White supremacy for mayor uttered in Wilmington. They just chopped people to pieces. The injustice lags the sky. I don’t believe it happened. I cried when I heard about it. Can we play that again?
We do it every day, not massacres, although they come along. We put people in power that hate Blacks. We give White supremacy a place at the table and call it by other names. We don’t know how to count it. There isn’t a racist person in the state. Even a White supremacist will tell you that.
Do you know how they feel, the Black people at the table? Of course they’re racial gatherings. What do we do with their anger? We don’t know how to handle it. It’s hatred for us, and nobody gets better that way. Nobody even knows what’s goin’ on. We are stirred up by so many people, and the unseen lends a hand.
Not all good people are good. A Kumbaya feast doesn’t do any good. Racial unity, we have to address our sins first. We have to see them there. It’s a feelin’ we have around Black people, even with our smiles on. I’m sorry will you get the broom and sweep the house? I’m gettin’ at colored folks in the drawing room of White men. We face each other not as equals. Our attitude hangs out the beekeeper. They are inferior to us in our American bones.
These are racial wounds we spit on and light on fire in the complacency of man. How do you get rid of this? You shove it down people’s throats a woke system. That did a lot of good. The White supremacists took over. What do we do now? We arrange guns and burn down houses. You think this’ll work? We just break apart our nation and cause a lot of hurt.
Racial aren’t the only issues in the sky. There’s livin’ with each other bein’ true to one another. We put our cap on and show genuine to people, because we feel it, the confusion of everybody in the hurtin’ of life. We know we’re dumb too. We have to protect ourselves yeah, but we take our hats off to everybody and give them a little bit of us if they ask.
How do I get this across? It’s a squeeze test. Most people aren’t genuine. Some people want to hurt you. You have to know where to step. You can’t carry your heart on your sleeve. You have to know when it’s time to get out of Dodge. You are generous but wise. I can’t give you the roof over my head. I can’t empty my pockets for you.
Now we come to the meaning of the Earth. It’s not racial reports. It’s how we all survive. We get in with each other to make the Earth work, and it’s bigger than life. We are bigger than Negroes and White men, bigger than any gender we wear. It’s across the great divide, our true life and purpose.
You hear a Daniel say that today. I’m in the lion’s den right among you, and no one has eaten up my flesh, but I can feel the breath upon my door of some dangerous shit. Can you hear me I’m tired, but I’ve opened up humanity in myself, and I’m doing it again. Will you sup with me? Will you even try?
Speak lotus, these were reminds me these were come up in these poems something of Wilmington has happened here in Pondicherry. It’s race related. I’m not Indian. A parenthood of oppression blights this land. I’m standin’ up for my boy. Free him please. Don’t let this tragedy go down unnoticed.
The details would scare you, and I’ve named them in other poems. His name is Nithish, S. Nithish, and he needs help. I sit here flabbergasted at the amount of lies that make up this story told to policemen and child welfare and so many other people.
They put their Indian first each time and the rightful law and order of the land that made their parental rights supreme, the underbelly the lie that India will not wake up from. Children are crushed by their parents, abused and beaten and forced to give up their lives for school. Hours of tuition at night kill their playtime, and disorders such as dyslexia and dyscalculia are unrecognized. They’re beaten for bad grades.
This is right and proper in India. They just took my boy behind the woodshed and killed him for parental loyalty, all in the eyes of the law. He has lost his personality, had his identity crushed. What this has done to his character will put him in his father’s shoes, a man who has murdered four men in Pondicherry targeted by his gang, on bail now for attempted murder that never went to trial. The case has been overlooked. This is standard procedure in Pondicherry if a powerful gang is involved. People get away with murder.
I have to stand here and watch all this happen to my boy, and I can do nothing. I’ve even been to the press and contacted every major NGO in India that deals with child cases. I’ve threatened hunger strike, but the divines I look to said no. I’ve written poem after poem, giving these circumstances, but the social conditions of a blog put likes in my hands, put readers, but I can’t arouse the crowd for my boy and get this matter looked at by proper hands. I can’t get off my blog.
Is this stupid, to talk about this injustice, to tell you my boy needs help. I am just a Black newspaper of 1898 this happened at Wilmington, a whole town overthrown by White supremacists, and no one believed them because they’re Black newspapers?
The New York Times and the Washington Post, and all the major news, came to scoop the story. Met at the train station with the royal treatment, the leaders of the coup put them in hotels and told them lies they all believed: Nithish is in the hands of his parents where he belongs, and the Indian order has been restored, the natural order of things; his father’s an outstanding citizen rich now in business, his mother a gentle soul that would never harm a child; we have him in school 11 hours a day because he’s acting and don’t want to study; we know he’s smart, and this is India, and we make school the center of a kid’s life for our national pride. Buy me another drink aldermen, and I’ll put in our newspaper what you said.
