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I’m You Are (A Book)



I want to talk about when you say That was strange, aloud,

Especially under your speech,


What are Strangenesses?

The in-between-Else’s who do not permit our name upon them,

who remain right There,

When we name something we’re saying I found it!

Lover, see how naming passes so quickly over the greatness

of a finding and the expressive Here in that relationship?


Choose one listening, ask, Has that one separated itself from

the multitude of Earth-songs or have I, longing for my Soul’s

attention, created a portion into another multitude,

These become What’s, what is What’s outside the companion of

the friend Soul Attention?


Where does the wind itself separate from finch-swirling-voices?

It’s there, here, in the wisdom of Soul Attention, the incredible laughter

of singleness, its immensities, soon again to multiply into the infinities of

becoming, being, loving, a garden resting after having been worked by the

gardener, the gardener resting after having been worked by the garden,

you are THIS,


Strangenesses, all mystery-You, point to becoming their erring friend,

brings our nests to lose their mothers, still the Spring breeze delivers

the food we need, Attention, stillness arranged accordingly to our efforts

toward The Friend, where we bunch ourselves together, huddling to rest

awhile beneath the belly of Sky, Attention, to go from limb to limb,

this is Love’s limping train,


Someone-You sees the awkward fledgling, thinks it helplessness,

Cannot resist the Someone-You to wonder inside differently,


See Crutch Carrier Soul Attender?  You were always limping.

What you thought walking, a bird called injured,

What you felt stealthy, a lion knew it as consistent Luck’s inconsistency,

Where you finished remodeling, the bird turned to its former Springtime nest,

tears it apart to build presently Soul Attention,

When your body stoops exhausted Soul often determines this moment to be

its signal-becoming, runs faster, entering deeper the strengths who bent

straight Presence to stoop, sifts out the weakness and brings the bow back to an arrow,


Runner, listener, delivered to being and to wind itself,

to surround the colors of Creation’s perpetual lonesome,

A strangeness, where is You-Mystery?  Where from, not when, do you dive into one of

your sentences spoken, only one,  not knowing that your concealing the knowledge-sense

of your whole quoted book, YOU?  Where from is going Love once Someone-You has

announced it Someone-Love?





Try not to choose one color,

This brings restlessness,

Let that be choosing.


While sitting by the river’s edge, Mind, try into wondering what objects ‘are’,

Floating ‘in’ the water, not those, upon the surface, carried along by the streaming,

What each sound as within their submerging, each one,

This brings restlessness,

Let that be your refreshment,

Let the water-sound go, it is only a cloak for your wetter soul flowing through,


When you sense your love returning from someone having had it,

Check your truer strengths by keeping its arrival proclaims to a whisper,

Don’t get up to find what your cooking on the stove, Soul,

Don’t answer the door, Attention, to any knocks following that love’s entrance,

Work to keep it there,

Try not to give it packages for delivering to others,

As to be those parcels, take them for yourself,

Sit as close to the fire as human-possible is,

Notice, love is wearing the disappearing log’s color,

It is wearing the moment,

It is wearing your having been worn,

Laugh conversation into silence,

Be as loud as a monk copying a bible.





Do nothing to allow the creation of beauty place your spirit away,

Like the woodman does his axe and wedge after they meet his season-supply,


Lift out of beauty finished,

Move on as a camel would if its driver suddenly dropped from thirst,

dying, move on, do not look back for the smile in that pride of having been

inspired by the driver’s getty-ups, of having something special on your

back you wished to own not fall off,


Creation has already left this sort of scene, all beauties, outside,

everywhere, these are Soul-hobbies only, not talent, not interest,

not education, nor heaven-focused, what is talent if ‘it’, the destination

desired, cannot cease awhile what it is yearning and carry some others

difficulty, thirst, back into themselves, off the desert floor, off you,

the carrying camel-talent?


Try to allow people, especially your lovers, keep themselves,

Above pride of accomplishment stands the fear of having no soul, no god,

no love,

Let accomplishment remain confused as its stillness truly is once separated

from our telling of its story,

Let this confusion be the worth-project.



Let it be there, your there,

Pain, anguish, yearning for happiness,

These have followed you your whole life,


Each ‘it’ is something you do not have to do,

Let them, they are as anxious to be yours, upon you,

as a lap-cat pawing anticipates your thighs,

Let them leap, walk in circles, rest,

Don’t get up,

Don’t set them down,

Wait till the lap-cat chooses wonder, leaving,

Build a lap-cat-door, whose form has no lock,

no knob, no bell or rapping handles, no permissions,


Let pain be, do not argue with suffering, it has always

known what is better for you, you know now that this

For-You is your best,


Anguish, your-there,

Yearning, your-there,

Suffering, your-there,

Let your-there be as blank as snow does for busy nature.



All that happens is an open cup in your hand,

Where night falls is an open cup in your hand,

When the ocean lifts the sun, this is a teapot for

the cup in your hand,

When God blinks, a millionth moon has said Thank you,

When God blinks, a trillionth lover has perished,

laughing straight through Heaven’s entrance and out to

the other side,

All that you wish would occur is a sugar cube in your hand,

I am your horse leaning over a fence that you think keeps me in,

Yet, is it not the fence and my proximity to it that gets me

you and your sugar-cube?

Never for a moment think that a horse cannot build a good fence.





If your life could have been, what you now want it to be, it would have been

far before your knowing it was not, that sort of could have is finished

with you,


Look, Crazed Gardener,

What you plant does not carry your particular enthusiasm,

Still, it loves your loving and simple hands,


Eating the food, the food eats you,

Focus on could-have-been,

See how into today it treats the antiquity of your spirit,

How it displays what has been found that it cannot read,

The Lover knows the Rosetta Stone by heart and was the teacher

of every beast’s peculiar language,


See, the Lover does not look up to be taken by another,

It looks so to give some readiness,

Let could-have-been rest in the museum of Mind,

Archeology and Soul do not mix.




I ask you, my heart-listening now,

Where would you go if you had again what could not?


See Heart?  You ask, you want, you chase, and where

is the shadow of all this dragging of I?  What is the why is it

In Why is it not well enough to live?


And you say that rain would make no sound if it did not land,

I say, rain proves earth by its sound, though means nothing to

the geese in flight,


To chase the wish to be Loved, is this loving the chase or what

you have already caught, who disables you, while forgetting it,

to sit running?


Who are you thinking with my mind, a person to be needing

live that wish?

Nothing, something, I am and Here answering for neither,

Where are you Heart, backwards, forwards, now, found?


The emptiness arrives, like quiet some heaven, vacant,

for lease, signs and numbers posted by previous angels,

Current addresses, though no direction, nothing, clear emptiness,

This is a washbowl, not your dressing up,

A good cup of tea, this is where the seeds for all drinks blew from,

From where our blood flew,

Whom we sit sipping with our breaths.



