I Went to Heaven with Suffering, but I Lived


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Photo courtesy of Thon94rt

A little madness for the end of Summer
Is wholesome even for a beggar
The start of the end of climaxes

Where experiments felt like a dream
And life had no soft distinctions
Only dramas that became less fashionable

Fashioned by these candid hands
Where I blush in solitude for my losses
A little crazier than before

A moment lost on the edges of lifetimes
The soul condemned to be a guest
With undisputed rights to be nobody

And fame for the fickle food of anonymity
There’s no scrutiny like self-judgement
No following like bleak humility

No embarrassment like the obliteration of need
When you as a person begin to dissolve
Remember what madness taught you

The hosts depart, the friends depart, the lovers too
But some things can be treasured

In the adventure of the self
In the bleak individualism of perishing
To passion, a broken mathematics of faith.

To take us lands away 


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(Prayers of Jivatma)

The sky is the content
The trees are the content
The people, they’re just visitors

Who will go extinct like any species
Who may attempt to fly from
Star to planet to planet-star

As a dragonfly might fly from one
End of the summer backyard to the other
There is no special season

To be whisked away, no passage
Like a book, no counselor like a page
From the frugal reality we live

To the grand impression of the human soul
Encapsulated in a few novels
That transformed the way we perceive

Events and our cognition of how
The world works, and what is possible
That’s philosophy of memes

That we project what we invest in
A chariot at play forever learning
With a mind that can barley keep up

To the new speed of information
The stars are the content
The birds are the believers
We are just authors of a human story.

Untitled zen poem


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On observing the P r e s e n t s t a t e

There is an error in thought
That does not recognize silence
Or witness the unity behind everything
Unwilling to see the page of nature

We believe our agency to be separate
But our thoughts are rather
Manifestations of nature

We are part of this design
We lack the trust of instinct
Separating, labeling, judging

Living in a cost-benefit duality
Our intelligence is quite limited
So we search for the coin
In the river where we lost it

But time does not function like that
Memory is no longer accurate
The moment it is recalled
And self is a poor approximation of destiny

Destiny is a non-dual experience
It is the Tao of fundamental reality
So empty your body of illusions

And throw away the madness of attachment
Freedom is not to approve anything
For reality is a gold and dung phenomenon

If we stop pursuing things outside of ourselves
Then might we be able to witness
What is actual and what is essential.

Forever New Beginnings


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On Days like Immortality

On days when I think of myself
As a clean stranger, I get
To start again a true new beginning

Mirrors speak casually to me

My name in the voice
Of others sounds different
I learn to measure
The world’s feedback differently
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Once I am unleashed
A new person, something long-term
Changes in how I treat others
That’s when I know

I am Immortal, a soul on a mission
On a tiny gem of a Planet
Reciprocally I become
An interaction in real-time

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I speak up more, and say less
In a few gestures
Than ever before
There was no annual

Catastrophic disappointment
Just me, on days like a new beginning
Mirrors became windows
People became mirrors.

A Self-Help Poem


To love life, a gift from Creation
Is a duty we too easily forget
Misunderstood is the wonder
Lost in suffering, is the gratitude

But friendship with life, is so
Essential to finding beauty
Learning like a child, so fundamental
In our ability to appreciate circumstance

And paramount, in the capacity
Of limited creatures to choose free-will
And exercise their soul, in blossoms
Of experience, in honest affections

In pure becoming, that’s the philosophy
No trials can censure love out
There are these holy attractors
These metaphysical magnets of bliss

They are quantum fuel for the sensitive
Not only to be sensitive to suffering
But sensitive to virtue, open to kindness
Giving and receiving, without judgement

Participating in harmony spontaneously
God knows you are apt to enjoy suffering
But to make it a habit would be an absurdity
Make love the habit you base your life upon

To walk a golden path with a smile
To find your dreams on a sunlit assertion
That your life is what you believe it can be:
Life is a perception of how you reinforce the positive.

Last Slope of Summer


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There is a stillness that catches me
In middle of the last hours of Summer
Catching me from the inside

Adrift, in the memory of haunted
Centuries that are no more
I hear low voices in the horizon
Chanting syllables of dust
Nothing moves but Autumn’s approach

Time is lethargic and artificial
I can feel the low sky vibrate
Inside my heart, each hour feeling

Larger, more spacious and more fleeting
In an acceleration where memory
Is lost in a whirlwind of sensations
And I promiscuously must harden myself
To survive these faceless moments

I have unlived today’s suffering
Until I escaped memory itself
And the idea that I was conquered by
Mortal hours that had no light to return.

As you strode deeper into the world


When it’s over, I want to say: all my life I was a bride married to amazement. I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
~ Mary Oliver

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Horse-475589992

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As you strode deeper into the world

One day you finally knew
The journey had ended where
It had begun, the voices soft
Lifted you to trembling with joy
A grace became your whole house

You were moved, divided
And put together again
Your soul kept crying raining joy
It was delight you knew, that you had
Forgotten, long since you were a child

Joy that has no purposes but to live
Observe, remark, joke to yourself
These were your foundations returned
Your memory wrapped everything
In a calm embrace, like branches and stones

You were a part of this all, energy
Came from one place and was moved
Here or there, but the world you loved
Well, it would go on, it wasn’t so much
A worry of yours anymore, little by little

Love became the silent prayers
Of your steps, until you no longer
Could exist, would exist, no more
One day you finally recognized your purpose
It was then you kept company

With death in that strange surreal space
Between Summer and Autumn when
You saved yourself, you finally did just do that.

