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River

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1/28/96 – The morning after the mushroom mass where I met my former wife, two friends and I went canoeing on the cold March waters of the Hudson. I was always a very early riser, and so was my friend and his girlfriend. I was surprised to discover the the first thing he wanted to do was drink some more mushroom tea. It’s hard for me to figure out how some people are so cavalier about these experiences, when they’ve always been so soul shaking to me. I said, “Didn’t you have enough last night?” He said, “Well, you know, it was so much fun…”
To me they were children. And just as your own kids can get you doing things as an adult, like playing with blocks or going on a roller coaster, that you wouldn’t normally consider without them, these guys got me to slug down another cup. I questioned whether or not I would get off since I was feasting in East Shroomingdale the night before, but sure enough, as we canoed on the river, I became transfixed on the ripples the oar made in the water, which were deeply tranquil, and had rainbow rivulets of the purest, most serene colors. We casually rowed around the inlet for awhile and then headed back to the shore where we got into our own things. Alone, I observed the newly budding trees. All the buds were just opening and were reaching out like baby raspberry bombs. Everything was alive with the dawn of new life. Deeply inspired, I had to write about it. I couldn’t let this moment go by without somehow sharing it. It was way too beautiful for that. So I got a pencil from my friends glove compartment, ripped off part of an old grocery bag, sat down in the back seat of his car and began to write. This is what I can up with:

Through life’s myriad unfoldings there stands true
A final step to knowing what is real
When each small thing surrounds us with it’s awe
And tells us of it’s meaning born anew

And leads us to the ultimate surmise
Once know it’s grip will not let go of you
Remembering that even stones have eyes
And seashells see the lonely things we do

And crimson buds wait for our tender kiss,
So innocent, adorned in sparkling dew
Displaying in their waking what truth is
While shyly leaving wondering to you

Imagine what is seen through searching eyes
On into hearts as vast and ancient new
As filled with more tomorrows than there are,
More love than can be learned from any clue

Maybe the wind will take my heart someday
And all my thoughts so gently to the sun
Or the flame of a small candle guide my way,
A river take me home to win your love

But I bet it might be someone just like me,
Searching, as all foolish searchers do,
And finding it! Amidst creation’s breeze,
Within the endless harmony of you.
I was waxing poetic. At the time I described it as a poetic orgasm, because that’s what it felt like. I figured my heart had been kicked in the ass enough times to qualify, but who knows.
Around 14 years later, the mushroom experience that landed me employment, described earlier, also prompted me to write, but in a more journalistic fashion. I tried to describe the experience as I went along. I received a few revelations that went entirely against the grain of my normal awareness.

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Rhododendron

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Rhododendron

Let love in
Or let it out,
Never pays to pout
Forever in doubt
To do it all within
Then coward on without,

I don’t know how to be kind
I don’t know how to be firm
I don’t know when to be silent
I don’t know what to learn,

I never got a blueprint
And the times forever change
I don’t know when to straighten truth
Or when to rearrange,

Life is a gateway drug
It’s all an unfurling flower
Please don’t forget me
You know I’m not a lawyer
I asked of you blue wire infamy
You gave me a wild green symphony
I asked you for a poppy seed
You gave me a rhododendron
You flashed up like fire
I saw it in your eyes, your wires
I saw it in your heart
I saw it in your lonesome
I saw it in your waltz,

If you can’t go to church with me,
If you can’t even walk with me,
If you have no respect for me,
If you insist on forever boxing me up
In readymade stereotypical idealogical boxes
You call feelings,
What’s your motivation
To maintain such a highly limited friendship?

We’re all subject to many injustices
We all try to paint it all over with rainbows,
Like nothing bad can ever happen if you’re a nice person,

Then I learned

“Please forgive me,”

Is worth many such similar “(thank you)s”.

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Musk

musk

Musk

The worst thing about loneliness
Is we’re forced to face it alone;
Often in a crammed room,

GOD is probably sorry sometimes
That truly, the illusion of maniness
Becomes the sole source of forgetting,

That unrequited love
Is a false impression
That must be overcome, lived,
Painfully experienced
In the subjugation of it’s own falseness
Until the actualization of utter oneness,

First the mother
Then the other
Then the lover,
Now the father
Then the daughter, on and on,

Like a musk deer searching desperately,
Everywhere,
Throughout mysterious forests of endless duplicity
For the source of the scent
Of its own musk.

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The Fruit of Everything Good

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The Fruit of Everything Good

How is it possible to blindly have faith
That from absolute nothing,
We are?

That from an unbounded, utter, infinite vacuum,
Or from a beginingless void
That can’t even be a void
Because any consciousness
That observes it, or any intellect that describes it
Is a paradox that defies its own logic,
Consciousness is,

That from an unacknowledged nothingness
Of nothing –
All this light
And all this darkness;
All this joy
And all this sorrow sprung
And burns so bright?

That something came from nothing
By happy happenstance,
Magically
Just popped into being
From nowhere?

There must have been a doer or a spark, if so,
What? From where;

I’ve attended the lectures,
Read the books,
Listened to the theorems,
Searched the balconies and dungeons
Of the lofty intellectual towers
And recalcitrant bowers
Of modern academia –
And watched them all
Crumble into dust,
Saw the stars
Rip through the Rembrandt wind
Of eternal now;
Eye-witnessed first hand
The fear and emptiness gained
For an intellectual pride and defiance won
In the swill of evil’s illusions so refined,

As opposed
To the crush of silent love
That further sweetens,
The fruit of everything good.

