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8

We Worship perfect because we can’t have it

Language, it has allowed me to dream
I’ve never done anything but dream
All experience is a simulation
Of what our senses tell us

We perceive, all relationships
Are 80% make believe
And thus, I come to the point
Where my ultimate concern

Is naturally, for my inner life
Is the book of disquiet over?
Is the meaning found that escaped me?
Are the idols ready to be pushed aside?

And the myths, are they ready
To succumb to new myths, new standards?
To make way for the new
Language, it has allowed me to feel

I’ve never done anything but feel
All thoughts have a quality of feeling
Objectivity is the greatest lie
But subjectivity is an ironic dreamer

Full of queer promises and casual observations
That do not register fully until years later
That I take a certain pleasure in the fact
Of watching daydreams go down in defeat

Words like any truth, are part duality
And what once seemed like a clever remark
Can later feel like the ghost of an imaginary friend.

In order to understand


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In order to understand

It’s quarter after three, in my life
That’s a lot of life gone
That’s, a lot of life left

I’ve learned to listen
To the notes in the margin
Before the pages are
Completely erased
Everything lingers with me

In my heart, the world works
In mysterious ways, we are all
Perfect strangers, and perfectly familiar

The poets are eccentric and figures
I’ve rarely conversed with, sure
I’ve read dead ones and the like
Literature is after all

The most agreeable way of ignoring life
And it’s not, that I’m consciously
Trying to ignore my life
Life is beautiful and mixed up

While my past is everything I failed to be
My future makes my soul impatient
Everything interests me
But nothing holds me

Dreaming all the while
Both my soul and I
Keep our distance
I wake up early in the morning

Only to find it takes me
A long time getting
Ready to exist, so here we go

We never love anyone, no
We love the idea we have of someone
Strangely, it’s our own concepts
Our own imaginary ideas

That we love, intrinsically
We are dumb like that
And in order to understand
Ourselves, we have to die to ourselves

It’s philosophy existentially
And the experience of the
Soul’s hidden orchestra
I know the instruments
All I can hear now is symphony.

Wind passes and we forget


2

Wind passes and we forget

the wind is blowing tonight
too hard to be able to rest
it’s blowing so I become the wind
i become the night at the ocean
perhaps the thing in my soul

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grows weary of the earth
my spirit a free-child without limits
I sense a delight of a far-off place
that’s come upon me now
regardless of life and circumstance

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body, neuron, mood, wealth and mate
profession: a hard wind is blowing
it’s taking me, to invisibility
transcendence, judgement, reckoning
in extinction and non-dual being

———————————————————–

it makes my soul ache with a calm
how strange, I become the night at the ocean
at the edge of the galaxy, where stars
they are dim and dipping over
inside-out and there God thanks us

————————————————————–

for being born and having lived
in most respects, quite ordinarily.

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Philosophy of maybe


27

I see that there is no nature
only that which we project onto her
that image perhaps evolved in us
due to an interaction with her

but we do not ascertain directly
we do not know anything concretely
everything is translated by sense

imperfectly, translated by science
temporarily, dictated by out-dated dogma
unsystematically, felt incompletely
identified with, with a mesh of duality

I see that there is no nature
that Nature does not exist
there are these myths of the good

myths of God, and shoulds
but our entire world imprisoned
memes, simulations, accepted truth
between us here, that may be false

to another kind of creature
the true and real are a disease
of their own ideas, there exists

a unity that we cannot fathom
that the hills, valleys, plains, oceans
forests, sunlight, flowers, grass
maybe nature without parts

is a whole for which we are
only a piece and therefore
cannot fully grasp beyond ourselves.

Philosophy of disappearances


27

the mystery of things?
what is the outcome
of this drama of life

what mystery? We get to live
then die, one moment the sun
the next we close our eyes

the only mystery is that
some people think about mystery
to forget the sun is not impossible

if we close our eyes
but if we are blind, we hear
more intensely, if we are

introverted, we internalize
more sufficiently, as if
the world were an experience

approached from many different perspectives
it’s not a mystery we approach
life in dramatic fashion, branding

it ours, I am, in large measure
the examination of choice
the will to freedom, the instinct

to flee from that which is difficult
the mystery of things?
is that I love in language

and touch with my eyes
that I evolved to outgrow God
then die, one moment a brain

the next a light across the universe
a star, a medium fluid of space-time

And the rest is the dreams of men


It isn’t enough to write about the sun
we felt the absolute
body of things
in our bones and breath24

ready to squander a lifetime
if necessary, to sacrifice
for the causes we believed in

exiting, an exact and entire coincidence
the ironies of society
a myopia of the perfect hope
that cannot understand the world
since it does not know itself

it isn’t enough to write about history
what I dream is for a sun
more sun than the sun

but how can this be?
the earth has held us for millennia
there are no meadows
more meadows than the meadows here

there are no oceans like
the oceans of ancient days
if a soul resides in this body
I want it to animate a better world.