Confessions Of The Unenlightened I
Better to walk alone
Anything other than the lies and deceit
So take it
here I am have fun
Brown needle earth
and the sway of white pines
a slope and a glade
gift spot of life breathing
where construction and noise
overpopulation and suburban
greed grasps at philosophy
this is mine
snout noses and leaf blowers
poisoned lawns suspicion
of the living, a smile, hello,
then inspection of where
my dog walked and why am I friendly
telling me I do not belong
this is not healthy
this horrid, meaningless need
and claim possession
of what is not theirs to own
but the hate bleeds down stares
leaving trails of rotting muskmelons
proud in clamors of deception
brought in golden chariots
spiked wheels and nuclear waste
for water, in the soil, in the air,
and here I am walking here
missing lands where every walk
was a conversation or two
and if I wanted to talk about
WH Auden, Jim Harrison, Thomas Merton,
Nikayas of the Buddha
and why the Sermon on the Mount
and the Agony in the Garden
hold so much significance
to the living minds
to the soul not given
into armies of Mara
or whispers of the great deceiver
try to find a conversation
Hello Pines and Tulip Maple
Hello Sweet Daisy
Ringing bowl tones and stretched muscles
I speak and listen
odd how with nature I find companionship
while in trying to find words among social “humans”
it is more and more of the same
over and over
and I know who they are hiding
inside petty words and significant actions
I hate it here
soul consumed rejected and sent away
I know I do not belong among them
no matter how hard I tried I am me
unity and the happiness of being among friends
those I trust adore and learn more from them
than any books or contemplations
and for those I trust I miss you I do
to just talk judgement free
to simply be
to laugh and feel one another
in the hearts of one another
but that is all gone
so much ends with “-ed”
and let me say that the fight to overcome
complications of isolation
born of cancer, lyme’s and nerve damage,
drawing back the curtains of death and saying NO
to find the beautiful Yes if only for a while
and for a while I stopped dodging the arrows
and befriended the bowman and the huntress
it was wonderful it was life
finding Art so easy in conversation and encounters
finding it gone as all must live and do their thing
things do change
an dI wish I did not remember beauty so well
loneliness is not depression
walking through the gates of Hell
and escaping alive soul and love intact
hope still thrives
but being pushed away caged denied
even the slightest set of friendships
and trust is hard to bear
damned for saying what must not be said
such as miss you friends are treasures
and the wish for exchange of ideas
and to flush the harsh reality of mean people
cut the past over and over again and again
missing loved ones is not a weakness
it is the garden of essence
a clutch of seeds waiting to grow again
a look upon the politic and knowing
madness oozes from the diseased head
on down to the rest we call society
choosing to be alone
rating lies and deceit by the number
not by weight
even publishers who once called for me
now curse my name
how dare me go through the isolation
of fighting to live and akin to rebirth
I made it out alive when every doctor
said I probably will not
so why did I live on and why the saints with me
when cultural associations banned me damned me
for having risen so high and then fallen so hard
and came back trying to express the yes of Godhead
and visions suddenly brought to life
ha! still the mind
ha! give up love of friendships
acceptance is standing among nature
and feeling the divine
remembering all the love and life
the pains and rejections
the success and wonder
hardships are always present for all of us
the difference is if lived among the living
or cursed to be turned away
written and composed languages and music
better than ever and yet not a soul
to share one word or one note
without being ripped off or marginalized
at least I get to spend $150 for office visits
to spine clinic, neurologist and ent,
all to be told the same about white blood cells raging
tinnitus never ending back and spine my Mt McKinley
as tiny cells are pinched in nerve endings
never ending and so I agree to teas and rice
epidurals injections cutting and removing
and thinking I am tired of this struggle
but I must go on
there is more to write than Dear Diary
or bleak puberty sighs and revelations
I remember happiness
it was great
come back to me or I come to you
washed clean of proportional distractions
open to whatever is next or is
but fuck the death eaters and shovels on my grave
I ain’t dead yet
but I have seen what it is is
and I have heard the words GO AWAY
when my heart and intentions were pure and holy
lied to over and over all the time
but giving each time the chance to change