Determination cannot do it,

Action proves nothing, save its own body’s weight,

Love disassembles more than it fixes,

This is a law of Love on Earth,

Love on the Sun is different,


When I love I should not think,

Celebration is breathing a Lover in,

Not planning to fall better to Love, or learning how to

love permanent in the flux connected to Soul-Attention,

The Soul of Man swaps bodies on its long journey,

So does the soul of Love do this while no travel occurs, Being,


The Heart is a great balloon resting, earth-home has not

inflated it, nor could the Hurricane find patience to place

its lips there for this,


A Lover, no matter the time, here the balloon ascends,

We know the sigh of depletion,

If you believe you are finished, then you were never raced,

To be worn out is to stall the mind, to free it from its passion

-cell, Alpha Omega,


I do not see any ending,

I do not love endings,

Neither does Love,

Love put to the World’s lips the words     Never ending.



When I open my eyes you arrive,

In the mirror propped against my Living-Life-Door,


When I open my heart you disappear from

a mirror propped against my mind,


When I open my mind everything appears,

A thousand neighboring mirrors,

Haphazard mercury baths poured out as sheets to

reflect oneanother, showing each as a multitude

deeper, as a totality called me, this does truly not



When Love thinks it has created a fifth season,

An earth inside an earth,

Uninhabitable, unsustainable by the axis-sun,

Here it has thought, I said I should not think,


When we mistake the Spirit for the Soul all mind

is satisfied,

Before Soul there is mind,

After mind is not After thought,


I see you in the mirror,

I cannot wonder why you are here with me,

We are too old now to play Guess-Becoming.



When Love stands still,

Tornadoes stop to stare,

Though their twirling dismembers order,

beauty, homestead and human,

It is a limb from Love,

It loves twirling,

It is the first and first Always Dervish,


Love seldom stands still, our hearts,

our friends offer up proof of this,


When the hand is clear of all jewelry, Love

returns to satiate our true whereabouts,


When the hand is not the symbol of Mystery-You,

it may then begin the touch again,

The molding who began these legends of Love,

Myth is senility of the Spirit, not Soul,


Stop running my Lover,

If a quiet while wants you, do not time it once

you have both, the Soul, hear the clock begin,


See Lover?  That clock has been a perpetual heirloom

all your life, it has not just begun,

Your hearing has.



Fire is heavier than water,

I am diving from it, a Flying-fish,


You my seers are my beloved,

You my seers begin all that I have meticulously

left unnoticed, undone,


Hold true awhile Soul-doing,

Nestle doing, not this mind,

Warm up my bed,

Let the stream I paused by today stretch my

reflection to the seas,


If a favorite pine cone could speak,

would it not call for the blue-jay-connoisseurs, not us?

Why do we make silence into always it loves I?


See, my confused Heart,

We play with something called unconditional love,

When we are real, this sensed from that real world I,

is not paralleled with Mortality’s gifted uncondition,

These ‘loves’ are circumstantial forgetfulness searching

for the sense of Soul, that somewhere that appeared for a glimpse

when the unconditional failed to perpetuate during surprise,


A dog who returns to get chased away is a forgetful

thing, not a Lover,

It is a tragedy to see you howling on my desk,

On my shoulder,

In my mind,


I let you do so, it is what the silence of my spirit has attracted,

has been given to rouse my Soul’s ability to raise you lovingly

from the desk top, leaving you upon the carpet, to your own,

my own, though different now,


Now it is known where you may stay tonight and not,

While I am writing, on my shoulder, in my mind, or on the

rug, from theses places you cannot spill the ink.



Purring bird-catcher,


You are like me,

You want brushing above combing,

You want warmth above coolness,

You desire togetherness above personal,


In all these likenesses you have missed my

most favorite, that place where desire does not

go once it is finished desiring,

That place where desiring cannot occur due to the

laws of Yearning-Soul,


Whatever it is that holds you so gratefully now,

So knowingly secure,

This is what you have made of me,

Not I of You,


Whatever it is that holds you now, so well that

you are slowly startled by the shear vacancy of

suffering complaint, this hold, this whatever,

does not belong to us,

It is what we have mysteriously leased from the

Earth’s cauldron split, it is our workshop atmosphere,


Purr now Sphinx,

You have landed to tear the pristine ness from the pyramid,

Its alabaster slipcover,

Sharpen your claws,

Trade the stones for the largest chicken the village lady has.



I dreamed tonight that they released me from my sales clerk job,

shooed away from a darkly tanned skinned woman’s store.

Kindred workers walking round, their color and clothes as hers were.

I do not recall appearing as they did.  It was painful to lose

the companionship of such subtle bodies, belonging to more beautiful,

subtler faces.


I am outside now, on the porch, at the end of my pleading to

have my job again.  Behind the porch-door, screened with fine

metal netting, a pale skinned man appeared.  I asked whether I

might discuss my exile with him, sensing that my dismiss could

be reversed.  He looked over his shoulder to be sure that the

young mistress owner was not overhearing this possibility of a

compromise.  He said  Perhaps Monday morning, then we departed.


Afterwards, to my great surprise, I realized that we had not set

a time, that he was no man of the type to wait, to watch out his window

for me on a bench… while the dream then ended.


Lover, was this man not the prodigy of my Conscience, its doing-sign

that it was soon to arrive, to take Hoping-me away from the House of

Mystical Junglery?  Not allowing a time, an assured sense for my possible



See Spirit, the Soul does not always act through totality, it takes us

away in pieces.  It contains a multitude of complete nesses, each able to

show a whole thing unfinished, things of another sort, those satisfied results

hoping me from the mind, protected by the Earth, by the fellow The End.


The Lover sees continuous, while Continuous arranges the Lover to suit

it’s far away family’s need.  Do not let this small solar system bring you to fall,

remember the camel rider, let not the thought of smallness arouse you from

your chair, kick over the telescope, open it up, fill it with coins, toss it where

Lancelot’s sword lays.




The Mind puts my hands all over my face,

as it ponders,

Pondering aside, it can too, know of the

serendipitous massage, which its neighbors,

the Chin, the Cheeks, the Eyes, the Forehead,

the Jaws call necessitate from its particular

form, for its corresponding tension,


Why not confuse-pretend with your thinking,

Break into pondering, be the sort of visitor who

smashes what the thief is stealing, leaving it to

be neither his nor the rightful owners,

to create a simpler, wholesome face?

Laugh and do not do anything.



In the night, yesterday, a voice composed itself inside me

as I sat on my couch,

It said,  If you want to fly out the window again, you must

change your thoughts.