Would it alarm you his mother paid bribes? Even to the authorities. Okay, okay I’ll shut up, but I’m a Black man in a White man’s world, and no one listens to me. Can you hear this? It happened in Wilmington.
The offices of the Daily Record, a Black-run newspaper, were burned by a White mob during the Wilmington massacre of 1898. (New Hanover County Library)
The constructuralist my poem. Do you know what I’m talkin’ about pedo squad? I’m lookin’ at you in the German theater. What they do with your mayor? Did they fry ‘im?
He downloaded images of against the law right there in the town square, that one special crime that kills everybody. You know I’m talkin’ disease. Do you know what? You’re the infectors. All of society is.
It’s a child’s jewels. It brings up so much stuff in humanity. You can’t get over it, that they have them, that they find pleasure there. It’s the fundamental rule not to touch. How did this come about? Guarding secrets.
You feel nothing I am sure seein’ a kid at the train station. It disgusts you what people do with little Johnny’s toy. You would rather they be shot, the child I mean. What am I sayin’?
Let’s go back in the history of children. Prehistory, caveman days, I think it ruled society eat that child’s lunch. We couldn’t get out of bed for it. I mean we could not evolve, develop, into let’s find ourselves there, an ordered society that did not eat itself. Murder and mayhem blinded us.
Do you know we came from there? A child got woke in a human animal band. It was a woke party. It was infant orgasm, and give them some plant medicine. The mother and parents were egged on in dream and vision from other spheres to give us human consciousness, raw form only; development came later.
Did one person infect them all, like in a reverse Planet of the Apes? I don’t know maybe this was a garden, and a whole tribe was involved. I think we started in one place, but the procedure could have been done anywhere where the apeman was involved. If this started us, kids got eaten alive for a million years.
Morality was born. That’s the significance of the Jews in early history and some other tribes who got wiped out, but we see their trees today. You know the Gods came along and employed circumcision and moral rules to reduce us from our children, especially the male lead. This is the child machine. You know they are a leaven, the people of the Jews, but they were not the only ones. I’m sorry; do I count their sins too? Do I count my sins too?
We stopped eating our children as morality evolved. You can see in primitive societies, the non-technology ones, a whole lot of touchin’ goin’ on and histories of things got worse. Now what do we do with it today? Stomp it out like fire, like every day.
I’ve taken you on a journey into parental eves. Get intimately close to a kid in naked wares, in that loving embrace, the younger ones especially, and you might wear desire a time or two in the littleness of that child. You’re not a pedophile. You just hit intimacy as it hits us, and if you don’t believe what I’m talkin’ about, get really into your dreams where that kid shows up naked.
This is natural desire that scares the hell outta you. It makes you hate the pedophile. It makes you hate him mean. You can’t see this. You don’t want to. I can watch someone killed in a video all day, and the makers go to jail I don’t. What’s with child pornography? I just told yah. I can watch movies about killings, all kinds of crimes. I can look at horrible pictures of anything I wanna see, but see a picture of a naked kid, increasingly, not even hintin’ at sex, and you’re liable to go to jail.
The armies we have to prevent it, they’re poisoning humanity. Prevent child abuse? Everybody says it’s getting worse. What are you doin’? Ease up on those controls. Go for the image makers. Try to restrict access, but don’t hang people for lookin’ at it. You’re going overboard, like you do when you’re reactin’ to unconscious process. Can I show it here? I just did.
Come check your bag out through his porch. A porch explore us, the name of the explicit program, miles above the current thought, miles above the existing program. Sit by the door. You went there. I offer you holy ground. Insert I mean the new superman, a new way to Supermind.
My goodness you’ve gone over the top. We got a new thing goin’. You’ve got a brand new pair of shoes. He’s all mad at yah, Sonny— I’m not sure all the time. Who else? I’m not sure about Nithish. Lookin’ at yah. Can we get better at ‘im? Door to shopping opens in a little while. He’s your prime target. A dark smear settles keeps him in a corner. I gotta do everything to get him out of vice. These are my papers, and that’s what I’m workin’ on.
A kid gets killed, and we’re in the front lines normalizin’ it. I don’t think we understand the history of science. Our very lives show this to us, but we can’t see it: the whole society ruins children. It’s a combat zone: fuck you do your homework. We lay them in bed a manage them to sleep: oh I’m eager to get out of there you clingin’ thing. Or you test them in their underwear with your dick fingers, rubbin’ butts. Either way, you can’t get the story straight: you believe with them there’s so much more than dresser drawers in the room. Angels glow all along the edges of their minds, monsters dwell. They can see them in the corner, hear them in the closet. You think their imagination wild. You don’t know what’s goin’ on. If you did you’d run out of the room screamin’. Your sanity couldn’t take it.