Rise from the cave
Speak the words spoken to
Express the visions
accept hate for what it is
I am tired of empty phrases
I can tell where I am unwanted
so here take it all back I will give no more
even decided to stop publishing
being mocked by editors when I was still bleeding
from wounds of attempted murder
contracts ripped and broken
well the escape clause was there to take
all your work and not pay stupid man
and the thing is I want not of the damned
they can keep their Mammon rides and tunnels
take my music and give me nothing
take my words and turn them into yours
I see the poems with whole passages
lifted from my works and given no thanks
asking for music, words and inspiration
but do not give me a thing not even a thanks
and still I live to create and to serve
and I give up caring who steals from me
or who tries to kill me
or who slanders and gossips until
I cannot even recognize me in the slime words
tainted and corrupted by deceit and deception
take it all there is nothing of value left
but my soul is not mine it is as it always was
property of God
for one cannot sell what is not ones to sell
but for sake of the Saints stop stealing from me
hold back the hate I have been hated enough
judged enough and medically tortured enough
Sing Jetsun Milarepa, St. Francis, Walt Whitman
Yeah, this all comes from a wounded man
A purge of the deceptions and cancers
A need to say I have had enough of lies and theft
yes intellectual and artistic theft
I have had enough of the suburbs
I have had enough of irrational judgments and prejudice
I come to terms with silence, poverty and time
being forced to choose between medical treatments
and slow starvation this is what few foresee but it is reality
my lawyer said I am too nice I must cease trust
A man really can be an island
But I do not want to
be an island
Je ne peux pas m’engager ‘a accepter ses idées frivoles. Jamais, jamais, je ne l’obéissance pas un meneur, cela ne mène a rien.
Rereading Rilke’s poems in French. It was a masterful exercise in testing his knowledge of the poem and if he could communicate th senses of things felt in French as well as in his native German. The same stands for us, the readers. We must allow that Rilke was just wanting right simply of things felt. But the desire to analyze is always there so it does take an effort not to fall for the pretentious inclination to work a hermeneutic on them, but he tell us not to waste our time, just let the poem be.
This is about the poem itself. Forget any worldly relations because that will muddy the clarity Rilke was looking to place into his writings, not about Alma Mahler or the pre Raphaelites, this is the poem, the 59 poems, then the prose poems in French. No outside world. No gossip of who and what as this is Rilke seeking refuge in his last writings, near last writings. The Duino and Orpheus works drained him, and the publicity wore him out. Works in French is refuge.
I think he went beyond, beyond into an even more mystical and touched by the Heavenly Host as he sought God throughout the ways of language, in how we think and compose, how we think in a second or third language.
The beauty and spirituality is at times wavering between worlds of 2, 3 and 4th dimension.
Exhausted after the peak of excellence which pretty much drained him in Sonnets to Orpheus (my favorite of his collections) and the Duino Elegies (really neck and neck with Sonnets to Orpheus, but man, to write with such elevation and cloud touching as he did with his German sonnets he needed to do something in small ways of experience and things felt, so he used the French language to write of small things of the senses and almost by accident, of the mystical. 53, for me is one of those which begins as a lovely experience among rose bushes, which I relate to in many ways as I have always planted several different roses and Lillies around and in the path to the stairway entrance to my home. At one time I had 14 different kinds of rose and it was an ongoing marvel wonder and precious thanks to the Lord for such small beauties and inspirations.
Roses and lilies engage me physically and spiritually. So, I guess it is natural in terms of how I relate to a poem that I chose 53 to challenge our balance of being pretentious and being in awe. I am both. I seek to be held in awe of Gods gift of this earth which we so readily seek to destroy, and then for some we offer up our roses to the angels to decide. Yes, the wisdom of experience in things felt as sensory and No mind do elevate the soul.
If one is confused by the questions then no answer will ever offer consolation and the other will continue to live in a fantasy of made up imagery and conflicted slander and gossip rather than just looking upon the question and finding this is where stands the soul of the “I” or of the “other”.