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Festivals Delight

festivals

Festivals Delight

Everyone is a victim,
Even those who proclaim
Liberty from victimhood,
Numbed with excessive truth,
Like too much light,
Being the final nail
In their ultimate coffin,
Of not being able
To tell the difference anymore,

Between what is true and false,
Because
It no longer makes any difference,
Or makes different, alien,
Nearly indecipherable differences,

We’ve become lost in the fabulous
But uninteresting grays
Of our own considerably shady humanity,
And have finally become
Co-conspirators in
The league of not nothing,
And foregone the road more traveled,
Only to readdress,
The yellow bricks, the ruby shoes,
And all those horrifying flying monkeys,

When we overcome
Our slavery to something
With our own willpower,
We just replace
The “whatever it is” that needs overcoming,
With “our own willpower”,
Until finally
After overcoming all known things
“Willpower itself” needs overcoming,
And we thereby remain,
Though perhaps more subtly so,
Ankles and wrists chained, behind our backs,
The bricks
Stumbling down the dank, endless corridors
Of a newly named,
Penitential prisons,

What if we use a higher willpower,
Outside of ourselves,
Then our will becomes thy will,
And we becomes slaves
To a higher will,
To pinpoint mostly good,
As our focused intent,
As in meditation,
As in prayer?
Marked by the scent of high roses,
Perfect,

Or so I’ve been told,
Or as much as I’ve been authorized
To leak,
Or allow the beans to spill,
By an authority of an authority,
Who knows a tree, that came from another tree
That shades a flower, that knows a bee,
That stung a guy
Who knows a small blue bird, that visits,
On occasion, inside his heart…

Not directly from GOD, that is,

Unless we’re talking Holy Spirit,
But that’s a whole other big poem,

It’s what the worlds
Inside our souls
Exist inside for;
Why the psychonauts
All surf
The edge of light;
What the psalmists and palm readers
Hedged their bets on;
Why unrequited love
Denied our hearts
Before
The midnight sun
Burned o’er the rush of bliss,
What mercy
Banged through the silver gates with,
Opened
With an everlasting kiss,
Spine to spine
Our fire serpents up to touch an ancient night,
Locked in oneness
We get to grasp all love’s festivals,

Delight,

Yet, if today we were to know
Even a scintilla of a shadow of GOD’s silence,
We’d be crushed into nothingness
By love.

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The Impossible Game of Love

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The Impossible Game of Love

We are sentient and aware, self-conscious
Uniquely designed individual entities
Currently alone within a frighteningly vast universe,
Burdened by an uncanny proclivity for devolution;
As in becoming the most dangerous and destructive
Of all known animated species in nature;
A nature well famous for its breathtaking elegance and splendor
As well as a penchant for icy ruthlessness,

We are a human species that honors
Wealth, power, fame, adulation, beauty,
Glamour, in all its peaches and regalia,
But everything gradually fades away,
And what was once so beautiful
Is carved with life’s tributaries of sorrow,
In lines of unmerciful decay,
And our bodies, once so filled with living
Return unceremoniously humble
To the silence of the dust
From which they came,

As humans,
(“Hu” meaning light, and “man” meaning mind)
We are uniquely individual, but the same –
In that we are all a-likened to GOD,
Yet in our current cultural milieu
That denies a soul even exists;
Doubt often eclipses any insight possible
Through authentic forms of love
Understood through GOD’s mercy alone;

Lost in varying degrees of temporary blindness,
Our contemporary culture has been infected by a plague of modernism;
With a contagion that stifles the capacity for love’s truth,
Asphyxiated by an ironic religious obsession
With what is stringently material
Resulting in an individualistic
Demand to hold the illusion of death high
In an ultimately fear ridden almost deified esteem,
Honoring individual self centeredness as a virtue
Licentiousness, a virtue
Greed, a virtue
Slander, a virtue,
Sin, a virtue,
And the unmitigated love of GOD, mere foolishness,

Spawned by intellectual belligerence, misguided compassion,
And indignant cruelty,
Rampant with the many shades and forms of darkness
That veil
The truth innate in selfless, unconditional love,
Stymied by the poison that’s source is it’s own fruit –
A poison that’s symptoms are lust, anger, greed, pride
And attachment,
Crumbling under the divine weight of love
Attempting to eclipse the radiance
That emanates through GOD alone;
We question why we’re slowly merging into chaos
In defiant replacement of any faith in GOD
Who is ultimately, ironically and paradoxically
The only cure for a barren, lifeless, frozen incredulity
Of consciousness lodged like a barnacle
In the flesh of an unswerving materialism,

Everything humanity does has a hint
Of some faint, yet persistent redolence of death;
Even in the happiness born of great materialistic achievements,
But isn’t that what the agony
Of the Christ
Is all about? Isn’t that what we suffer for?
Surrendering our baser animal natures and desires,
By transmuting them into a higher awareness
By opening gateways to the further involution of consciousness?
To effectively actualize our ultimate and truest calling –
To serve each other and live eternally with GOD
in the kingdom of profound spiritual union,
And to help every brother and sister do the same
In this impossible game of love?

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Blood Moon

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Blood Moon

Her heart;
A hard one to get to,
Caked with transmigratory distillations,
Illumined by the intensity of dissident blood,
Blocked
With the sludge of unnatural sin, sanskaras,
Struck down in mid-career
In the midst of an otherwise sanctioned, archaic prowl –
Not to mention 8.4 million human incarnations everyone goes through
To decide
Before realizing oneness with this existence
And what’s behind each bourgeois door,

It was one of those electric nights,
We merged like a dare,
Exchanging boxes of transcendental rain
In sacred bonds of antediluvian scarlet,
Carbon’d, DNA’d;
The only apparent reality now –
Apparently,

By not speaking we let what is unspoken decide,
Relinquished in silence’s diamond eye shore,

The unimportant
The unadorned
The fear
The unforeseen,
The unknown –
For just a little while

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