From this a few sprung:


Action often speaks louder than words yet knows nothing

about spelling,


Passing a donkey over a carrot-patch is easier than it is to

trust a rabbit-farm set upon it, donkeys do not dig rabbit holes,


Action, be it true, is the crown of Heart-thought,

not the Mind one,

If the Heart does not mind, there is no action,

The growth of Heart-thought is exclusive to the Soul-lover,

the bricklayer, the scrubber who keeps heaven’s gold laid

street invisible,


Action is often vanity’s production,

It is often an Earthy production, heightened to a sense that

being an Earthling is another world’s envy,

Be it a hell or a heaven’s,


These productions are more clever than I have thought

them for through my experiences,

For these from themselves act,

Showing the act as a source of what we love as our own

loosing, which begets vanity’s insatiable complaints.



Where there is mind-reasoning a safety begins,

armor toward the angelic-world,

Someone reasoning may ask who would not wear a

helmet in the midst of their worlding?

The Present-Lover cannot, there are no decisions here,


Everything’s poets try the Present-Lover on,

This on is a size that fits all,


I say to you Poet, if your feelings are as a fiery horse,

Try it on,

Take the baggage labeled Horse out of the form,

Try it on,

Walk awhile, consider the match lite before you run

aflame, displacing, renaming snow to the side, to trickle

back a jumbled word, as warm mist,


I say to you Astronomer, if your feelings are as a

wholesome Venus,

Try it on,

Take the baggage labeled Venus out of the form,

Try it on,

Be Whole,

Let Some take care of your orbit,


To you Lover, I say,

If your sense is as a fiery horse whose rider, the planet

Venus, gallops,

Get down from this place,

It is time that you break out of having had your baggage

taken from you, having been gotten into by a Poet and an

Astronomer disguised as your Loving.



Once I envisioned a Spirit covered in buttons,

Buttons were its suit,


I asked it,  Where are your trousers, a shirt, vest,

jacket?  These I cannot discern.


The spirit returned such a responsive look,

Immediately I became soaked with perplexity,

An awkward awe rose up, surrounding us,

A subtle fury rose downwards, the type that I

sense is shared by the gentle strong stags, who,

scrapping the soil with their hooves, know

oneanother is near without seeing,


I breathed in a deep breath, waited,

I took my hands out of my pockets,

I took my pockets out of my hands,

Waited some more,


The spirit grinned, saying,  You must be a

modernizer, a today-time-man,


I did not get the hint,

Spirit recognizing this, explained,

Your suit-type, my suit-type, they are both suits.

Look here, try these on.


The spirit undressed,

Disappearing said,

Do not worry, it’s your size.


I looked down,


A button-shirt, button-pants, socks, tie,

The whole works,

Even a lapel flower, one large button.





How is it that when we meet with sadness

a classroom-teacher’s career we put to it?

To teach Sadness?


Why stop the exhalation of another’s heart

by prompting they inhale our minding of them?



We do not notice the continuenesses in this school-

world, all Lovers,

Career hides’ Unemployment,

No one has a real job to do,


Waking to the morning is closer to being Amnesia,

than a Gaul charging on foot,

A naked child wondering in public is acceptable,

When the adults dress down we forget them

behind why and who,


Pull forth Soul-loving, listen,

Let Watch wait awhile before commissioning the


Mind saying I have got the picture,


I do not want to be saved by my mind or a friend,

I catch myself on fire daily so to be closer to that

sense of being a sun for the different flower,


Do not throw me diving-fins,

I do not know how to swim,


I have found that not knowing one part of the

swans’ nature does not limit me from having

share in its appetite for my bread.



God is sipping me through a long narrow straw,


Rumi once asked,

How would you get a camel through the eye of a needle?


I replied,

In very small pieces.


He smiled.






The side profile of a Lover is a valuable reminder of

the true proximity we are set by them,


There are things each of us are given that we

cannot know about,


None, save god-angels, truly mean to meet us

face on,

Our two halves are perplexing enough for


We do not have room for angelic-face-paint,


Angels have no profiles,

None, other than us of this earth, posses the

leisure of seeing one another’s sides aware

and unaware,

Within the Lover, its Being the has no sides.



What is due we Love-workers we could never conceive,

There are different worker sorts who are not Love-hiring,


Once I stepped inside my laziness,

Saw there a whole swarm of honey bees alighting small

plush furniture,

I asked them,

What are you waiting for, it’s a beautiful, sunny day,

flowers are calling, colors discernable, wind currents

true, What are you waiting for?

The workers said,

We are waiting for the Queen to land.

I replied,

What then?

They answered,

We follow her signal, gather round her in a great

cohesive ball, send out Scouts to find a more

permanent home, when found we move together

there and begin building another colony,

I asked,

How long have you been waiting?

One said,

For a very long time, more than our usualness.

I returned,

What if a bird snatched the Queen during her flight,

or upon her landing?


A Drone, pausing from reading a very small book, said,

We cannot assume either way, whether she is alive

deciding or deceased eaten, we are not allowed to

determine such things.


The response,

I set myself on fire,

Billowing smoke of all colors filled the room,


The bees swarmed out,

Landed on the eave of my house, resting,

dancing excitedly,


The Drones called down in a chorus saying,

Funny, odd, seems we have found several

volunteers for incubating a New Queen.




Losing a friend is never a clever belief,


We toy with one another from a sense of being toys,

Toys can be put down,

Lost in tall grass,

Found by a prowling rat,

Torn apart for blanketing,

It is no longer toy,


Just finding a friend is not possible,

We are already everything of that Find-moment,

What we find does not always reveal who

specifically was searching,


The act of searching, though having nothing in

the meantime to deem itself a legitimate occupation,

Profit-making is not entirely ignorant,

After all, it does have a nose, whose nature is true,

Whom the hands mysteriously rarely trust,

Perpetuating searches,


When we decide to tell the truth this is no heart,

This is no soul,

This is no great thing,


When we just tell the moment’s abilities right,

This is heart,

This is Soul-becoming,


The human voice is not as precious to the Soul as

holy books are to their churches,

Save you that decline Lover,


For the Soul is over the books,

The voices,

The four leaning towers of the Taj Mahal.



If wine slides down the glass, oily,


Age, quality from its moments has made

it nearly imperceptibly patient,

Losing some of itself by evaporation while

returning to the source,


Savor the drinking,

Be also the sun,

The vacant vine,

The naked trellis,

The discarded seeds from the press,

The cork-tree,



Please do not be the glass,

Its shape, yes,

The glass, no.




Fire said,


Gather round me shepherds,

I’ll show you what sheep look like,

so that you may learn the difference

between what your dogs chase and

what they know they could eat if left

to themselves without you.





Save myself, this writing and my love for you,

looking to me face on, has disappeared,


We are not the pawns

in the gods hands,

To be a pawn would rival true Sainthood,


Nor is Earth that checkered board,

floor to the Heart of Hearts,

Who, since its home in the human being,

has had much to labor to know the

difference between the chaos of neglect

and the chaos of Love’s order doing.






