under the gun. Has human nature been robbed of its sense? It’s blow out of proportion so it can impress audiences and score award points. We see human nature sick and dying in movie after movie, and we can’t get over the villain. He is so perfect in his craft, miraculously a monster just doing the impossible. We love to hate him, and if it’s a her all the more.
They’ve confused us with what’s real. Human people don’t act like that, and these movies have us all alarmed, riding out our hate in tickets sold. What’s the point of all this mess? Make more bucks, and let’s take these artistic challenges and make them rob people wear. My God that’s a talented movie just on our disease.
Alejandro in Problemista almost makes the villain human, but then he wrote the apology. We’d have to go to Sing Sing for a good movie in emotional fare, so Shakespeare on Earth. Let’s not get too gay in National Anthem and spoil the show. We have purpose in our lives this movie knows not of. You wear a good Holocaust in A Real Pain, tryin’ to show it right, on the level of human eyes a human drama. What am I doin’? Showin’ you my movie list. I watch a lot of movies. I’m really into them. This is the way we spend human nature, in identifying roles. We get involved with a part. We identify with a character, a plot. It wears our lives in symbolic meaning. We get at the stuff.
We invest ourselves there oh so strongly. We’re raped with a bad ending. A good movie can make us feel good about ourselves and improve our lives. It can heal. It can do bad things. It can tear up our lives for a moment of all meaning. It is so very powerful, cinema. It goes directly to the starting point, where our lives came from and why. Alejandro is good at this. Amazing creativity those scenes where he’s talkin’ to someone, and it shows the whereabouts, the representative part.
Drum roll please. We are creative edges of time. We stand and sing our lives an entertainment for deep meaning. So many roles wear our lives. Can you get at the audience? Being after being, shrouded in unimaginable mystery, have a total immersion gamble with our lives. Of course we like movies. We are there.
A Rumpelstiltskin comes along and plays the keyboard, and we’re on bended ground unable to figure out destiny, but we can get back to ourselves. Audience after audience prevents us, the cliffhanger of our lives their entertainment point, but they value our lives in our bid for freedom and to discover who we are. It’s their thrill. They clap when the angels sing.
Are you crazy yet? You’re just gettin’ started. There is so much behind the scenes in the dragnet of who you are. I cannot show this to you, the person you are on high, the actor that has donned this long line of all these lives. I can only keep tryin’ in poem after poem and my symbolic life, but it’s a farce you know. I’ve really let yah down, right where you needed me, and there’s no way to make that up. When you see it’s a game, though a meaningful one, know like you know the body you wear, because you have seen it with your own eyes, that you are an actor in a cage, a player playin’ time, the first thing you do is fuck up. It’s the proud of human nature. It’s so stupid.
It prevents me from showing you who I am and who you are, unimaginably big, but that’s life, a goddamn movie that just throws you for a loop, and you can never get it right until you stop the pretendin’ and come together on yourself what you need beyond time. You’re not the audience I’m speakin’ to when I say I’m puttin’ on those shoes. Feel the thrill? A poet measure this poet smiles.
How do you chew on that poem? We grow in stadiums. A Watcher watches our lives. It’s dream big. It’s not who we are the audience in prerecorded time. This is not the first time creation mount. Great DVDs we live for their viewing pleasure. We are that Watcher you see, not the audience pang, and we can’t get over him. It’s too stadium big. It transcends time and space, but above our roofs it’s there, the hidden keeper of our lives, who we return to, the one who started it all in our little universe.
You don’t believe me I know, but you’d like to. The hidden meaning of our lives are compassionate witnesses beyond number and form. Everywhere they look they are there the meaning behind creation on this bended globe, in this starstruck universe, and they change us with a look the bearing on time. They are the Watchers behind time watchin’ the movie us them very selves in time. Can you feel them?
Your true self, they bring you home. Months of capacity open those gates, if you’re ready for them again, and you’ve been there before for a brief moment a time or two in all your many lives where afterlife grows. It's a certainty you remember. It’s a certainty you hold in your skies that you farm into your very ground I’ve planted this poem with, a vehicle of my own return one sudden afternoon before the death of me. You come up with yourself in the ultimate game of life, the ultimate paradox of life. That’s a round of applause. You hear the whole stadium sing your great escape, your victorious mile I put better in progress.