It is so hard to be held transfixed by the most elemental of things. Now, the use of the “I” in my description of this pleasure in the text and in the relative meaning is not limited to me, but to all pronouns: I, me, you, yours, ours, theirs, they, them, us, he, she, You, They, Us, Me, Mine, I. All may be used and the meaning of the question and beauty of the answer reveals that it is in the question we find the true self. “but when will we find ways to be equal to the rose?”
The Greek poet Sappho asked a similar question in one of the fragments found of her poetry and it began:
“after so much giving I am exhausted.
where, my love, where are the roses for me?”
We, the reader, find so often that the poet, the writing, the poem itself asks where is there something in return for all I have given, and the poet must accept that what is of the poetic heart is not as it is for regular people except in time of reflection brought on by tragic or heroic events. For the Artist this question simply is a part of the lamented life where we wish the isolated life of the Arts were at times giving us a more social life just to be able to talk with others, to love others and to be free to enjoy conversations without boundaries. Yeah, the critical examination almost removes the delicacy of the poems intention in the first place:
mais comment arriverait-on
a egaler une rose?”
“But when will we find ways to be equal to the rose?” and if we keep up this pretension of roses and tenderness will we then corrupt the angelic touch upon this moment? Right. There are those things written which just are as they exist in the poem, a moment felt and the fear of its being divided up and crushed under the pressure of cynics pen and paper.
Rilke poem Francais, #53
“On arrange et on compose
les mots de tant de focus,
mais comment arriverait-on
a egaler une rose?
Si on supporte l’étrange
prétention de ce jeu,
c’est que, parfois, un ange
le derange un peu.”
“We arrange and we compose
words in so many ways,
but when will we find ways
to be equal to the rose?
If we keep up the strange
pretension of this game,
it’s because at times an angel
deranges it a little.”
THE CONSTITUTION IS IN PLACE TO PROTECT US FROM NEO FASCIST POLITICIANS. WHAT DO WE DO NOW THAT WE DEFINITELY HAVE A VOLATILE, HATE SPEECH ENDORSING, DIVISIVE, OPENLY CALLS FOR VIOLENCE AGAINST JOURNALISTS AS OUR CURRENT PRESIDENT?
If anything I say and my stance as a hardcore American disturbs you then please remove me from your friends list and block me. Why? Because there is no discourse with such people. If there is no chance of a good argument, a good healthy exchange of ideas, if there is no open understanding that we do not vote party we are supposed to vote the candidate, but you are part of the reason why we have been forced to be red or blue or purple you MUST remove me and block. I do not want to hear a word from you because I will just block if you subscribe to Anti-American and Anti-Constitutional action then I am not your friend. I am your enemy.
Fat Money. You who throw your children into the fire so your wealth may multiply off of the backs of working Americans. You are what we were formed to fight against, not to be ruled by as subjects to your fat money tweets and your fat money god. I will not look up and say Yes to anything uttered for to do so would be an action of terrorism against America.
Well, the rewards of Neo fascist rants against journalists, newspapers, magazines, books, columns, writers has become worldwide. Our dictator wannabe congratulates senator on body slamming a reporter, he calls out to attack them, to beat them up, to “drag ’em out of here, do what you want, I don’t care”, and berates journalism every single day and this is beyond the pale of the definitions of dictatorships and fascist and the enemy of fascism, communist, present day Islamic states killing and jailing or jailing and killing or “interrogating and killing and accidentally sawing them up and bagging his parts in diplomatic bags” to carry out of a country, poisoning, beating to death, being easy targets as much as clergy and Red Cross are in Islamic wars, and President Trump endorses all of this.
Does he put Sanders in his sights? She is a reporter. What if she speaks her conscience and finally says it is all a lie? What will happen? He has pushed Americans into such a horrific corner of anti human rights that he is compromised on being able to speak the truth about killing Kohshuggi.
Other nations look to America for leadership and in two years this maniac has undone every single act Jimmy Carter as done in the name of aide, advice, watchdog efforts, long hours in cooperation with opposing parties in other nations, work for the poor and the people who have no home, no land, no country, Trump has destroyed, happily destroyed everything that is good about America and the righteousness of a democratic republic or parliamentary democracy. He is the enemy. There is zero excuse.