Remember, I cannot swim,

Though I love diving into the ascent for the surface,

Of having burst out of your letting me in,

Having traveled to that upper plane,

The portion to your You-sea,

Who itself braves meets with thirsty air,

By having a top called my for the surface,


Once up there, I cannot distance it

with graceful paddling,

Dive back I can though enough,

I am sure,


When in your You-sea I pick the oyster up,

Gently pry it open with my lungs tensely

lingering by breathing in, standing through,

the absorption of wet Love,



See the pearl,

Let the oyster close when it wishes,

Do not take its jewel,

Set the shells back, the two halves,

Let them grow,

Not until the oyster dies should your Love

retrieve its pearl.



Please remember I,


Do not let returning to the past by Thought


change the present by Love,


Allow it,


Do not own anything



One day, Fire felt generous to the realm of the Poets, saying,


For you synonyms are often a substitution for the state of being

present to that which has no similarity to yourselves or they,

when creation is created.  When we create, bring about

the occurrence of synonymous worlds, we are telling a joke,

whose humor is often hypocritical.  Deception’s greatest

ally is self-criticism, who attracts for it’s muse an almost drunken

allurement toward recklessness.  Do not criticize Self.  There are

too many coming and going for you to set yourself Critic, one

Overall.  When you anger the halves, this allows self-importance,

birthing out the Autobiographical third person from yourself, who,

in real-world-time, does not exist.  To speak of yourself in third

person is nearing Notoriety, being that sort of stagecoach robber

is as simple as Genius is forgotten by Lovers.  Knowing how much to

take without harm or complaint of anything missing, this is training

to be a true Love-thief.



Early morning,

On an old rock wall,

Sat a monk and his cat,


An angel descended from above and said,


You cannot start with big wings.  You must

practice having small ones.


The monk stood, ecstatically began jumping up

and down, crazed with revelation, inspired,

having been chosen for such blessed presence

as an angel’s materialization is.  Quickly he wrote

all the angels’ words upon his hand, ran off

screaming throughout the monastery grounds,

rousing his brothers from their sleep.


Everyone gathered as a holy congregation,

enlisted the monk a Saint.  Later they went to visit

the old rock wall.  To the new saint’s surprise the angel

was still there, positioned the same, next to the cat.


The brotherhood moved slowly near the great radiance

and listened, for the angel’s lips were moving.  The angel

did not look at a single monk, not even New Saint.


The brothers, upon hearing the angel, suddenly became

wild with astonishment.  They managed to record this,

The angel said,


Furthermore, you must not run all at once,

stoop low, slink-crawl toward the small wings,

always go for those plumper ones, whose flight ability is

slightly unproportionate to their weight.



said the cat,

I see.



Water cries for the dog to bark,

The dog barks for the hawk to fly,

The hawk flies for the air to breathe,

Air is that weather can exist,

Weather is that creation becomes,

Creation is as the sun sits,

Suns sit.



Morning.  An old man walks to a nearby lake to feed the swans.

He arrives on the beach, near its shoreline a small fish stands.

As the old man approaches he says to himself aloud What on this

earth are you doing here?


He, who I will now initial as OM, inspected the fish, with great joyful

interest he discovered it to be a rare species of Japanese koi.

OM wondered again to why it was there and added, he replied

How can it stand up like that?


The koi turned a fin outwards, pointing toward the lake, said

I have traveled far to dive into your waters.


OM replied, No, no, the pikes would surely eat you who

rule this place.  If not, they, the bass or trouts are sure to eat you!

Awhile passed as the koi stood silently considering OM’s ideas.

Koi said Why do you think so?


OM answered, You’re far too colorful, standing out then from all the

other minnows.  You’ll be chased twice as often as they, think of it,

the attention your darting brightly, shinning metallic light-silver

yellow will bring!


The koi sprung from the shore, into the waves she went, OM

following her.  Trying, OM nearly drowns, though could not retrieve

the beloved koi.  He sat upon the beach that night, watching the water,

profusely weeping.


Later, after OM had returned home, I visited the spot where they

both dove into the lake.  Standing there I called out Why did you

not heed OM’s advise?  A little head appeared from the water,

the koi replied Be glad young one that you’re not an old man.

I will tell you why.  See?  He is colorblind and does not know it.

I have not the sort of heart to have told him, which, if I could, would

add dangerously to his deep grief, further perplexing him with an

altogether different sort of mystery than his mysteriousness already

asserts his hallucinatory mind this lifetime around.  After all, secondly,

what other old men have you spied talking to little koi, themselves

standing upright near a beach?


I answered You both were my first.

The koi returned, Be sure and take these words from me to your heart,

it is your last vision of such simple folly, for I do not even exist.


It was late after the koi disappeared, OM had retired for the night,

I stood in his yard with a note to him in my hand, there were several

guard dogs in the portico, I felt to risk it, though a sudden flash of

intelligence halted me, saying If the koi does not exist, nor does this

letter, nor do I.




I sense the Heart of my Heart is quieter now.


Whenever we ascend over our mind-thoughts

to care for another, through the gradations of

Love, it is here that nothing makes sense, save

that knowing of Love and a willingness to leave

the beloved to themselves.


No type of single-pursuit dulls Love so much as that

of the body’s cohesion, its scent for milk and gold.


Several weeks ago I wondered how it was?

There are those forces in man who can perform,

though not remember themselves collectively as

it has done or throughout his sense of me the next day.

This is coupled then with the vacancy of a true aspect

of a me, who can be collection and dispersal along it’s

route to the Soul.


I wondered, so much of no answer that I could

leave myself alone, automatically mind abandoning

due to no conclusive activity, left with the silent

bobbing of curiosity, a subtle answer arrived from within.


It approached as an intuition-sense for connection

and the nature of a connective ness.  There are many languages

within our body-mind, the Tower of Babel was one man’s

project for building his soul, he lost this wager, I do not know

the specifics.


If a tower, the spirit of a man’s desire for Soul, claims to head

for heaven before it is done, he has entered tainting himself

with spirit-enthusiasm, turned to imagined-heat from once real-fuel.

This is the tragedy of Earthy-Saint and Sacred-Monk, these essential

men have their pies and eat them too, far ahead of the real world’s

open recipes.


Connections, ingredients, combination and time,


The Sex-mind, the Sex-heart, the Sex-sex, the Mind-mind, the

Heart-heart, these are confusions, these are soldiers with no commission.


The Sex to the Heart, the Heart to the Mind, the Mind back to the Heart,

the Heart back to the Sex, this practice may take me to a reality,

I am folly of the utmost, objectified and sat down,

Conscience connected to Strength of my Heart,

Only try, do not know.