Alejandro, he did it. I’ve seen what movies list as our great surprise. Too mundane to take it where we meet beyond the universe, they give it gas and go. Are you hearin’ this?
A heartbroken line. You just have to write this down. There is no Earth and Heaven but you. We glide here on our own devices. We can’t see the world around us. It’s blind to us too. We can’t even see our yard. There’s a process there. It’s image on sight. We have see things to believe in them. Our fingers have to touch their face. No other process allowed. That’s the ring around the rosie for us. It’s how we live.
It gets us in a lot of trouble. We can’t always see things. When people are away from us they’re gone. We imagine their existence, and it’s not real to us. They’re not there. Now tell me what to do? Go outside and see things, and try to transfer sight to some bigger picture happening before your eyes. Don’t just see your little world. It’s gotten big enough to swallow you whole. We gotta get outta here.
It eats us alive. It’s the only thing we know. Can you see this? Do you know what I’m talkin’ about? We are blind before our face. Our world is the world, and there is no other that has the reality of ours. We can put this in a movie or a sports field, or maybe even a good book. We feel something other than ourselves, but we’re involved in it. We’re still the center of the room. Look at YouTube Shots. They piece you to pieces, this show, and that show, and this show, and you have your favorites. Where are they taking you? They don’t know how to time. They don’t stop. You are lost there in the middle of you.
I’m tryin’ to get to some larger whole none of us see. We’re divided up in pieces, your world and my world and Larry’s world. Will we put our glasses on and see this? It really sucks you know when you lose someone. Say you had a kid and you’ve been raisin’ them since they were three. At 12 you lost them, and they were just taken from you for no other reason than just to take, ‘cause you made someone mad. Devastating.
It was a bubble relationship. We were the captain of our ship laughin’ at the world go by we teammates, best friends, together all the time. We were joined, and the world went by, and we were so special in it, so much comfort in each other, so much love. And then you lose that boy. No contact is allowed, and you watch that boy turn like he never knew you, and now he wants you gone. No, no, I didn’t abuse him. His parents did. He was broken whipped and spanked until he gave his parents what they wanted, the keys to himself. They can do that. They’re Indian parents. He was broken, lost his will, lost himself. They spanked him, and he cried and cried, and I had promised to save him and couldn’t come. That anger rides.
What are we left with? A quaking world. Death would seem a happy state, and I almost long to be there. I want my boy. I can’t take it. There is no escape from this pain. What do you do? You feel pain. You don’t know what to do. There’s no way out. Months ahead, the death of a child. There is no remedy for this. I’m lost in him, and oh the jesters of pain, that kid could care less if he sees me again, in just two short weeks.
Where do we go? To death? We have to do something. We have to live. We have to get up and live. You’ve been fucked by the universe, abandoned by your Gods. All soul’s failed, and you’ve got to find another life, and you really want the one you had. You’re stupid you tell yourself, a fool. Children are treacherous, and they only like pleasure and joyrides, and their heart can be bought with candy and cake, and they forget you, even when you were their whole world.
I’m dying in this pain, and I’m just showing it to you so you know of the reality of which I speak, in some little lost world forgotten from the whole. To cut him out of my heart is blind. That boy needs protected, and he’s in a bad situation. It’s an abusive situation. I cannot abandon him. I must go on tryin’ to free him, but the loss is too great to bear. You see the predicament.
It’s going somewhere. I am being perfected for him in parental ways, as he will need to be healed. If he returns, he will be healed with certain hands. I’m ready for him. There is just this need to swallow, this ever aching need that he fulfill my life, be its ornament, and meet my emotional needs. How can I get rid of this? Don’t look at me funny. You do it too with children. We are property lovers with them.
I don’t know how to do this, and that is my lesson now. It hurts. Where do I find you? In the lesson plan. I’m reaching out to you to be a lover with you, to put down that kid a minute, and let’s say hey look at this: we are fragmented world. Will you do the time with me? It might be a pickup truck that takes us all on a ride to higher skies. That’s where we think about larger things than ourselves and the contents and people of our little world. I’m pushin’ yah there in my own flagpole as I do this too. Will you sing with me?