But let’s get back to business, shall we? Kids glow. They have otherworldliness to them we’ve forgotten about. They live there. We see the form, forget the consciousness inside. They’re lust to us or dreadful things we have to manage, and in-between those two poles most lie. Have I hit yah yet?
My boy is in a livin’ emergency, and nobody cares. I’ve shown this to the room. I’ve shown this to Town Hall: he suffers still. We think there’s monsters there in the love of this foreigner for this boy, or we just want ‘im with his own kind. Can you count that?
We don’t know children are kings and queens of livin’ life, and they need more than us. They need a breath of God on their tops, and they need the substance of their souls to be their playmate in time. They need to get away from the Darkness in the world and not give their little boy’s livelihood to the darkness in the corner goin’ bad in a hand basket. We can’t see Hell edgin’ up upon their life. Another soul down, so many millions left to go They say.
My boy’s there turnin’ inta vice, furious at his parents and the world for making that child obey and renounce his own freedom and tear off of his lips and eyes any mention of that foreigner, who is me, and they beat ‘im until he complied. Can I guess here? I’ve seen it with my own eyes, this tremblin’ little figure afraid of his own shadow, and I can do nothing to stop him from being afraid, his fear of the world, late at night, his fear of death. I envelope him with my consciousness, but that’s not enough. That boy needs held.
You won’t let me do that, satisfied he’s in his parents’ hands for good or ill. Oh the woes of parental not by blood, but yah been there since he was born. You only like adoption papers to make that real. Can we be a kid again? Can we see the emergency that we have known with children all through human history but have never seen? Stop child abuse! oh you stupid thing. Stop you from hurting kids by burying them in the world and sealing that coffin with school and other blind things that have no reason why kids be. You just wanna make them grow up or be a football to play with. You’re not inta their things, their larger than life’s, their Woodstock imagination, and it didn’t rain.
I gave Nithish that glow, what he wears himself in his distance from time. I let ‘em have it, the freedom to take his kids’ reins and mount the world with ‘em. He loved it there— no rules, no spankings, just guidance. I yelled loudly I’m sorry in moments I regret now. He was just bein’ a kid, testin’ limits and naughty. Even the preacher cuss.
What do we do with children? We let them have their head in safety tips, and we don’t vacuum their room with a pain in the ass, and we let them be stars of our attention, and punishment only makes them meaner or more rebellious when we’re not lookin’, when they get out. A submissive child is a dead child, and they’ll bring dictators into the room when they’re older. See the world now? Populist hell.
I let Nithish glow with his own feelings. didn’t rob them, and that was a school for me. I gave him candy. I took ‘im to the movies in the middle of the night, when he liked to go. On the way home we played monster chasing us or zombies in the middle of the road reachin’ out for us. I put reality there by parkin’ my bike and runnin’ off yellin’ eat the kid not me! He would squeal with delight and belly laugh, after his imagination let go of him, the monster had returned to his lair, the zombie apocalypse had ended. I know how to manage a kid with their own imagination. It is prime time for them.
What is my purpose with him? Oh I want that little boy happy with himself now. The adult can wait. I want him to feel the breeze of his own freshness and what makes him so special in a world where everybody’s the One. I want him to love himself, not be afraid of time, but more than anything else he has his own destiny I want him to live for, why his soul can down on Planet Earth. That had nothing to do with small business. I’m the upholder of his destiny, and I like it there.
I’m his keeper, because he’s still a child. Why would jealousy pull him away from me and you let them? I’ll be back the daddy he calls daddy in just a little bit of room, not much time as the crow flies. Come on let’s go, gimmie your will so this can come. Do you hear me stars and all ye people you? Bring the child.
The world is paper thin really. Monsters glare. Angels sing. The world behind the world is bigger than the world. You don’t see this? Your kids do. No let’s go over time. It laughs to be alive full metal jacket. Children’s class, there’s immediately a hole in the water. It bites. Writin’ kid once in you, how far did that go? You’re with Nithish.
Quite a ballgame. I hope that’s my intestines tellin’ me I’m rush. It was one on one flavor. With no little boy here to share it with, it was foreign. Do you know the hole the world makes when you’ve lost your child? It’s like infinity in the room. You can’t understand its price. It sucks. I have to live there. What do I do to get out of it? I can’t do nothin’, my child can. In the blackness of his state, he has to get better.
He’s 12 goin’ on nine, and there’s a football in the room. He’s discovered pornography I hear and sits there with his friends, all hellions, and has them corrupt him to land’s end. He goes there to escape the wild, a single room home where he’s stifled and crushed, the invasion of his privacy a misdemeanor the boy can’t afford, the rule of his mother a felony that makes him question his sanity. She will not shut up. She will not let him breathe. The fear is he will see me, and she took him for her vice not mine, after a lifetime together his end. Insanely jealous, she watches his every mood. Is he thinking of me? Has he called me on the phone? These things are forbidden and when she sees me on his face she whips him for it. His father’s a killer who only comes on the weekends, and he’s plotting another murder I kid you not.