To attract birds you must buy seeds,

To keep birds, buy a cage, a large cage,

To stay with birds, who are not in a cage,

you must be consistently in their midst,

Convinced by not and having noticed them,


Birds have seen everything,

So continually they remind newer angels of the

Earth’s practical genealogies,


To view rare birds, many of the same sort of

shyer ones, feeding must be an effort,

Bird-feeding-Effortlessness is laziness, charity,

A preoccupation, missing its occupant, is denial

of inside, Denial guards against spaciousness,

Spaciousness is the Da Vinci to the Kingdom of Birds,


Wave your hand,

The birds fly away awhile,

Then return,


What brings them back?

Perhaps again to ride upon the wave of Hand?


I wave my hand to a friend,

They wave back,

Have we ridden so much together that we

do not near one another?




I am looking into where my Love goes,

Saying, Do not think of what map to take,

chance is often the greatest benefactor in

loving and destination,


There is a great space of me,

I met it several days ago,

I believe it moves up and down,

Not the traveling-sort of me

who goes back in order to

retrieve what it forgot,


In my head, from my chest it traveled,

Here Heart and Thought catch the floor



Lover, within the inside-house, the floor

of a bedroom is introduced as ceiling,

A chair might be a chandelier or a spider,

A white tabletop the moon or a hole in the ceiling,

A guest visiting, an astronaut tempting me with the

custom-made flag All My Own to stake,


I let the Astronaut go,

I do not want a flag on the moon,

Nor upon the satellites of Jupiter,


I say to the Astronaut,

I want you to deliver mine to the sun,

Float it in there,


Children run through sprinklers set to water the lawn,

Gods run through suns set to water the lawn.



Right now, you visitor, your completions must come undone to

lift the covers placed by so much returning, returning to people,

letting you into themselves for the sake of having no doors,

celebrations of this, no doors.


If I am not here, in your midst Lover, you who sit with me,

having had that impulse-ing to love yourself, then you are not

here and we become again what the solar system trains us all

to be, separated things, gears with no handsome handcrafted case.


How fragile is a pendulum’s sureness!  That a child might reach

through to shake its hand, stopping its trot, the counting from where

it begun,  Hello, good to meet you, my name in wondering, inside this

now, is I AM A CHILD.  That now and forever for the pendulum.


Lover, I have thoughts,

Then I have Afterthoughts,

All afters are better medicine than befores,

Befores lie, as they stand still unto some them-self,

neglecting that in the always now, they are too, afters.


Lying is man’s searching for happiness,

He is sure, while formulating the lie, that inside its fabric,

the small wish who grants so much strength, will come true,

This kind of true belongs to ulcer-drunken heart.




Lover, is it not odd that when lovers visit Love’s orchard in the night

that they pick only the fruit from the ground?  Do they know so well the

limbs to think none fresh will drop any moment, into their open hands?

No, they do not.


There is a great difference between grasping Love to pick it up and

catching it, this difference is the factor that separates Heaven and Hell.


The fruit on the ground, I want to speak about it.  When you pick it up

what is on it?  With the mango, how many lovers do you brush off to

make the rest your own?  I remember once shooing away many sugar

staggering bees, large transparent bellied ants, a host of others who I

could not see.  I found their bite-marks, took out a knife, cut these away,

placed it to my mouth, this mango, um!  What a restorer I thought of me.


Yet see this scene Lover, please, a different way as then did me.  Love cannot

be a restoration object, for it does not dwindle.  It gets lost from time to time,

yet this is Time’s affair, not yours in minding Time’s treatment of immortalities.


Then what is it that so many craftsmen are doing with businesses titled

Love Restoration?  I know their Commissioner and found that they fix

the replicas of Love, they cannot alter Original Love, neither fix it.  Too, I needed

to know that a museum copy, during war times, is safer to display than the

master’s original.  These love-restorers are always productions of wartime.


Leave the fermentations on the ground, only get drunk from fruit you can see

in broad daylight.  At night in Love’s orchard, they have told me, there is a

certain type of someone who thousands bump into, go around, avoid.  These

ruminations of the body clone themselves in the mind, gossip.  Gossip of an

enormous quantity has massed about these types of someone, who stand under

the trees, one by one, to themselves, with cupped hands and a looking straight



Someone does not aim,

Someone does not anticipate before an answer,

Someone does not wait under a favorite tree,

They have told me that perhaps Someone is standing there to catch an orange,

this is where a thousand thousand years of gossip ends its contemplation.

One day occurred to me an event, I could and cannot figure it, yet without my

knowing and readiness, this event allowed me to visit the realm of that Someone.

Upon my approach I heard whispers of familiar gossiping, munching, knives

snapping back and forth, moans from those who were trying to climb the climb less

trees.  I stopped beside Someone, looked down their sight line and saw a path, I

followed it.


An hour later I was still in Love’s orchard when I bumped into another

type of someone, whose back was facing to from where I had followed.  I looked,

found that in their hands, this Someone was cupping a pear.  Noticing that many other

pears had pilled up around, due to their no being eaten, bouncing off the one in

Someone’s hands, I took the pear, put it in my pocket, walked back to where I had begun.


Upon my return to Someone One I placed the pear in their hands, though found that it

would not fit, looking therein.  I saw a mango there.  Someone One replied Thank you

for your offer nonetheless.


Lover, sometimes even perplexity has limits to how long it can keep the mind from

having it so purely vacant of solution.  So it happened to me there, logic came.  I traveled

back to Someone Two, attempting to return the pear, again found a mango held, barring

my second offering, perplexity again.


This time Lover I held onto the perplexity, tried hard not to decide, yet some voice

told me You must go find Someone Three.  I followed Someone Two’s sight line, keeping

perplexity along my way.  There, behold, Someone Three!


Perplexity vanished, I felt absolute freedom, I knew this true, soaked with complete

purposeful satisfaction.  I approached Someone Three, gestured the pear, trying to get it

into their hands.  Someone Three turned their head slowly round with such confidence

towards me, I cannot describe it, firmly grasped my hands and said, For the sake of your

Soul and God, keep it!




Soul asked my Spirit last night,

Where are you purchasing this shaking for our body,

the rubbing together of these gloves, their cold hands,

our rattling teeth?  After all, it is warm out here, where

have you been shopping for us?


Spirit replied,

Pardon me Soul for not having asked first.  I borrowed your

sled-dogs, traveled across to the other side of your heart, set

up camp there, cut a hole in the frozen lake, cast into it so to

bring us home some fish.


Soul responded,

It is a fortunate thing I specified to the sled-builder to equip it

for the sand as well, do you not agree Spirit?


Spirit answered,

To be honest Soul, whenever I travel to the other side, having

to cross the desert first, I let the tethers go from the dogs, pack

the sled on my back and walk across.



I did not know.  We need to meet more often.  Why do you let the

dogs wonder around in the desert?