Will we be together again? We come from afar. This is not our home. We’re on dangerous ground, where the Void meets Earth. There are doings here that have us all undone. We live out our lives little people, totally forgetting who we are together, the very next field above this one, the supramental field.
I’m ridin’ yah there, journeying myself. I don’t want to go. All my thoughts on little boy and what’s going on with him right now. Is he happy is he sad? Is he missing me? Would he like to see me again? Are they hurting him? This goes deep.
Alright I’ve told you some about what we don’t talk about: look there’s a whole; look there’s together again; look we are bigger than what we are. Have I reached out to you? I can’t see it. I don’t even know you’re there. I think that’s a reality kingpin. I’m alone in here in front of all of you, because of my perception. Can you figure it out?
That is put to the finish. Hey you got some things growing up there. Tunnel things this reality. It’s trustworthy. There’s no other way to see it. We’re not real, is that how far this goes? Do you see what I’m gettin’ at? Where is reality’s footing? Where do we place ourselves? In the center of attention? I think we look higher up. We look where it happens, where reality gets arranged, and we find ourselves there watching the arrangement. Isn’t that funny? Here I am.
Suffer the supramental solution. Sri Aurobindo wrote his letters just sittin’ there. He didn’t see the disciples, yet he knew they were there. He didn’t have to see them. He had concrete inner contact with them, and he knew what was goin’ on. He could see their own selves, and he knew what they needed.
This was just vision to him. No, this was the substance of his room. He grabbed the whole with his own hand. It was his messenger. He substance see’d, knew in relation to the whole, and he could see without errors. I cannot do that. I have strong inner vision. It doesn’t come everything’s true without errors. It gets a lot of lie, exaggeration, and endless possibilities worked out. I can’t see straight.
You don’t know how much this sucks. I’m glued to inner vision now to protect my kid and bring him back home, and it’s driving me crazy, all these scenarios played out one by one. He’s been hit with a dog. He’s been pissed on and raked over an open fire. This just kills me, and I don’t know what to do. The bad part is over, when they broke him to turn him from me. Now they’re tryin’ to act normal, and they want him to be happy.
Gaslighting is the order of the day. What’s a kid to do? Acquiesce and be what their parents want them to be, do what their parents want them to do, and say what their parents want them to say, and that’s what he’s doin’. and I can have no contact, and not a single person there will tell him of me. It’s inhuman. It’s a total blackout they’ve arranged. The abusers become his saviors, and his beloved grandpa a foreign devil tryin’ to take him from his family.
I was his main parent from the time he was six. Six years with me more than his parents, and they’re gaslighting him to make me some babysitter they mistakenly arranged. Okay public, what to do? I’ve shown you his card, a song he wrote himself when his parents were pullin and kicking him about school. This is where he is at. This is the boy on his own. Where do we find him? I hope that’s not the graveyard. Can you come and help me find him please? I really need you, and this is a live child waiting for your help. Can you help? Oh Puducherry, you couldn’t Aarthi.
Now there’s hope. The boy’s alive. How do I know he’s unsafe? His father’s a killer for a Lawspet gang with BJP connections, but he hasn’t killed in awhile. Says he’s done with it, but see the gold on him you’ll know he’s still involved, a gold ring on every finger like a pimp. He could kill that kid in a jealous fit of rage, and the mother’s of low character, and she may not prevent him. That's where this is headed. Don't be sorry. I’m calling on you now, Puducherry, rise up and protect that boy before anything else is done. Will you help me? Can you take this boy to safety? That’s wonderful. Thank you.
This is the boy’s address in Puducherry, India:
64 Nettu St. Kurusukuppam, Puducherry, 605012
The street is only a small alleyway accessible from Advocate Chinnathambi St. Fourth Cross. Go to Le Nid Apartments on Advocate Chinnathambi Street, stand facing the gates and turn right 90 degrees and you will see a little alleyway in front of you. Go down it and it immediately turns left and his house is the first door on the left. There is also an Ave Maria Kebi on the left side of the apartment gates.