The Intangible


Experience is not what happens to you; it’s what
you do with what happens to you. – Aldous Huxley

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I’ve experienced what
I was meant to experience
I’ve seen and heard and met
All that I was meant to see, hear, meet
And I have loved
That which I was preordained to love
So why do I fret, all is as it should be
Experience is not what happens to you
It’s what you do with what happens to you
I’ve perceived my own perception change
Into a subjectivity of quantum possibility
There I meditated on the great ends
The release from knowing and a
Finality of loving everything
Reality is merely an illusion
Albeit a very persistent one
The end of the soul is energy
Everything is a bridge to that state of being
That lives invisible behind all sensation
Experience, fate, free-will, identity
Are merely the teachers of the wise
Who end up knowing nothing quite justly
Danger and opportunity is but the gathering
Of the ‘crisis’ of being, that is
In the last regard, quite unimportant.

Reality is merely an illusion, albeit a very persistent one – Albert Einstein

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Photography Courtesy:

1. http://browse.deviantart.com/art/Enchanting-381636901
2. http://browse.deviantart.com/art/grenade-2-381660719

Language at the End of the World


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To lighten up language, I’ve/
Dug deeper, soared higher
A grassroots entry into oblivion

The little landscapes collected/
Of a billion lives, varieties, in-commons
To become a single blade of grass

Or a single bead of flowing water/
That’s the first conundrum
To identify with everything

Purely, without pretence/
I do not barter light and dark
They simple are, like the macrocosm

Of my internal states, I mirror them well/
With is neither grief nor joy
But only peace, nature, what is –

Time will tell if I listened or loved/
This world well, with my lack of vitality
To lighten up language, I’ve

Blown in your direction, across/
Buried cities, with little saliva
In my mouth for the end-of-times

I’ve dreamed apocalypse would be/
Not so different, as the sweet oblivion
Of a dying world, that thrives if only
For it’s artificial growth.

Writing is my Last Gold Perception


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The Vital Word acts through me
Chiseling lyrics to shiver in language
The act of symbol to perpetuate soul

My favorite invention, my muse
Of the instinct to dance
In line or song, delay and feedback-loop

An aptitude for flight – or poetry
Here one moment, gone too soon
With swiftness as if Eternity was due

Upon the ether-street, airy lullabies
I write to oblige the accomplished Guest
To visit me like awkward cursive

Ancient tongues, soul-music standing ajar
As English, neighbored Mandarin
Songs of Earth, to light my brain with

Securest folds, enlarging loneliness
The Abyss can fall into the word.

Notes to Hands I cannot See


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I am a beggar for experience
That drop like stars from some beyond
The dropped flakes of virtual minds
We meet more people, every year

I am a beggar for the Color Green
Who tells me secrets of dying syllables
The poetry of admitting wombs
That are not fertile, nobody is perfect

I am a beggar for life’s true worth
To find the deep meaning, behind the chatter
To eclipse the tremors of expectation
And love the gravity of life’s uncertainty

I am a beggar for higher lands
A divine Ferret whom I cannot find
A spiritual paradise of some extremity of mercy
A novel woman who welcomes me home

I am a beggar, because of what I perceive I lack
Toyed in the final inches from love
This is my letter to the world
Of what I risked to gain savory everything.

Prologue


Time for me has never gotten comfortable
Once upon a time, there was me
Not I, but a coexisting us
Many selves splintered
Unable to resume existing
As a significant whole
Like a prologue of all known things
These of the self were finite
Mortal, braided with the stars
Mirrored, like wandering hands
That renounced the light
A long time ago, time was only a context
The symbols of neglected bruises
Reminders of ancient Sanskrit terms
Gray cathedrals of spirit-space
That were not witnessed, before the age
Of a thousand eyes, before consciousness
Could be downloaded and uploaded
Time was a little girl who
Announced her arrival each moment
With a big pillow in her hands for sleeping beauty
Down from the sorcerer’s tree
I swallowed the fruit once again
A blind witness to my blind hunger
Leave the wisdom here said the bird
In the seed, throw the seed into the river.

Portrait of the Void


These hours are not pregnant
Maybe in reversed tempo
I must be broken to love again
I wake up to the smell of pine needles
The hours of my humanity were edited
Performed memory autopsy
By the impotence of our toppled world
Yesterday or today or tomorrow
Blend into one, like a reconstructed
Holographic life, a quantum signature
With the breath of a fairy
Erected from lost discipline, cheated disciplines
These hours are like a miscarriage
Of all the love we stored in each other
Moments as brutal as magnetic suns
Whose ballet of light is unrelentless.

Like Slanted Shadows on the Road


Our notion of afternoon had to do with

The siesta of passing bleeding hopes

A semi-minute it took to breath well

On an empty stomach at the past for good

To truly feel the processing of all afternoons

 

All passing transparency of light

The trembling waving lyrics left unnoticed

Aches better left internal, misunderstood

 

Lost to attentive passer Byers

The future remained a heathen country

Full of autonomous regions, gentle reminders

Of what we could become, though

There would be no rest, and that was fearsome

 

Only the shapeless volume of technology

Merging with mind, intelligence launched

Headlong into the speed of secret stretches

Where time became something eventful.