They fetch food, exercise for the snowy tundra’s need for their

concentrated march.  It happened once that I tried keeping them,

the whole way, tied to the sled.  When we reached the edge of the

desert they demanded to be let loose, of course this would only

bring perils throughout from the naive impatience of their kept in




That is curiously mystical, being that they did think no better

than to play in the snowy depths, soon to lose themselves,

starve and freeze.



Yes, its odd indeed.  To crown the event, it was the eldest lead dog,

who is the wisest of them that prompted the others to scatter away

in all directions, tangling themselves from their straight line.



Why do you take them, if you prefer to walk across the worst of it, the desert?



I am startled Soul, surprised that especially you would bother us with such

a question after all these years of our living in such close neighborhoods to

oneanother, nevertheless I will answer.  Going across the desert, I carry the

sled and yes, even to the fishing camp I could do the same, though I cannot

bring back the night’s worth of caught fish, the sled, together.  To add, I

do look forward to the dog’s camaraderie most on such expeditions.



Hmm, let us talk about this habit of yours Spirit.  We have different

work to do this year and since it is in your nature to remain eternally consistent,

forever practical, immortally personal, I want you to consider this: I will plow

additional fields, construct more windmills, hire the appropriate laborers, all this

to finance the sled-builder make a sled for each time you wish to go to the other side.

You will have thousands of sleds at your disposal, for you alone.  Take a sled to the

frozen lake, leave it there, carry back its weight in fish.  Soon many sleds will

accumulate, from which can be constructed for you a house, to stay longer then

overnight.  Eventually a whole city you will build, we can establish there a fishing town,

you may be mayor, if you wish it, how does this sound?



Lonely and laborious, I do not know if I can do this!



See Lover, this is why we are virtual strangers, you’re my Spirit and I your Soul,

we seldom listen to oneanother, we less often make one of two good ways, yet

you know exactly what I am for, think awhile, breath through your heart, not

your lungs.  Loneliness lives in a place of gluttony, innocence, searching to find

searching sought.  I have yet to figure it, why there are those who search to be

searched for searching, this can wait.  The fishing town is more important.



I truly do not know if I can do it.  The dogs and I have such a companionship,

such unconditional love for oneanother.  What new conditions may demand

something of me not of my unconditionalness?  Danger is new to me.



Spirit, be patient for just awhile.  Here, take this whistle, when you desperately

need the dogs, blow it and they will arrive.  Though remember, the whistling is

only for life threatening consequences.



With this possibility I believe I can try.



Remember too, Spirit, that there is no such a thing as unconditional love.  Such a love,

as it is an earthy one, is always founded on some prior condition.  Some dogs pay

attention to their masters, others do not.  It is often the owners who lose themselves

to their dogs, not the dog losing itself.  I love you always Spirit.  Dogs cannot.

Whatever abuse celebrates the naive workings of such unconditionalness needs

desperately to return into the reason for learning such a condition, not love.   Obedient

belief is harder than diamonds, though sadly cannot scratch a mirror.  A dog-

spirit is a certain student, as a cat is another, one disappears never to return

to the same owner, finds another set, while that other will explore for months,

braving all types of lethal threats to make it back in time to be sent

rolling off the porch again.


Spirit took this all in, departed quietly thinking to itself.  Later that night Soul

heard the whistle sound, the dogs roared, lurched, tearing the trees apart from

where they were chained, took to the trail to rescue their master Spirit.


HEAL!  Called Soul.   They did.


Soul went in their place.

Upon arriving found me sitting by the fireside roasting a few fish and

humming a song.

I heard a voice call, asking from the darkness,

Have you eaten a poisonous eel, are your legs paralyzed, have you circulatory



Oh, I said, not at all, I am quite fine.

Soul approached the firelight.

I was awe-struck that Soul had heard the whistle, no dogs, that it had arrived instead.

I asked, What are you doing here?

Soul said, You’re a rascal, I am learning you better than you know.  What is your

emergency Spirit?

I replied, I have great doubt that I can make it back alone, strong dubious sensations,

I am nervous, afraid, beside myself with no one, torn and empty.  I cannot even eat

these fish I am cooking, nor drink and get drunk.


Soul answered, I admit it, I did not specify an emergency of the mind when I stated

that the whistle only be blown during life threatening consequences.  So I will let you

keep the whistle this time.  Tonight we adjust one detail in our agreement, that

emergencies of the mind do not make for reason to blow our whistle.  Remember

Spirit, when you cut yourself, losing a good quantity of blood, normally your mind

does not leave proportionately with that amount of lost blood.  So, you can recall, after

some cut, your name and mine as well.


I pondered for a moment, then asked Soul if it would care to have some fish.

Soul said, I do not like fish, never eaten them, ever.

Deeply to myself, though audible to Soul, I said, What! I cannot believe it!  Then who

have I been fishing for all these years?

Soul answered, Well, the dogs of course.

I exclaimed.  Dogs do not eat fish!

Soul laughed saying, What? I wager you reason those sorts of thoughts alongside

the supposition that birds don’t eat cats, yet look to the hawk and owl.


In this moment an environment of dumbness pervaded my senses, my mind.  A type

of quiet foolishness called itself up from my feelings about myself, it seemed to say,

I am tired of toying with Myself.

Soul said to me, Get up!  Don’t miss the point.  Your mind activity is those sled dogs,

kindred to their inadvertencies.  Tie all these voices together, practice our Love, form

a straight run, take the catch home.

It was at this moment when I learnt deeper where our rattling teeth got their particular

tonality, our hands their certain type of coldness, then gloves to meet that certainty.

Holding the reigns of the mind, traveling in there is a far greater chill than any

wintery adventure.  There are temperatures’ kindred only to the mind, who, of its leisure,

crafts the ice and snow found upon Heart.


I have been for so long accustomed to traveling through the snows of Heart, I

never ventured to go to the source of that which creates the lake’s surroundings,

its surface I fish upon.


Up there live the inventors of the fish I catch, the rod I cast from, the sled I carry,

the dogs I so love.  Their everywhere leaping on me, licking my face and ears.  Once

I thought I might contract some sudden illness from considering unconditional love

as edible.  That perhaps my mysterious Soul Lover, who doesn’t eat fish and

hears dog whistles will be my minding and food.




Behold!  The skittish, snorting, scrapping, sliding,

searching Lover,

Through all loss, within the delicate irksome things

lay the tip of the Lion’s claw,

Lover, where’s the rest of your lion?

You go searching for food on a full stomach,

The gazelles know,

When you leap from the weeds,

They trot away,

This is the only time they can play with you,

See it Lover,

It is not a bad thing to go hunting with a full stomach,

It’s your mind-set,

You do not want to play,

You let on that you’re an athlete,

Ignore the pain in your sides.