These are the parents you chose him be with. These are the parents you admire. Can you get any worse? I can’t handle this. Protecting children I thought was your right and mood. Turns out you only care if you touch their penis. All else is permissible done to a child. All else is warranted. All else fails to get your attention in any meaningful way that helps. I live this, your hypocrisy. I only get your likes, and damn few of those, but let’s be patient here. There is a poet I know in Israel that cares, and not every reader is a penis-monger. Some genuinely feel this, but I’m courting people right now, in the bowels of the situation, who have the power to confront the parents and at least end the blockade of no outer contact with the child I raised since he was a wee little boy. They’re Tamil and live here in positions that can help. Who says they do? No, that’s online. I am a foreign man and they are not. They don’t give me the legitimacy of parenthood, because how can I? I’m not even Tamil, and I cannot prove my worth with my tears and broken heart and concern for my child. I look like some guilt monster wanting to steal theirs, so identify they do with Tamil people.
I can’t get around that. You’d tell me to be quiet, or end the attachment, like it’s a perverted cross. You should see his song he wrote for me: "all the bad voices are saying bye; all the good voices are saying hi." They say that loudly. His whole life is on hold waiting to see me again. I’m daddy.
Can you gauge love in a boy’s heart. Unexpressed it doesn’t die. Ordered to kill it he don’t. It grows beyond the mountaintops and plays there with the Gods. They have him arm and arm with total control to keep me out of his eyes and ears and me off his lips, because they are jealous of me there, and in all this blackness more blackness comes. In the absence of me he races too see friends they’ve gave him permission to be with, who are the signposts to gangs, boys already addicted to vice, who are the real danger for him to be with. His parents are oblivious to the boy’s plight. They’re just controlling him from me.
This is bastardly sucks. Let’s do away with it. Let’s return this boy home where his heart is. Let’s give him the freedom to do that. Okay crowd, let’s have some high rollin’ here and get that boy off the table and back to his house, the American me. It’s not fun. Hey you two pass my way. I’m not bein’ sarcastic. I’m talkin’ to the two Tamils who can help. See them there? A will collective move on their will and speed this process up. They have the power. They really do. Come on people let’s ride.
I’m countin’ on Syria to kick out Islamic State. Can we get there? I go over the mountain. All I know, judging from your path, I think you’re right. You keep raising your voice. You’re grasping at straws to get him back. You let me know anywhere loaded on ‘im, some trapdoor to sex. My sympathies then, and I’ll call child welfare there in India and get him taken care of.
Okay choir, would you settle for ruinin’ his life? Oh my God chop me to pieces. You’re comprised by sex in Texas. Do you know where the dropbox is? You’re wonderful, and another one’s kicked off the Earth, no tongue. Someone sent me a message. I’m just gonna read part of it. You take unborn babies and make them king, but kids themselves you beat, and punishing them is your right. You want the submissive child.
You’re lookin’ beyond graves, if we can, beyond that boy has a penis but thinks he’s a girl. You’re gonna take it seriously kids need to be protected from abuse. Now “The Use of Animal Freedom” really identifies with kids, what’s about to turn on in Nithish full force. the fact that he has a dick and wants to use it. I can’t get you to see this in a children almost teen. What do you do with their puberty, make them wear church, make them put a sock on it? And if she’s a girl? Is that the one you need most to no button down there? Why of course ring maker. Kids go to perdition so easily when they’re buddin’.
Kill it, kill it inside them, their natural born feelin’. Transgender wars hell, you’re workin’ to make a warehouse of kids to not even look down there to check out what they got, and you are so worried about them in the womb. You’re so cross fingers with them in the womb, but you pull their pants down and spank them just for bein’ a kid. Texas you’re the vice I’m talkin’ to. Hey Texas leave those kids alone! All they are is another brick in the wall?
I liked the sound better with a mouse. That’s great. That’s not acceptin’. Gotta get some lunch bags too. Outgoin’ calls, the hammer is no. I’ll let you feel safe. You’ve lost your mind. You give kids no sexual expression at all, and you think this rides their freeways. It rides their hidden vice. It used to be in your desk, overcoming desires. Did I hand it to yah? Come on, what do you needed to do it? Looking at come here Bruno, come here! (vision of Bruno, our Doberman, running away from me to the front of the house, and I’ve just let him out the back door) Get your pumpkin right. Self-control, self-measure you teach them.