Nithish’s school and he’s in 7th standard: New Modern Vidhya Mandir Higher Secondary School, 73/A, Pillayar Koil St, Angalamman Nagar, Muthialpet, Puducherry, 605003
His father lives in Chennai and has a business there and comes to Puducherry on the weekends. Here is his business address:
P. Sundaram S.S. Air Controls No. 432 Pachaivalliyamman Illam 29th St. 6th Sector K.K. Nagar, Chennai 600078
This is the address they spend the weekend at, usually from Saturday evening to Monday morning. It is his father’s parents’ house:
Grace is the next world’s railways. We will be happy there. What stark sun is this? Sometime soon. Your energy is a witness to it. You’ve combined the opposites, and it doesn’t bother you. Asiya attests to that. You were soft ice cream, and he ate it up. You’ve got the leeway, and you’re holdin’ down the fort. You’ve good. You’re learnin’ your trade. You’re doin’ it great football fields wide. You’re not a son of a bitch. Let’s bubble up some and just sit in bed and bask awhile.
We build yellow houses. We construct them with wood. Then we lay them down, over and over again. This is our construction process on the bails of thought. We feel them into being. This rides our day, one thought after another, day by day. It’s ice cream. Did somebody say favorite food?
We are housed here, and a thought is a mop bucket, cleaning out what’s after. A thought is a huge thing, all naked and wood. It’s already occurred before we think it out. We go over it and over it. We do not stop. We never go away from this. Bails upon bails of thought we make, freight trains through our minds. Let go of this, and you’ll be in thin wood. You’ll cake on yourself. It’s where the balls are that we retrieve into Silent Mind.
Now here’s the house God lives, you see the Self in. It’s awesomely deep, wrapped around with nothingness, where the engines of the universe play. You are a copter upon yourself, brooding wings of infinity. It lasts an hour or a day, until it turns off no more. I arrive at thought the master of the plan. I think upon myself in large ways. I go there: I don’t handle thought for a little while.
But Silent Mind don’t ride my days. I’ve stumbled upon it a time or two. We have to be clear we were formin’ enlightenment. Have you ever had that thought? Grapple with it now. Do you know it’s there what we arrive to next in our identity plan? Hey kids this is not enlightenment. We’re becoming something you see, and we need Silent Mind to get there, a formless identity we shoulder to Supermind, the God inside. An overhead kingdom sits there, and this is the fullness of ourself, God identity, at this stage of the game. You can imagine more.
So where does Silence put us? Right slap dab in the middle of it. And then? We plant our feet on planet Earth, and Supermind comes down to meet us at the ascending pole of our effort. Then we’re cosmic complete, bigger than the cosmos, not in size in weight. We are the springboards of the universe. The universe comes from us. I’ve been there once. I’m not just makin’ up plans.
Did I have to say all this to get your head straight on Silence? I don’t think you understand me. I’m bleeding concepts in the room, like cosmic means somethin’. Where do you go on Silence? A round chair, and so many people just sit there. Who wants to go higher? Bliss is satisfied. Do you want to go higher? Ramana Maharshi didn’t. We all do eventually. When you learn about it it’s there, a belief castle. Before that no one’s ever heard about it. I’m taking you there, balloons overhead, Somethin’s up there you know. It’s the origin of the universe. Said it all.
Don’t forget your ambition for thought. You wanna get into the Silence. You wanna dip your head into the Silence. Catch it, you’re gonna hit the ground of the universe a hat infinity. Now that red apple pierces your skull vibratory nature. You hum big church all around your brow. It’s so comfortable there and smooth. No I with its busy notions disturbs that room, not a thought one. You’re reside in silence. This is awesomely big. You can’t figure it out from here. It’s totally other being inside a body here on Earth.
You last awhile, and then the cosmos lapses into itself. You’re there yet? You will be once. You’ll get there soon. It’s every death journey’s hand. We take off the ego you know and get down to science. It’s what we do there. It comes along to take us to Heaven and beyond, and you think it’s a stranger? We’ve sauced this out so many times, death, upon death, upon death. We’re there now underneath it all. It’s raw, basic awareness, cosmic size.
Now why have I shown this to you? You think AI will get you there? Where do we put Silence on? In our own room, a listen to ourself, no bowls of media present. Do you know how precious this is, guided by your own mind? It’s stage one. Come on mountain let’s go.
