No more baby's smiles. No more woman's leers. No more miserable life; Yet still I shed tears. I miss the children; I fear for their life. I miss the children But never the wife. Attached to material things; Stoic serenity subverted. I die inside one last time Yet find a disaster averted By a disaster.
Walk long enough and callused will be your feet, Whether you stroll in the field, the desert or the street. Walk in the sun, in the rain or in your head: You will sleep well when you walk to your bed.
Artificial light Through fog refracts In dazzling array To butcher and splay What little of facts Can be known in the night.
Love is: A broken heart that will never mend; Bathing in blood and pure without end. Youth is forever its clarion call, Consuming the Nothing, the One and the All. The Many adore it but never approach For fear that its stain will on them encroach. If only they knew how appearance deceives They'd enter the Temple whence only blood leaves. Inside this black place is the brightest of lights That illuminates shadows in the darkest of nights: If hands would embrace the torch-flame of bliss And lips negate worries to instead blow a kiss Eyes would hold awe to sate the abyss That Love is.
Look away from the mirror And you will see That some Temples are so sacred They can only be entered By the Profane. Sever the tie And you will experience The only true unity: The joining of other To other; a choice. Intention vs. compulsion? Intention guides compulsion. Intention overcomes compulsion. Compulsion becomes intention. Rinse and repeat.
(There is so very little of truth in human endeavor; but there is enough to live by.) The submerged spirit rises as the dross falls away, cleansed and not burned, cleansed and not burned, purified by the fire -- it is the sun. And the sun is but a twinkle in the fool's eye. The path was barren until the jester's first step fell upon it: in the wake of the dancing harlequin all is flowering and forevermore. Those who follow think themselves the recipients of a fine design, and they are correct; for it was the fool's design to walk with never a thought to the path tread. Those who follow pluck the flowers, dissect the forevermore, and marvel at the beauty of the dying. The fool's circuit is complete -- behind them now! -- strowing seeds and singing -- among them now! -- laughing and skipping along; invisible to distracted eyes but always in their midst, ever-moving as they stand still in their looking & wondering & thinking. The fool is lost, but they are all-too-found, all-too-static, all-too-possessed; and god is the fool, and the fool is the god who treads the path.
The paper soul burns. Tongues of flame Become Tendrils of smoke Disapparating Like a mirage Before the weary traveller. Of that which remains One cannot speak; For it is beyond the words On that paper written.
When in all manner of bad weather We put one foot in front of the other In our determination to reach the family hearth:-- Though we may perish along the way We have arrived already amidst the warmth we sought:-- For Heart is where the home is.
Far more important than where my body dwells Is how I choose to dwell in my body. The Dweller on the Threshold: Just another Eucharist I ate -- Thoroughly digested, spirit still unwrested -- Everything is fodder for the star-spate. Far more important than where my body dwells Is how I choose to dwell in my body.
Mustn't we fuse sentiment and reason together to create an integrated self that can help itself as well as others? Our detachment from our environment and our fellow human beings can only ever be relatively objective. To attempt to stand apart indefinitely is to fail to utilize this objectivity constructively. To what end, a peaceful mind without a noble heart? There is no will either in the placidity of the former or the passion of the latter. Will is this paradox resolving itself: that it is both the cause and the effect of the fusion of these two and in the best cases the crowning achievment of their right reciprocation. It is the True Will that perseveres in the face of all odds and achieves even in failure, and beyond death, that which it set out to achieve. It is the True Will that needs no reward but its own working, and leaves a mark indelible on the aethyr of its own going. It is the True Will that permeates all that it touches and transmutes all that it receives into the purpose of its own becoming. It is love and gravitation. It is essence and material. It is energy that never ends. It is star-dust and entropy. It is the ecstasy of the ever-lasting moment
All is vanity, all the days under the sun. All things are full of labour; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing. The thing that has been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun.
Biblical nonsense. I am in hell, and more satisfied than the man who looks to heaven. No new things, friend, for many and many a millenia -- but still plenty of things to make life less dull for me, thank you. I'll take it. Stop being such a sour puss. Much love.
You are on earth. Dirt does not revolve around perception. In much wisdom is grief. We are exercised in it. Much knowledge comes sorrow. A hard purr on lips of vexation. X marking your writing friend. In my mind as medicine.
Ah, but earth, this earth, what is it worth? Better to long for the unattainable: A moth to the flame screaming its name Shuddering with fits of mirth. (The Hindus had a theory about the formation of the ego: that it was like a cloud of dust swirling around the turbulence of impressions in the mind. Still the impressions and the dust will settle and one can discover that which one truly is. I have a theory about the Hindus: they must have been awfully bored.) Have I not already said: The sun is a twinkle in the fool's eye? And to go exhausted to one's bed Makes the journey worthwhile, Even when we die. X!
Self-image is not self. Self-image is but a reflection. The idea we have of the self Is no more the true self Than the face in the mirror Is the true face. All ideas are representations Of something essential Which cannot be expressed absolutely. The joy of self-realization Comes in piecing together The fragments of ideas about self Into a multi-faceted understanding Of the integrated whole. The terror of self-realization Is when we make a great miss And the pieces fail to align.
Off the cuff from up the sleeve; I won't shut up if you don't leave. I can't find love in clubs or bars Though lust explodes as light from stars. I feel it in my deepest gene: The soul that's real as yet unseen. I'm making bonds and breaking bounds In the aftermath of scary sounds. Licking the ticking of the clock like a... World of unadulterate sensation in a nation of... Wants that are needs in the name of love.