One afternoon a Master sculptor was crossing the street,

Upon the intersection he met with a teaching priest,

This priest was not, from himself, present to the cracks in

his speech,

Being a Sculptor, the Master reckoned that the priest may

benefit from his experience with such aliments,

For he had carved much stone, in whose nature fissures had lain,


Excuse me friend, Master said, I have noticed several dangerous

cracks in your voice, you might be careful while traveling over

these rough streets,


What, who are you with your dusty apron, coarse hands, shaggy hair?

Exclaimed the teaching priest,


Now careful, Master answered, you have furthered several lengthy fissures,


The priest became furious toward the Sculptor, for having distracted his

teaching speech and said, Cannot you see that I am spreading God’s word?

Go away old man.


The Sculptor reached out, took the bible from the priest’s hands,

simultaneously handing him a chisel,


Enraged the priest attacked the Sculptor with the chisel,

A crowd grew round the brawl, a meteor belt of O and Ah,

Called out a young boy from the throng, saying, You there priest, what are

you sculpting with your chisel?

The crowd laughed as the ground and air became filled with biblical pages,

The priest was paused, saw his foolishness, begged God to forgive him,


Master Sculptor retrieved the chisel, handing the priest the battered volume,

Said, On the battlefield of Love, never exchange a shield for a sword, if you

begin your being there with such in hand.  Dear friend, your cracks are

everywhere, the spontaneity of your angers know the origin from where your

earthquakes arrive to caress you.  Never let a book be more holy present than you are

yourself with a mind, heart and purpose.


I am your bump Lover Priest, see yourself standing in this intersection,

unknowingly avoiding the potholes of these roads?


Love has curious ways to fetch its new lovers, there are no old lovers on

Earth, we all begin by trying to remember something less than Love.


The priest walked away silently, glancing back once, he is now in Love with

the right God.


Later that evening the Master noted in his journal,


Today I met a new Lover.  He gazed at me like a wild man, afterwards we

delivered a piece of sculpture together.  He looked at me as lost children have,

route less, exhausted.  Earthy wildness is safety from Love.  Intense play

lead children home to bed, yet can also lose them in the forest.  Who finds

the lost wild ones?  Wilderness.


Never patch an injured tree with Gold.  A thief is sure to take it.  Have the

Gold cast to resemble the shape of the lost bark.  Then hire a painter to model

color and texture upon it, duplicate to the tree’s.  Take care in using this as a



The new Lover’s Gold patch was his book.  His anger is an echo of being

once A Loving in the desert, whose expectations of an oasis where far greater

than seeing that desert for what, its worth was.  When something calls forth a small

voice in us saying This is worth nothing, do not give it largely something,

borrowed from a place whose natures are not kindred to where they are going.


The New Lover, having not received this deeply green, comfortable jungle,

locked his screaming response deep inside his infanthood- drum.  You cannot

lay with a mirage without selfless thirst.  If you expect the jungle to give up

a fraction of its nature to suit your own internal jungle, you are in the right place

for learning disenchantment.


With its lid open, the piano sounds better,

Drums make good cutting boards.




Everything returns to Love,

All virtue, all wrong and right,

And that neutral whom Fear puts,

Love is the fire that burns using smoke as fuel,


Collapse the personal forest and you will

see the mountains,

Collapse the mountains and you will

see the sea,

Collapse the sea and you will see

the core of your necessity to collapse,

Collapse collapsing and you disappear

from your thoughts,

This is the anarchy of Love,

This is real crying,

This is the rainbow of your gold,

You can now begin to be my Lover,


Where you stop, I will kiss you,

run in circles round your figure till you reach in,

grab my hand,

receive the jolt of our speeds meeting,

become my trajectory.



When the Lover thinks parts of himself are over,

that is, their being stilled between Yin and Yang, that wavy line,

The fire serpent of Loving, it has only begun,


When the Lover thinks he is done, Done itself is missing a point,

that it depends upon continuances,


When the two circlets inside Yin and Yang suddenly open, eyes

peer out, here, then, you Lovers may know that Absolute Love is

wearing what you call relationship, what you practice within marriage,

Absolute Love is wearing it as a mask,


There are no lame jokes in Paradise, only good ones.



In pool halls, many believe me not a good player,

There are those who avoid me,

Yet they know I like to play, long into the night,

Often, anonymously, they will buy me a good bottle

of wine,


Nowadays, when I play, I aim for the black ball first,

I see it as Space,

Room for my Soul,

Nothing should accidentally happen to Space if the

Lover has been given the chance to aim for it,

During the first light of the game especially,


At the start I played alone for years,

Lover, on Earth they look to the black ball for Death,

Funeral, Loss of the love dancer of chances,


One night a new player approached the pool table,

I looked around,

Saw everyone grinning at him and me,

Waiting for his break of the triangle set,

for his eventual reaction to my first attempt to

drop the black ball in a side pocket,


As it happened, as it rolled in, the new player cheered,

Then he took the black ball out,

Aimed for the white one,

Called the left corner pocket,

Dropped it in,

Saying, It is your call.


I did not smile as lengthy a time as I had previously

imagined I might upon meeting such a player,

Somewhere between his cheering for my black ball shot

and his retrieval of it to make his own, I began to feel lost,

awkward and new, it was as though everything was

unfamiliar, separated pieces from the whole picture

suddenly became, unto themselves, concentrations,

I could not not see the base of the chair as the rest of its form,

I kept wondering what a chair might be if it had no

place to sit,


See Lover,

If you play in the sandbox alone too long three events

become bound to you, whichever one is the happening

responds to your placement, your desert-nature,



The Lonely Lover becomes the sand their playing with,

Building a castle as he or she would have it,

One being all guests,



The Lonely Lover ignites, becomes inflamed,

Pulling up the sandbox content into their burning,

Becoming a glass edifice, an antique statuette, an

influence mythos, what some lovers call the upward

pointing hand of the mysteries,


Believe me Lover, that finger cannot talk, cannot listen,

I gesture only,

If children can climb onto Love’s roof,

Play with its weather-vane,

Changing the direction from North to South,

Imagine what antique merchants could do with such




The Lonely Lover keeps in his mind the small intuition that

loneliness is a means, not a style,

This attracts several different forms of players,

Flesh and invisible,


Luck to me that night that the player was as a body mine,

Invisible pool shots have been known to cause ecstatic riots,

Exorcisms often follow,

They do not work for pool halls and taverns,


I want to return to the game.

Before having my turn,

I told the new player that I had never played this game,

He replied, Its half yours, half mine.  My half must go like

this: Neither of us ever owns the pearl, white ball, for self alone.

As we make our called shots we try to avoid landing the colored

balls in.  Whoever accumulates the most painted orbs unintentionally

dropped in looses the game.


I said, This could take a long time.


Answered the new player, Yes, one of our games should equal in

actual time tonight a whole two months of your usual playing.

Within less than a week we will have pooled together for a year.