Now in the vibration room each vibration opens a little central veeter that respond directly to sunlight. Okay, okay, okay, look I get it. Almost reaction, because I’m slaying. You don’t know this stuff. It looks easy, if you vie for it, but let’s face it this is tops that a human could do, your golden Mars, but they lost this and ruined their civilization. How hard it is, you got nothin’ harder in human.
To know directly, what do we see? Obviously it’s not videos. It’s contemplation’s circle, there in your room, when you’re filmin’ God. Where do we begin? The first photo please. A beggar down and out on reality’s pole. You see from there what God looks like, and He would not be tall and kind. He would be a braggart in His room. We don’t stop the vision there. That man don’t see straight. He has eyes of sufferin’.
Lift God up from there. Are you okay with what He does to people? Are you okay with this vice? I couldn’t back up to you God. I couldn’t stand in His way. The significance of beggars breathes awhile. We can’t get at it there. We can’t even try. Let’s beanpole reality, and it gets bigger all the time. Let’s do something about it. Let’s see God there addressing Himself.
Is that okay? We’ll be building a teenager. We’re gonna get him all soft in his room to carry the day. We’re gonna wean him some, from do this for him do that, so he can carry the divine. We will be gentle with him and put him on his own attention, where he needs to be more than computers handles and where the cellphone rides. This is not ice cream and cake. We will pill him with just enough books to get his writing going. He’s a poet of the divine, gets whole poems from the inner voice. We were surprised as he was.
Now we have a responsibility to see this through. My consciousness opened his. We’re everlastin’. That means we give this boy a good shot to grace him with infinity and keep his eyes on God, not the stuff in his room. I’m right there by ‘im, holdin’ his hand. A Green Beret on duty, I’m a sergeant sometimes, but I’m not mean. I can certainly improve. Now let’s stand down the poem I’m giving you. It means somethin’ to the order of the day. God bless you.
Yawn as you snap them Gods. They wouldn’t know what to do with Themselves free. We see Them bound to our lives in cosmic grooves of fate. They are larger than time. They can’t get out of this. We are prisoners in Their room. They study us. They can’t seem to get us right. We’re a whirlwind in a thunderstorm, and They are stillness and delight, and They control themselves with might. The clash of Speakers we hear overhead, They’re around about us now.
We are cosmic poles in Their existence. Hear Them call our name. Hear Them be there for us to change our natures into man. If you don’t think you’re an animal look back now, where you meet nature in a click that eats up all of nature’s stores, and then you go to war. You’re a forest dweller in the nature of your desires. You can’t see past get up and go. The Gods are there on our tops, guiding us to better cages. They do not know the freedom of the Infinite. In a paradox of know, They stumble upon the Infinite and stretch it to tin cans.
The Gods they wore, the bright and start of old. They can’t seem to find the Infinite all their knowledge bore. They cut us in creeds of certain flesh. Religion bore that name. The Gods have bound us to this. They are a soliloquy on our tops, giving us lore. I can’t find this improving our lives. They are a reason against the Snake, but where they find you biting, They are blind to heal you. They just make you stop. They don’t know the deeper reasons of life’s coil.
They are not there you see here on life’s base encased in matter. They see us from afar up close. They do not understand the knot and waste. They live out Their lives in splendid heavens, traveling toward infinity, the kingdom of God, all righteousness and wrath. They sip with us awhile foundering on compassion. They are brave and strong and know not the poison of the fall. Evil is not on Their lists. It baffles Them and us. They chase it out of night. They battle it with Their spears and helmets on the patchwork of the universe.
We are Their hope and promise to principle evil and grab it by the horns, a victory for starry Earth. A seer in his wisdom has gift the Gods to us, else we would fall into the Void. This is not our fate, but we are beyond the Gods on our journey home. They are a regulation and a might to keep us from starring ourselves, to keep us from getting bigger than our lists, to keep us from operating on ourselves where They are concerned. They are both a help and a hindrance. We need Them. No we don’t. They help us get hold of ourselves. They keep us from going home.