If one is silent in opposition to his insanity then they are complicit. IF you or an elected official is complicit in attacks on journalism then you are Neo fascist. In fact we ought to have a check list like the “you might be a redneck if…” and I was a lot of redneck on that checklist. But wake up and see what is happening in America and the world. Look at how language is used in ways to openly and to destroy on the sly every single thing that made this nation great.
Single party rule is not a democratic republic. There must be equality in order for there to be open discourse, discourse which leads to compromise and in the end give us knowledge and a just leadership. Aphorisms like GOP creates jobs and Democrats create mobs is article number 10 of ‘you might be a fascist if..” He makes capitalism look bad. Capitalism is good, but unfettered and as a body of our government then corporate capitalism is bad. President Trump gives Capitalism a bad name. If we were not capitalist we would not be American.
Be an American. Do not fall for the use of violent language and angry language which leads to mass hysteria and a fear of truth in the world, of Truth as Truth is, and the word ‘truth’ is not a plaything, it is the real. If the real disturbs you when the real pulls back the veil on hysterical speech, yet you accept the hysteria because if might cause trouble. Well, this is article “12 of you might be a fascist if…”
Does free thinking disturb you? Does questioning rhetoric and lies make you find reasons to support the lies, to join the lie even though you have directly experienced wrong doing by the government because of their lies? You might be a fascist.
If you think that presidential powers should stand above all and that the president cannot be held responsible for his actions. You ARE a fascist.
If you think there is nothing wrong with our being a Corporate Federalist nation with every elected official having the right to hide their tax reports, for the president to refuse to reveal his income tax report even though it is not required, we are given reason to question the overlap and anti-Constitutional use of power for self use; and this is done by Jared Kushner and Ivanka Trump having clearance and offices in the White House doing business with Saudi Arabia, and that by relation America is in favor of slave labor and sex trafficking. Well you are a Fascist of the highest order.
If you feel the need to tell me I should be careful and not speak freely against what I know, what is fact, what is reality, what is displayed, what is demonstrated by action as being or is Anti-American, Anti-God, Anti-Constitution then you are a card carrying Fascist and probably have a photo of Mussolini with lipstick stains in your closet. You support dictatorships if you are a fascist. This word is used a lot but the definition is to have corporation over democracy period. Just let that part be the definition because I do not want to confuse anyone.
Corporation over the individual is fascism. Our elected officials must wear tags of who they represent. They do not represent America. We have been the United States of America because we have fought against fascism, communism and dictatorships from our formation until 2016.
Our President of the United States of America swore an oath upon the Bible to support the Constitution and to defend Americans against all enemies of Constitution from outside or within the nation. Should he put himself in prison and judge himself guilty of treason which is a capital offense? Since President Donald Trump endorses beating up, body slamming and violence against journalists and news reporters does that mean he should or we should beat up and do bodily harm to his minister of information Sanders? She is a news reporter, she is an editorial journalist. Does this mean she is now open game in the Trump era of anti-American justice and terrorist actions against the Constitution and the the American people?
If our President has such hatred for the majority of American people is he the right person for the job? If he represents his own interests and those of corporations over that of “we the people” then he….is…..a…..Fascist Dictator wanna be or dictator in making or is made. He hates us. He uses the White House for a multi million dollar personal business through his children and in laws who have offices in the White House. He has defiled American. He is corrupt. His soul is corrupt. He is the definition of actions for impeachment.
You might be a fascist if…..
If you respond to this and use the words snowflake, crazed mob, dangerous, beware, honor our glorious leader, well any kind of name calling because I probably am what you want me to be. I am a Social Democrat. Take that. Get out of my country. America is anti-fascist. So leave. I am telling those who support presidential powers and support corporation over the people then leave now. Buy your one way ticket and go to Angola or Congo, go to Moscow, go to Serbia, just go, leave, let Americans have America back so we can be a great nation. Yes, I am speaking intolerance.