Fit there she goes to sleep. You don’t give her any room to breathe on her own paper. You deny reality and with it the child. You’re underage a God looking in on Himself. You put conservatives in the White House, governor of the state, with your kid’s vote, and you stand around and watch children die. Here he comes. You’re too big to get the world to see my child. You know how it goes. We murder children in their sleep so they are zombies all life long.
A lot of this good agency, what I’m giving you now. Follow their lead. Even playing with themselves they’re bringing in a better world, when it’s not porn-play or adult hand in there. Even thought about kicking themselves up, they’re watching themselves up. When we allow them to get dressed in personal animal freedom, the cops come, depending upon who you are, and ban everything. Oh Texas and my world, you need Freedom School. [a school in the movie Billy Jack] Hello napkin, I wondered why I was burnin’ down there. Such large members, such a tiny space we fit them into, such a large package. Oh my God world see this.
We go hand in hand with proper sexual expression, and that’s not with an adult, and it’s not only with their own hand. I just stepped off the world and into a better science, as I’ve just entered your living room, and I must be polite and leave. What the hell do you want?! Thy peacemaker. Give the kids their genitals, how they are when not one’s lookin’. Let child know they can control themselves how they are around dog: napkin, grab that fucking napkin! And you’ve situated one of the building blocks to peace on Earth.
I’m fresh and alive, aren’t I? I study reality, but I do not rank there. So be it, but I’ve just written into the ether a better way of doing things, a better Nithish brought home. I’m on a rollercoaster can you feel it? And I’m not there to make you scream. I want the end of the world that puts kids in prison boxes and sends them to school, that puts chains around their necks and sends them to school, that pits them against their own bodies. Why do you wanna cut your dick off? Don’t you see reality? Talkin’ to a transgender kid, made there not by gender diaspora, by no one accepting his genitals growing up and givin’ them release. When you slice your dick off, sew up you’re vagina, you’re not expressing need; you’re all wrapped up in society’s handlin’ of your food, and the table’s sexuality. Did I just ruin my poem? No, I just ended it.
You better run, run, run, run, run, talkin’ ‘bout a revolution. [two above lines heard sung by Tracy Chapman, “Revolution”] Move through ideas the city of human unity, why did you do that? What did you just do? What did I just do? I gave you a whole nuther head on children. I gave you a whole nuther head on sex. Read this thing so you can copy it fast. I met too many here Guests and Newcomers. [social divisions in Auroville, India] You think the divine is divine labor on which you source, rules and how to get there. It’s not that honey it’s more. Rollin’ in agony upon the hills you end up later. Hey picked Asiya and the house is comin’ down. You’re Indian. What right do I have to speak? I’ve been asking my fat emotional body this. I know the score between children and their parents, what you do with a divine in the room. I’ve got expert topics, and I’m not afraid to use them.
This is all prewash. If you’re candy was Disneyland, what was I? They would tell you if they’re at. They would threaten. I talked to ‘im. It was on his computer. He’s a down and under hope dispenser. He makes virtue and art Hitler’s birthday. Down at that office, we’re gandin’ from abandoned puppy too. You don’t know how to lift up the race, but we don’t lead you astray. You lift up the biggest name in evil too, not to condone them, to rectify them. We’ve lots of him. I don’t see him anymore. I got my check balanced. I’m rose in the room, and it just took me away.
What Intelligence writes your stuff? The one that makes the flower, the one that sees Earth a testing ground for souls. I’m supramentalizing. There’s a harmony in my pen, not law and order or we make rules, but I talk about the important stuff and reel you in with it. My God this is not enjoyable. I gotta put rings around mountains: man is, you have to do it man. Now my little boy’s gone. I would almost boycott poetry but that’s not the flavor of this writing: hey Luna, come to yourself any discussion. [Luna Rottweiler] I’m tryin’ to show you somethin: we are not on Mars. That was a habitable island destroyed in such a long, orbiting time ago. We’ll see how it goes with Earth. We help you.
One of your favorite, one of your favorite teams, I’ve tried to photograph me close relationship to understand principles and stars, to go beyond them. I’m divine heavy in your room. I’m tryin’ to lift you up to see the sky beyond Mind. I don’t get to go until you do. We are a connected lot, but I been up there before. To say it’s the writing on the bathroom door, it’s not; it’s just there. I’m a field take, and I’m tryin’ to get you out there to play a roaring game of baseball so we can sees each other, put our guns down, stop shooting people.
You don’t know the price in the room for hating anybody, even those who hate you, and I’m workin’ with Nithish’s parents, who refuse to even speak to me. You’re the judgmental party. For Nithish’s parents, the hatred just comes out of the woodwork, suddenly picked. You’re almost there: understand their stupidity and don’t hate them for it. Gwen, okay? An almost businessman came up. She hates me I’m her brother. She may even read this poem, someday.
