Reality is ………. I Don’t give It A Name

I’m very careful now of what kind of media I allow to enter my inner space and I wished I have had the insight to start earlier in life. It leaves me with a lot to unlearn. You youthful ones out there that are waking up are very lucky. You can live in a wonderful world if you organize and create it yourself. And you are doing that, and I just love you for it!

I  MACHINATION

Hidden secrets,

Corrupt agendas,

By governments,

And Corporations,

Surface to awareness,

My blind trust exploited,

As my awareness expands,

I see I’ve been tricked,

Into trusting exterior things,

So where to turn now?

To the Love within!

Love can be rejected,

Or completely Ignored,

But it can’t be destroyed,

Eradicated or overpowered,

Because Love is all ,

That exists.

 

And so, the world will continue to mirror back to me the things in my own life that need changed Within. Greater amounts of light, harmony, balance, calmness, love, and compassion all come from Within and then flow out.  The system, that Big Machine that seems  “out there,” is not even real and I will not serve it, it is no longer my master.

 

ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE

 

 

 

 

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The Other Half Of The Sky

THE MOON

They’ve stolen our Goddess,

And gave us bulimic,

Photo shopped vomit,

Of run way models,

That mimic,

What women should be,

Anorexic and sick,

Young heroin addicts,

But hey,

It’s all just show biz,

As she strips naked to star in a flick.

 

The feminine aspect,

A church whore now,

Putting out,

To a mass produced,

And traumatized,

Mankind.

Our strength,

Comes from,

From The Mother Divine,

You can not suppress her,

Erase or deface her,

She’ll come back stronger,

As spirit into matter,

Manifesting,

A perfectly,

Well deserved storm.

 

Instead of of ‘Our Father’,

It should be ‘Our Mother’,

She’s the true art,

Falling from heaven,

And everything here,

Is coming from Her,

And as quickly can all disappear.

 

Dr Shadow

Sometimes it’s all,

About loss of control,

I like when my mind,

Escapes from it’s cage,

And rushes head first,

Into hot melting shit.

 

Chaos breaks up,

The mundane,

And gives birth,

To change.

 

VA WARD #88: (mumbling quickly so no one will hear)

I’m safely dressed so I glow in the dark, and I’m driving while safely in park. And I sleep and I sleep, and I only  wake up to not miss the latest dance craze: The Thorazine Shuffle is sweeping the floor. But it’s ok, it’s really alright, I came from a dream and I’ll return to a dream, and in the mean time I’ll just dream some more.

I told myself a bedtime story, where everything that appeared out there was really all in here, sunny-side up, and projected into my brain like a movie no one else sees. Everything I thought I heard was just vibrations in the air, entering my ears where in my head sounds were formed, then deformed like the things one would see, when things that are seen are too ugly to be seen, and no one should ever see that! They asked what I saw, pretending to care, but their words would blindly butt in, and with pill after pill, they would let me go home, if I heard what they said I should hear. (“Fuck man, another order from another asshole,” thinking but never out loud). These shrinks in white coats and ties ’round their necks, like nooses from Zeus’s abode. Blanket covered minds fresh from college,  whipped and stripped of their souls, they wanted me to see what they saw. She saw see saws. Dr. Shadow’s big ego, his truth wasn’t true, and George Orwell would shit in his grave. (Play the game, soldier, play the game so we all can go home) … I was just a Corporate Hitman playing Army because the movies all lied. ”But now you gotta live with yourself. Need help with that? Call 1-8OO-FORGET … then hold.” But don’t, it’s just another one of their tricks.

They said that the Hobbits and dwarves, the spies and the creeps, were all just made up in my head;  But I know what is real is what I feel when I’m feeling what’s real. Red freckled doctors and candy cane shrinks are waiting to put me away, unless I agree that what they all see is what everyone sees, and the only things really for real. So they took off my wings, killed my spirit and then, took my ability to levitate too. (I used to be able to fly, and I’m sorry I don’t mean to brag).

Faces with legs and claws like a crab are chasing me ’round the psyche ward. But if I take enough pills till I agree they’re not real, then they’ll let me back out on the street. And they recommend I believe in some Christ, or at least think that Santa is real. Melting my brain with their cures to forget…to forget… for get … fore-get … tick tock. Tick Tock. . . . . .

But I forgot to forget, or I faked it I guess, and I hope that they never find out, ’cause I’m cured and I’m no longer scared. So now I know that waffle irons aren’t just for wrinkled waffles. And pancakes are flapjacks, but black jack’s a game, unless you’re out of your mind.

I’m freezing to death,

But they insist with a threat,

That I’m really feeling quite warm.