I have been made intolerant. I used to love good discourse and debate but the meaning of debate has been erased. Erase yourself from the USA. The recent actions of our government against me has shut the book on understanding and trying to find a middle way. Neo fascism allows no middle way. But boy howdy! do they ever love snake handling pentecost mocking Bible destroying evangelical anti-christianity. Yum yum eat ’em up and just keep on swimming, go, go now! You are killing the last embers in the heart of love and the heart of our nation.
What is This Our Land Becomes
What is this where I have tumbled
What is this where I have been denied
What is this my life and labor
This thing that was my heart and love
What is this where waters flowed
And now rubber tubes clog and litter
What is this I looked upon and adored
Only to find it eaten and destroyed
What is this my work left behind me
So undone unfinished desired and waiting
What is this I tried so hard and found
Dead in the leaves of the gutters above
What is this knowledge denied and rotting
That for thousands of years was designed for now
I held my hand to feel the rough edges
Gone now are my knife calluses soft
And cumbersome where once they raged
What is this when I walk alone unafraid
And still in search for a challenge
Who are you in my garden today
You who would rise up to snatch my life away
What is this I believed for so long
My love of faith spat upon by of course the faithful
Where are you when I speak of my love
Who am I when desire and the sexual
Are fed to the dogs waiting outside the door
And so I know what this is when life rests
And says no more so I accept who I am
See this flesh wilting from my bones
There is little else to smell but rose and jasmine tea
The smell of cigarettes makes me want to vomit
I cannot stand the stench of tobacco and addiction
Long freed from needs of drunkenness and the wild
I was still looked upon as if sparks would
Fly from my fingers and all around bursts in flame
What is this I have called my family who scowls
When I know just how they see me
Wishing I was no longer a man better dust
And a marker with just my name
A thing to be forgotten left lame and rotting
A DEATH OF EROS, A WITNESS TO DISASTER
‘Seeing so much activity of the mind devour her natural beauty
is painful in that blame is always the culprit, to blame others,
to set sin in the heart and feed it anger and hatred, I feel her
and she hates that the shared experience takes place.
A field of rolled hay, the Georgia green fields that when absent
I yearn for as a long in the past love, this land, this air,
Life is always balancing and sometimes it does fall, it is in the Fall
We understand our own methods of what seems to me as
Ridicule of the heart and the mind, of a war that despises the spirit
Rather seeks to understand the Holy Spirit.
I fought it all my life up until the moment Christ entered and spoke
As he does to many, he spoke those piercing words from his own wounds
Into those who are open to this event, this unraveling of discord: the awakened soul.
I pray she awaken.
The meanness and name-calling, the rumbling roar of hatred shoots across constellations,
I pace each room looking at what I can and cannot move, what and how
Shall I move into it’s place as a memory catcher and lightening rod to poetry
And music, as a direct course to writing again when I see so many boxes
Filled with notes, version after version, expansive poems it hurts to imagine
What awaits, but wait they do and so here I piddle, wondering how to help
Heal one cannot be healed. It hurts to see how she destroys the beauty of Spirit
And of God while thinking it is a direct line. It is not a direct line.
I fear madness has taken hold and she cannot cope sober and blames
Others for the ongoing disaster. To be witness to the disaster is painful.
I must. I smell the slow burning of the death or Eros.
Not much can be said in the whirlwind of such hatred.
Sad captures and identifies a mind at war. The balance is leaning downward
Further every day and every day I try to offer conversation and light;
Every day I am a lone figure in a Hopper painting.
Failed. Smoking a non-filter Camel. Glass of Tulimore Dew in hand.
Lone. I must seek more deeply into my heart and soul.
I am witness to the disaster and I cannot “do” or “act”.
It is like being the camera in war.
When The Third Book Opened
Yeah, I know, I know I am one of those,
Those upon their knees, crying, laughing,
Feeling vast. I like to feel vast. It’s cool,
I know the prayers will accept me,
Yet then small visions banging
On each side inside out my head,
They were not my own, and I asked to stop…
Then I knew I better not,
For something there is bigger than me.
God and confusion: each masters of my domain,
This room of books and song, of prayer,
Of labors I’d rather not do but they
Have needs beyond my own.