I’ve been hurt by hate too. I have this social stigma, and I’m the most hated man in the crowd. This stigma’s hated; people don’t know me. I’m wish I’m done with speaking through alleyways in your hole, but I do feel better doin’ divine will. No one reads me yet, or damn few. The audience and his poet, do you have to have one to have the other?
I did ninety pushups and sit-ups each day. I’m exercising wholeness and healing. Will you give me a hand? We gotta see the wholes, and it’s a together report card. I really need help with my boy, get him out of trouble and onto victory lane. All this dramatic poetry, this is a bank. I’m writin’ poetry for my boy so he can sees himself an inner poet. I pass this onto him in the inner consciousness. He gets it.
The help of Robin, it can help when David, who puts landscapes together, afforded my report. Will they put you in jail? Not your question among you. You just unload this poet on a public conveyor belt. Anyway I got room to grow and so does he. He’s a contact Earth named poetry. Accessible he would make me. I love your fine wine.
Okay let’s borrow mine and get down to Earth poetry. Believe your death you must navigate. I was making a significant Boomer’s salad when I made this for you, when I bear this for you. Let’s see how fast he gets here, once your will’s a ridin’ him home. Yes, yes, it takes a long time just to roll up your sleeve. Gotten Aidia’s attention, hopefully in wheelbarrows.
That’s a great poem. Why thank you, a fresh fish in a factory. It’s got labels on it this time. Great vehicles on Earth the poets are. The print out, it’ll be cave free. We’ll do it in the mornin’. It’s the head of the whole thing. How many wheels does a truck driver have? A collection of poems published in India in a book see. I hope you see there. Can you say large collection?
Even a little bit apart, he’s been us with the whole time. Is what facilities you may use. Him coming home, and he gets not that shit from me, a bad policeman. Three times as big key presenter, I asked the cinema to work it out in peace number 9. I wanna hold your hand. [line heard sung by the Beatles, line song title] I’m expressing need. You need to see this. It don’t feel like something we just said Auroville Press made real— I’ve encountered basically the tune of the ages. I suppose you lookin’ at ‘im, the whole prophet of Auroville, nine inch skin. I am constantly created. Only in summary is he wet behind the ears. On Old Galveston Road he went into the nature of Supermind.
Your heart in your ears, your ears in your heart, oh there you are. (vision of Nithish sitting on the floor one knee up, he running his hand through the bangs in his hair like he’s a bit frustrated) He’s comin’ home soon. I gave preference to The Silmarillion. Gonna detail now the Samadhi. [holds the bodies of the Mother and Sri Aurobindo] The Samadhi— hey how’s it goin’? Tryin’ to watch he’ll come be here soon. I love you, my beloved teacher and master in time. Trapped his voice on this recorder as he measures time Sri Aurobindo and thank you Mother. I’m an anomaly. I look at my boy and smile and look at God later, and that’s where I put God’s eyes, on my little boy lookin’ at me. It’s so we kosher together and have fun. That’s how you manage time.
Let’s go down this road. Look, there’s the really afraid. You do not boy blue darkness, step over him, in how you hold God. You hold God in that boy. He’s not your image of God. I look into your little eyes, speak the account God has with me. Did I say that correctly? We’re on Earth, and we’re here to stay. God on Earth, and we are Supermind, the supramental manifestation managing its creation.
Did I blasphemy? I gave you a measure of God in the balance of His show. God is always bigger than any robe He wears, any riding car, bigger than those little boy’s eyes, and we’ve arrived at the end of the poem. He’ll be home soon, and thank you God, down lower, gettin’ inta those eyes.
You want to recognize you’re there dead. You can’t take a worldview. You’re not operating in that anymore. You’ve just died. This is serious business. It’s a wake-up call on the other side. The enormity of the shock takes your breath away. You’re just stunned, not knowing what to do.
Where is Jesus? Where’s the stars? No religion has showed up yet. You’re on your own, transitioning. It hurts. It’s just simply awful. You can’t stand it. You don’t want to be there. You don’t know how to be there. There’s no instruction manual. You’re dead.
But life has just begun, the dead life on the other side. You cry out for help. Someone hears you. Are they the right one? You don’t know how to do it, receive them. You’re just so confused. You open the door to faith. What you believed in on Earth has not abandoned you, and if you didn’t believe in anything, it comes now.
It’s tall and strange. This is not what you expected. It receives you one moment/limit at a time. [above words heard spoken simultaneously] You are not automatically taken in. You’re put up with. You’re just a person there to process. The compassion of the angels shows in fits and starts. You’re a long ways off from being received on their condition. You’ve got to glow first.
Bad times ahead, as you encounter what tripped you up on Earth, what got your goat, what you couldn’t handle, what you refused to see, what you licked and swooned over, what you didn’t know hurt you. You are put in these situations where you encounter dream. There is no home base anymore, no central mode, but you come back to yourself over and over. That’s your central lair: you are this being in time.
