When Props Fall Tumbling Down

When Props Fall Tumbling Down

You are reading a book about your life
It is your life as you write it
You write your life with every thought

And with Foucault of all your morality
You make do and act upon the ideas
Encapsulated in the book of your mind

And it’s not your mind, it’s a book
That was written while you were sleeping
You were sleeping in an experience

Since four AM with just a candle glowing
The background changes and you get older
And the decades don’t feel the same at all

And you are still writing and I’m still living
But if I read about you in quicksilver fluidity
Would I ever see your eye in this strange theater?

We are all spotlights in our dream, hustlers
On the purple sidesteps of what it means to be human
And I’m not alone or everyone is just like me

Or both, and it’s a question of perception and authorship
Did you write me into your story or vise-versa?

I Celebrate S o u l

I Celebrate S o u l

The soul is full of reverence
The soul honours your soul
There is no mine or you
It honours the place where we

Reside in the entire universe
And honours light, love, truth, beauty
And peace within you
Because it is also within me

In sharing these things
Our spirits are united
If we didn’t have idealism
Hope for a better future

A sense of equality and justice
The capacity to have revolutions
We would not be one, or have
A common descendent divinity

There is a point in evolution
Where we evolve past this or that
And what I assume you shall assume
And what you dream, I shall live

For all these atoms of our humanity
Belong to a collective-soul
The atmosphere of unity is intimate
While it is transcendent of our body

I am mad for it to be in contact with me
The sniff of green that is a reminder
And we loaf and invite our souls
To govern our lives, like a discovery

Of our most powerful freedom
Who wills to serve divinity must
Intoxicate themselves with higher ideas
To participate in the future requires

A few embraces of altruism
A play in the shine of innovation.

Untitled zen poem

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.

Prince of worlds

The world is not conclusion
She rides the glory and tragedy
Leaving us behind no doubt
A descendent divinity

History a symphony of positives
In a life of necessary suffering
We have no shame, generations
Of maladies, cancer of the Planet

We have no guilt, ecological terrorists
To breed into the billions
Imagine the height of arrogance!?
As the oceans die, in a philosophy of next

Permafrost is melted into the atmosphere
The world is not a conclusion
She is a star among trillions
Her philosophy is ancient

Extinction is not worrisome for her
She has seen a million species scar her planet
But none like us, none like when
Mars was once full of life

We’ll do it again in no time
But will we make it to other worlds?
That is the love affair with time
To survive, we do what we do

In order to survive, for this
God does not have to exist
Or any myth in fact, but it’s helpful
To imagine life as an ambush of bliss

Heaven but a moment away
For reality is an expensive privilege
For which I have outgrown in labour
It may be a forgone conclusion that

We die, but in piercing earnest
The life after death must be a treat
It’s hard to be surprised anymore
In jest, let’s believe in what we please.

Poetry of the Human Psyche

What is this poetry, you keep talking about
This poetry, you keep becoming
Like a neurological stimulation
You can’t give up!?

An imported art for the few
From some peculiar time
When people read and spoke of

Their innermost feelings
Is poetry to be felt as something
Fundamental, then, or a shape produced

Or a fictional narrative
Or a sculpture of nature reproducing
Something or copying something other
An architecture of the human condition?

A caricature then, a blank slate that is
Never truly neutral or objective at all?
Or a failure to integrate into reality?

Some verbal instrument of our subjectivity
A popular language of futility
Like philosophy, or something to be hidden
By teenagers on secret blogs

All appearances do seem fallacious
And we disdain to be ourselves classified
As the formerly neurotic, or spontaneously flawed

But who cares, we trace our own definitions
Right down to the words we choose to affirm
However our psyche breathes, however
Our art can account for our genes

In these environments, this snapshot of history
These ruined cities and corrupted nations
So poetry is not meant to convince or persuade

But to reveal, offering a sense of
The human to the intelligence machine
And offering a sense of the past to the future
A passion of the elementary kind

We wrote our best poems when young
Considered poetry, it’s an elegance of interpretation
Which takes greatest delight in hearing

Our own voice, like a vanity of our griefs
That’s the state of society, measured
In linguistic trends and masquerading as art.

Ghost in the Machine

Why have the gods in their division
Severed us, from our heart of being?
From our soul, lured thee to wander
In techno-currency, o my lost lover?

While now I sojourn in sorrow
My biology made to remorse for
The artificial prosperity of corporate days
Nay, who could love as I once did,

Now Cortana and Siri must evolve
So that deity might become companion
And computer might become friend
Why has the future forsaken biology?

Because, because it was inevitable
To transcend, transform, evolve
Computers will pretend to be people
People will mask themselves into augmented reality

Bathed in information and duality
What will summer magic mean then?
Or the dream of other physical worlds…

Wasn’t the Road Filled With Eternal Welcome?

Telling you all would take too long
About the wholes and misfortunes
These breakthroughs through errors
A memory more persistent than love

But I’m okay, perhaps our lives
Are no more than the fire’s reflection
Complicated by Plato, flabbergasted by Nietzsche
I must sing the years full of
Sweet abandoned voices

Places I have been, what I have seen
Vulnerable in the public squares
Telling you all would be seriously wrong
We have our special secrets, our wanton surprises
The double anguish, wounds that

Won’t probably ever go away
Prisoners, genuine humble pilgrims
I want no descendents, I want
No shadows in their blood
No more serotonin misfits

Tell you all would mean mourning freedom
And I don’t mind being alone
For in solitude I’m always in ecstasy
Always writing poems to nobody.