Telling me exactly what and why I am and I am not.
So I speak each vision into my iPhone…yeah,
This ridiculous new age that ate my pens
And took away typing when I felt the visions
Rise again, and so I had to wait to listen
To my skin, to the air around me,
To the asteroid shower gleaming above her
On a grass hillside above Jenner and the river,
Above the Pacific where they shot and left trails
And it looked like suns birthing around her head,
That blond mystery, I am afraid of them,
I am afraid my soul will be eaten alive
Before I can say my last Holy Father,
My last Hail Mary when each breath
Was that heavenly inhale exhale
Within one another, it was all I wanted.
Then I saw the hillside collapse,
And there was nothing but she above me
Blond hair like a forest of soft thin grasses,
And I saw an angel, my angel,
Lay her hand upon a page I could never read,
And I wanted, I desired, I knew I could not,
So into another night I drew constellations
Of song upon this high ceiling, the sky,
Through this air, or was it sandalwood scented hair?
All I hear is this knocking, demanding,
Every life stands upon my own, Humility,
You angry creature, you have kept me bent
Over all my life even standing tall I was still beneath you,
You, dear God, You; I am just a man,
Doing my thing disappearing into another sunrise,
Saying YES, I hear you to each tap on my mind,
And yes, I write her beauty as you tell me,
I walk alone and sing. Then we along the coastline
And take her hand, watch another star shower
And admit that things are not always what they seem.
Waking and gazing into an asteroid shower at 6 a.m.
Knowing that I was robbed not twice but three times.
Thank you new banking system where you destroy on automatic or lay enough delays to lose your home after being twice hacked and treated as a criminal. Killers making excuses silk thin bringing little deaths upon us all. The poem is a curse. Daniel as he prayed was for a curse that the lions find another meal than his own flesh. As David praying his enemies be conquered and he dance drunken in the streets celebrating and then realizing not by the curse as our government and banks would wish upon us little tiny people. We do as we are told, then throw a CD player out the window and blow it apart with a 12 guage pump Mosburg looking like indie 70s movies playing in slow motion.
Now, this poem incantation as the young sorcerer Milarepa, later Buddhist mystic song writer, would have spoken into his yak dung fire no different than Biblical warriors a thousand miles away. So I paused inside my language to feel the anger rise and subside in hope “change is gonna come”.
The second is a song-poem because I could not decide to sing or recite. My plan was to play piano, but I scrapped that idea after listening to the power again of the rising sun through this brightly lit green edge of the forest where colors you cannot name them all, yeah I dare even a gin and sprite drunk Frank O’Hara could not name. So I left it as it is, an unaccompanied poem sang into each ray of light, sang into each whistle of night bird mocking bird doing their night bird thing, you know, mocking birds singing back as you sing to them and they as well whistle the dawn awake and calmly pull the covers over the last glimmers of night. Yeah, this is late night August night where thunderheads or soft sunshine bring the day alive. . .you just don’t know until it is here. Rushing along the sidewalks, the lawns, rushing into the wood just to hear the peace of a slow river slow soft swirls of water caught circling around a lone rock just past the 1951 bridge pretended to be repaired but it looks like gorilla glue and duck tape to me. This is not death. It is an optimism. The young sorcerer Milarepa stidll looking to find the light of the Diamond Sutta (from the Pali text it is sutta not sutra, that’s all, just respecting the language) after hoping that of the Lotus Sutta would wake his body into life.
Morning Namo Amitabha no effects or anything, just the bowls and my chanting a few prayers.
Trying a new thing to get around SoundCloud and just the music. So copy and paste the link to today’s morning Tibetan Singing Bowls and prayers/sutras
I recorded my morning singing bowls and meditation on Amitabha, third level of Heaven being Pure Land, happiness, pure happiness among other Bodhisattvas and Buddhas. And so I haad to play the vocals through different knob settings and played around with a mellotron for proper background holdings for the bowles when eah ran free of it’s vibrations. There are messages in the poetry throughout but you really have to listen closely. It’s about ways of reaching Heaven, of at least being freed of the travails of the ever mortal shell in which we reside.