It runs roughshod over you you have to dream on. You don’t like it. It sucks. Slowly you get your feet under yah. You get used to the rhythm of see-saw death. You climb. You step up. You receive them, all these packages of people you knew in life that you made a storybook with. Some of these are reunions. You hold their hand. Some of these are joy-shock. You cling to each other. What we wanted on Earth we get here.
You’re in union. It lasts the length of a cup, and you’ve been given a solid measure, and you are ready to depart for other perfection. You see people there you hated in life or you did under. You do not enjoy this section. It’s compensation. You give them what they need, and you move on.
This is fair and certain: you have your encounters, and they show you life as oneness sees it. You can reject no one, and all morality’s based on this. It is oneness we spring from and what we manage living. We are here to be one. A deeper look arises from our journey. We go the distance to a greater life. A quest of the Spirit pulls on us, and we let it take us in its arms. We are higher now, lighter in spirit. We are so together now, and we’re ready for more.
I’ve taken you there, right to realization’s wings, when you become a ship on the other side sailing into God’s heaven. You’re right there at Heaven’s gates, the heaven of your pearl, the one you sing about to encounter God. You are not all together a central ship. Many heavens receive you, and many positions of Heaven there are.
Now let’s get goin’ towards the realization of life. You can open those doors here and redirect your life, and when you enter death, you are in kingdom. It’s not about dyin’. It’s about being prepared to grow up. We do that here. We do that there. Here counts more than there. Here is the rollercoaster of the fly-room.
These are conscious gates you see. Open up your life here, on this growth, and life will line up to receive you in all of the quests you need. Uncanny this, strong and large. You’re in good hands on this journey to your being’s growth. I’m countin’ it to yah precisely in measure with my life under the sun. I’m a conscious arrangement, and I poetry this to you now. Bombs away. Thank God it’s Friday. Thank God I’m not in your way.
Death’s a cookbook I jargon. I have a bunch of history books repair life. You want to read them now. Come on let’s go to field. I’m a happy bottom death. I’m a joy to the world. Just listen to me sing. I planet with Mr. Rogers, still have his medicine: I really love— bonding agent to the poems I write to you. Take me.
You wanna watch that video or not? It’s limited stairs, but I’ve baked you at hide and seek, and it’s all gone wrong. There is no leeway here. You just wanna get to where you’re goin’, without all the rough stuff. You don’t wanna lollygag. There’s Hell’s kitchen that will not move away from you, if you don’t come to. Where am I? Oh shit you got it. I’ve read your paperwork on that. It’s my own. We have been through these stages so many times. It’s a revolvin’ door. Just listen.
Hullabaloo on your spot, you have to be careful. You haven’t learned my draft yet. I’ve really gotten shadows. Van Helsing, here is monster’s lair, where you find them. Don’t scream yet. They haven’t caught you. Don’t realize your time, they will. Now I’ve put all the poise in, and this poem is right here with the market. How would you find after death?
Dally there coverin’ up our pickup spots. It’s the issue save a Lord. This a mode to deliver God. How does the call center get such a hideous head? Can you hear it’s divine element? Put it in your pipe and smoke it. That’s how we race cars. We local His feet put on, and divine reason we format His being, without that hunch. I don’t say black I say white. That’s not a dirty gun. That’s not a slave our gun. I get to know You. I know you do. Now be quiet. Are You mad at me? Put 10 extra effort, add rifle to your calling card. It’s now clear. Ah, open your eyes. You’re a divine endeavor.
And that’s what we die for. I mean God put us on to be human. I haven’t listened to His music, I haven’t listened to His song, I have to keep dying to put it on, and that’s the guitar, the way we become divine. This is street music. That’s what blesses us everyone. My God I’m arch-pink, and I’ve got subscriptions.
Each thing we revolve around God. This is a vehicle of thought. Wow, we’re in the ways with man. There might be the thought in there you wouldn’t even know exact, but it already fits the handle I have my hands on God. We want to broadcast that to where our being lives in time. We are on the way to Godhood, who we are in time. Bust out usually for lunch, on the wrong and us wanting to survive. We meet that with heroes. We do not let God down. That’s our humanity. I will pick it up one role at a time and deliver it from evil, following God behind the dust.
Death is not an entrapment. We get up by it and fly. We glory it all over us. The 18 store is closed, and we reveal something else. Can we run? We no longer die, just our bodies after a long field put on. We manifest the nature of God, right here on Earth, and we have conquered death and overcome pain, and that’s where we want to go with this. There is no such thing as a void of that, and if I fall short, this will be tied together with real humanism, with my humanity, and I will overcome this obstacle in me and in man.