 

So I want to make clear,

That I’m really not here,

And if I were,

I’d be just in your head…

 

Funk

depressed man

I am lethargic
Confused
And stupefied too
A state of numbness
Just oozes
From each of my thoughts
At least the main thing
That I think
I’m thinking about
Is how a wasteland
For the wasted
Just floated ‘cross my mind
A frosted playground
In the desert
Where my language decays
Composed emotions
About nothing
Rot and reek in the heat
Rock and roll me please
Out of my funk
Let the drums get it on
Lay down a rhythmic
Pleasing diversion
As I turn inside out
To face the music
And pay the piper
For a last chance
To dance
With you

The Bubble Genius

391-vector-silhouette-of-small-boy-blowing-bubbles
The little boy was hypnotized by the bubbles he was blowing, as they floated through the air. It mesmerized me just watching his big brown intense eyes, with the lack of a smile like a scientist on a mission. His face so serious as he searched the space filled with bubbles of all sizes,  exploding at different times. Some landing and rolling on the ground  for a while. Some popping before they got a few feet away from his innocent breath. What did those young eyes see that created such astonishment?

Each bubble seemed to be an entity, just like a human life.  An invisible mystery surrounded by a thin shell. Each one different, but each one the same. The shells would pop, and a tiny droplet would fall to the ground, while what was inside the bubble kept floating away. Some bubbles lived a long time, seeming to break some kind of law of physics. Some burst upon the slightest touch with an object. Some melted together. The double bubble. Ahhh, look at the little boys face. The bubbles burst as he tiredlessly keeps blowing more. What was he thinking?

And he caught me looking at him and saw me staring as hypnotically at the bubbles as he was. We exchanged a short heart felt childish giggle, then he went straight back to blowing bubbles. More and more and more bubbles. And through our eye contact, I realized I peeked into his bubble, and he into mine. In a sea of bubbles, this boy became my little friend, just for a short while. His mother appeared and saw the bubbles and looked down at the boy. Her son, but she didn’t really see him. She was pleased he had occupied himself and there was no doubt she loved him. She just didn’t grasp his genius. She smiled at me and I smiled back to reassure her that the boy was definitely not bothering me. So I looked into her bubble and she into mine. And for a second, we were two friends. Two bubbles making contact in a vast sea of bubbles. And she picked her little boy up and turned to leave. The boy looked back at me and without hesitation smiled and waved good bye.  His bubble trance was now broken,  but I knew he’d soon find something new to study somewhere else.  I just wonder what it will be?

Grandpa and Jesus

Somewhere between running water and voices,  I hear drums. I can not make out what the voices are saying.  Just a low murmur.  I sure like the way the water and drums drown out the conversations that never stop. Pitches. Running water makes music and has different pitches in it’s rhythm. And the drum mimics the heart beat, but with decorations and ornaments that make the dragons fly by.

Grandpa was  clever at devising ingenious devices, the man with the grizzled beard always kept his eyes on the world. His advice was full of cut and dried old phrases. A lifetime working at the rubber plant left him with a lack of imagination,  he became an ordinary guy.  A descendant of the Dutch, settlers of New York, just an off handed, lonely, Knickerbocker guy. An old patroon. He was the guardian of activity…a divine entity. But he hadn’t a clue.

So anyway, the old patroon was legally blind from a large waterfall of cataracts. Clouds over the pupils. Hmmm…  He had them removed before laser surgery was discovered,  and now he was 92  (now being back then). He once asked me, as death got nearer to him, if I believed if Jesus really rose from the dead.

“I guess spiritually Grampa,” I answered and thought it was a pretty good answer. But like an admission of guilt, the words escaped from my mouth and ran into his ears and did not bother to hide in the halls of his brain till it made sense upon further investigation by him.

A great hostility and rage he became. “I know spiritually! I mean literally, do you believe it?” he yelled back angrily. The doubt on the face of a man wanting so badly to believe. I felt awkward so I said nothing. Perhaps I should have been honest and said no, but I remained silent…such an empty reply. Grandma, his wife and Baptist Christian believer, died two years before. And now his lonely body was nothing but a vessel for pain and grief. Poor guy, 92 years of life, only to be reduced to this. How fucking rude of life! He wanted to see his son, who died in World War II by a Kamikaze pilot, his 18 year old body lost in the ocean forever. He wanted to see his wife again, who through the years had became half of him. He wanted to believe the Christians so he could see his wife and son in heaven, but his doubt was torturing him. He was stuck in rational mode trying to believe a story full of holes, and his mind became strapped down and wasn’t free to wonder. He just couldn’t jump the hurdle that the church put up. Strangulation  by dogma.

As he laid dying in the hospital, his daughter, my aunt, lay dying from lung cancer just down the hall. But nobody told Grandpa. It would have been too much for him, they thought. I don’t know. I just let them think their thoughts, and do their deeds. My then much younger mom, his other daughter,  was with him when he left this world.  She watched him sit up in bed with his arms extended and call his wife’s name. My mother was sure he saw her, as he hugged the air and laid down and died.

Now I ask, “Grandpa, is there life after death?”

Silence…such an empty reply.

But somewhere between running water and voices, I hear drums.

Sick Again

r-BREAKING-UP-large570
Home alone and so love sick,

 

I’m reading all your letters,

 

Thinking I might find a clue,

 

Of where it all went wrong,

 

And I can’t help but think that you,

 

Were pretending all along,

 

Your bronze skin glows,

 

I miss the touch,

 

And I can hardly stand it

 

I’m missing you so very much,

 

But I’ll never admit it.