We just changed fate and the world, without Their interference, where They languish on land. We’re here. They’re not. Beyond space and time we write our lists. The Gods can’t go there, unless they do as one of us. That’s a starry role, fraught with peril, fraught with mercy. This is an endeavor for the Gods only if They want to go beyond Their starry heaven. We don’t see Them do that none time soon. The Earth’s great spiritualization will see Them incarnate here. It’s a vehicle of Supermind.
The tallest bond, this is the engine we’ve all been waiting for. It’s bigger than the sky. It’s our next step above, beyond the Gods. These are our evolutionary springs and their destination. We have broke the bounds of the universe and come to universal cause. No cosmic God can figure this. This is a whole other ballgame. These are universal bonds the conditions of the universe find us in. They prefigure us to a certain stage. This is starry night, and the Gods are our guides the conditions of the universe impose. This is our starry prison.
A nursery rhyme is this. We live on high, who we are above the universe, our next prefigured destiny. The Gods are aware of this. They are not our goads there. They hinder us and move us in Their direction. This is a starry configuration we are lost in. Greater home is ours. Can you save the Gods? I wouldn’t even find you there. The Gods are cosmic hierarchies permanent in Their heavens, and They love it here, all-powerful Beings with worlds to play. We applaud Them and move on.
Can you see this? It’s what we’re doin’ on planet Earth. We will bring our higher selves here to inhabit bodies on physical Earth, our bodies, in evolution’s slow curve. Who we are on high will be who we are down below, the monumental change hidden in the size of Earth. We will get there, and existence will have its heaven right here. Will you notice this in your room? It’s starting on our tops now, and here I am showin’ it to yah in sudden starts. Greatness lies wait. Okay, global consciousness, and we’ve found our solution to the room, present Supermind.
These are the high stakes. We’re in the water now. Who we gonna tell? Come on kids let’s go. We have a world to feel. Keeps yah on your toes. This is the most important thing to hold onto to: challenge the window. We don’t beg each other’s fences. Here everybody that’s a whole Earth. The lesson in the window: through a big difference we see it all.
Bring in a new game. How was Earth made? It has a special core, the universal core. How do we evolve what do we evolve? We can hack other Minds. Clarity Grace is not just a name. It’s an power, one of a kind for Earth. Kings are not just patriots. They’re criminals in their own kind. We should put some cushions under the Earth. We just dream of a perfect life. [the above verse Nithish’s muse, my 12-year-old grandson, what he heard right where mine left off, ending this poem. He’s named his new Beagle puppy Clarity Grace.]
The universe has hit me, and we saw it happen the universe of Nithish, not quite done. You’ve gotta figure we’ve got a friend with some God, the cosmic hierarchies Mother and Sri Aurobindo. You’ve got to figure we’re in liaison with some God. It’s the mailman in a blue truck open to Supermind at every pole.
Will AI better or ruin us? Will it take over or replace us? We go to things unmistakenly horrible. At bottom we blame ourselves. What’s the highest good have to do with it? That’s the poem. It will challenge your sense of good. It will blow the world out from under your feet, and I’m just talking read it. Who owns the official compound? The Helicopters. I’m a first provider.
My must suggested the subject, and I made the shot and developed it
Original Sin
In a sunny corner of remote earth
the bite of it all
challenged orthodoxy.
This was in Nature’s plan.
Green-gold it moved.
This conducted harmony
operating on discords –
not a packaged plan,
neither from the stars.
It brought in cities beyond the universe.
We bask in its revelry –
a riot of God
on lone isles of trust.
Wonderful it wore shoes.
Naked impulse did not light its lamp.
A renegade,
it brought all to bear on noontide.
Light held its room.
Yes, we sing in darkness’ lair.
We deliver anthems
without knowing on which we rest.
It came to us unclothed,
and we saw naught but sin.
What distance orthodoxy
from all that abounds in this place.
This poem came complete via the inner voice while I was sitting and waiting for a room darshan on Mother’s birthday at the Sri Aurobindo Ashram in 2015. It was originally posted in the old blog of Douglas and I, The Chipmunk Press. It bears mentioning that I went to the Samadhi the next day after writing the poem and inwardly asked where I should put the poem, and I heard my muse answer:
To the question in Sri Aurobindo's room:
are you there?"
Harm's End 