Okay, email. In fact, put in the right notebook and send it out to the world. Principle the opportunity. Praise the window. It’s still goes into Mind, whether we read it or not on this post. It’s how we survive the culls on thought. It’s how we survive. I’m a limit-book on that. I go beyond the limits.
Thank you for coming you’re across the road, where death is not so bright. We are not in its envelope. It is not our keeper. It’s a son of a bitch. Between love and your loved one there is death. I am sorry this be. We can do nothing about it but die. If death were a person I’d shoot him, gouge his eyes out, but let’s be reasonable about this: the acceptance of death is the acceptance of pain. Death alludes us, will not let us explain reality in terms of trust and love.
Alright it’s there. So be it. Here’s some advice a gravedigger would give you, puttin’ your body to the worms. Bardo, I don’t know, it is a spiritual test, and we grapple with it till kingdom come. That’s the starlight. I’ve spoken death, wonderful news, that we survive its existence. Anybody hungry for oblivion? See you on the other side.
You climb out of sleep into death, and that wakes you up, thank God. Get out of the water, and be calm and clear-eyed towards death. It’s a menacing stair, so necessary to our birth. Taxman that’s true, but there is so much hope in this commercial.
We don’t even know what I did. I’ve raised the sky, took the furious route. I’ve given you diamonds, and I am loathsome to you, a real life pedophile, giving you knowledge in your sleep. What does woke mean? Join us, will yah, in the knowledge that you are one with and wanting to relate to anybody that can be related to, the mechanic’s store, to where we get enlightened, not a thought process a change of consciousness, a complete reversal as a matter of fact, and we see ahead of us divinity.
Put that in your woke starter and smoke it. That’s the system of wokeness. The miracle of other people, do you feel it? It stings sometimes. Take out your woke lists and pick me up. I’ve got a special offer for the people of the entire world. Kinda gets in your guns, doesn’t it.
photo by Donny, gimped by him, middle painting “Plato’s Cave” by Lalita Hamill, others source unknown
A poem by Donny Lee Duke
Read the stories around the area.
Read Mcdowell Christian’s story where he says he’s gay.
He’s been made a knight of honor
by the press.
Even Anglican bishops compromise over him.
No way
you’re gonna laugh his book to death.
You’ll make him the star of the show.
Oh my God his struggle brings you to tears—
the narrow-minded people along his way.
Woke agenda,
this is the story today
in our Liverpool.
Good God almighty great balls of fire, [heard sung]
everybody’s mean, you know it?
I think you’re too woke to see this:
how you have to have some disadvantaged marginalized people to kick around.
It’s not sufferin’ you’re lookin’ at.
You’re lookin’ at what’s easy to look at.
You won’t even look at the pedophile
except to hate his name in public.
It’s socially acceptable to kick him around,
enjoy watching him killed.
Can you say the word spaz?
How sensitive to people’s pain you think you’ve become,
those of you writing words out of our lexicon.
Wait a second,
will you throw me a line?
I’m writing the poetry of the world and nobody reads me,
and I am more outcast than Noah.
I sit in my house and write these poems to the world,
and all you read is the scarlet letter P,
and my poems do not get passed around.
I’m just a dirty creature with fangs.
Come out, come out, wherever you are
the woke person truly there.
Feel my pain.
My whole family’s disowned me,
those blood ties you celebrate so much.
It’s not a real joint.
I’m not even allowed to be alive
if you study the fine print in the news.
Now let’s talk about miracles.
I’m not a monster you know.
I’m so bright and shiny it’s not even funny,
and here I am talking to you.
Where is the thought police?
Why hasn’t cancel culture canceled me?
Years I’ve been on the road
a social media page.
Come on let’s get real.
I show you what woke really means, don’t I?
And I’m not talkin’ about racial politics,
sexual identities,
and all that jazz.
Do you see reality or the agenda you wear?
Do you even remember your dreams?
I’m a laughing stock.
I’ve seen reality outside of the cave,
and I know more than shadows
along the wall.
I’ll tell yah about a story
about yourself.
Football yourself,
Mr. Davis,
all in love with divinity. [heard sung]
Television ran out.
A hillbilly question:
is God really the nature of the universe?
Taste the Sugar.
You want it now.
You are the Sugar you see.
Mode of vehicle does not determine birth.
Identity politics,
where is this vision free?
What’s your contribution?
Is it for the whole race?
You have marginalized me to the nth degree,
and I sing your song.
I am all about your meaning.
I have a question.
What do they call
a bit more
than the alphabet among us?
Poetry it’s been explained to you changes the world
or at least has impact.
When they’re not supposed to be there,
we’ve become so blind,
poems come to open our inner sense,
and now you’re reading mine.
Will you allow me in my meditative friend?
Harm's End 