Fancy that!  I said,  Fancy that!



Be as bold as the setting sun seems to submit

for the waters of the sea,

In Loving the Earth is flat,

Like a table with no pockets,


In the sandbox you may play alone,

Though if you need a Soul with which to build,

try leaving half the box undisturbed, unused,


Hungry children do not search to sit at empty

plates waiting for the cook to serve,

If they are true to Nature, they find proof of the

food first, then they sit,


Proof of your Love is in your Spaciousness,

Patience shows how much land of yourself you truly own,

Avoidance is not Patience,

Change is not Patience,

Diagnosing your diseases before they kill you,

This is Patience.



Love-being has it ever happened like this?


I am at a large reception, a nebula of lovers.

I see my favorite, I see their favorites, I see the

piano’s favorite, yet out of all this there is still a dog

at my feet wanting something from my plate.  He is

no metaphor, he is truly Love’s scrap-keeper.


See, in such a large room of lovers little pieces of Love

are bound to be dropped like those tiny crumbs become

when eating bread.  Love needs a dog to collect them,

else in the morning a vacuum will.  Trust only a dog with

the probability of your crumbs of Love, not the vacuum.

Vacuums do not discern what their swallowing.  They will

chew a dung ball in one cheek, while in the other, a merchant’s

days worth of pearls.


Dogs do not only work for Love, they are very partial to Folly,

though that is another story, a good reminder that this place

needs work.


A dog does tricks for a bite of something that is

commonly not its meal, its tricks are for nibbles,

what would it do for a whole meal!


Often a dog gets drunk from so many crumbs, then

hires itself to Folly without completing Love’s contract.

This summons Gluttony, who never pays the dog for

doing anything.


The dog at my feet jumps on someone’s lap, begins

chewing across their plate, this is too much, the dog

is in trouble now.


Love enters the room after the reception is finished,

sees no one around, there are a few crumbs left on

the floor.  Love calls for the dog, hears it whimpering

outside, behind the patio doors.  Its cold outside, is the

dog still hungry? No, just cold.


Love flops on the ground and begins to eat the crumbs

from the floor.  Afterwards lets the dog in.  Folly and

Gluttony laugh at Love for seeming gullible, duped by

the dog.


Love lays next to the fire, curled up with the dog,

whispers, Have you ever seen Folly and Gluttony

snuggling together in front of the fire?  It is a pitiful sight.




I met a Lover of mine last night, they said,


I do not know what to say to you.


I replied,


No words, no words.


That Lover met a lover of theirs last night,

who was me?


The Lover thanked me for several events.


I said, close to the Lover’s left ear,


I will love you forever, no matter what we do.


I motioned, pointing to my Lover’s plexus, said,


I will always be here.


Gold everywhere!


I do not know what I am doing.  To be the search lamp

looking for the oil-self, this is most important.



be a ready athlete, run if someone hangs their searchlight

on your hook.

Your hook is for fishing fish, not weighing, displaying

the trophy one.




Near my house one morning I met a Doctor, Cook, Lawyer

and Psychotherapist, they were peering over the garden wall,

studying something there.


I called out, You there, what are you doing?


Like a ball of serpents just uncovered, they hissed Shhhh!


I walked down and introduced myself.  They replied,

Right, whatever, go away, leave us alone.


I said, Pardon, you’re in my garden, I will ask you now to leave.


The Lawyer handed me a court order from the Judge, a search-

certificate, permission to loiter around in my garden.


What are you looking at?  I asked.


Psychotherapist,  Oh, you would not understand.

Cook,  Your craft is not prepared to assist this matter.

Doctor,  Only we professionals are allowed under the court

order to manage this case.

Lawyer,  And I will sue you if there is resistance to our



I looked over the wall, saw two lovers kissing, rolling,

hugging in my lavender bed.  Silent, I commented, Hope they

don’t break too many.


What! snapped the psychotherapist, Are you blind?  These two

have been at it for days and nights, the gates are locked, no one

can get in, from this veranda the descent is too high, though we

must find a way to get in.


Why do you want to disturb them? I asked.


Cook,  They have not eaten for nearly a week, their families are


Lawyer,  If they perish in your garden, you will be held liable

for their deaths.


I replied,  Perish?  My goodness people, are you so sure you know

what your thinking about?


Psychotherapist,  Think? We do not have to think.  We know the

consequences of this sort of insanity.

Lawyer, When the police arrive, you will have to open the gate.


I pointed to the lovers, saying,  There is only one key and its

around her neck, see?


Cook,  Oh, goodness, what shall we do, they are bound to die

any moment now.


I asked,  Die?  Did you say die?


Cook, Yes, what of it?


I answered, They died eight days ago, that is why they are here.

Can’t you see, the four of you, their kisses, their lovemaking?

I can assure all of you.  They have enough to eat.


Cried the Cook, God!  There must be a way to save them!

The Cook became very disturbed, so much that the others soon

followed in a panic.  Together, at once, they leapt over the wall.

They did not land with the same harmony.


Understand Lover, when chaos meets with the anger of jealousy

everyone suddenly believes themselves a professional garden wall-



The Cook broke both his legs and since he was a large man,

his landing with the others broke Lawyer’s ribs, Psychotherapist’s

neck and Doctor’s arms.


The Lovers, by my request, kept making love.  The police arrived,

hoisted up the injured and asked them on their ascent What their

orders were, what shall they do?


Moaned the four an answer, We do not care, just get us to a hospital!


The Police Commissioner entered, peered over the wall alongside me,

asked, What may be the problem here Writer?


I returned.  Do you see one?


No, he mused, just that of our spying on these two Lovers.



When we go looking no one can find us,


Repeatedly Trust must be taken from the devout

inside my heart, set out upon a viewing surface, seen

for what only rumors know,


Long ago were those who knew the rose,

Others having never seen it with eyes or lips,

Some only through letters, sketches and oil paintings,


One day a man visited me, saying,

Look here.  This is a rose.


He showed me a plant stem with bloom held inside a



I told him, That is no rose.


Said the collector, Of course it is!  Why do you think it not?


I said, It’s missing color, its own gesture, air does not hold roses.

Most important of all there is vacant my proximity to it and it to me.


The silk artist tried me next.



Be, try not to guess,


The arguing visitor so quickly forgets that the Lover

invited them,


The doorbell did not need to be rung,


Visitors are not hosts,


When a Lover invites To Be Loved, nothing on

Earth can save him from not knowing her, vice versa,


Know yourself and love the stranger in everyone

you call Hello,


When the Lover knows, from needing there are no requests,

the Lover knows,


My back hurts, says the Loved,

Lover, says the Loving, you have forgotten again, just

moments ago I massaged you completely,


Try not to complain when Space is near,

Try not to forget you had it,


Planets do not regularly bump into oneanother,

Nor are they so comfortably close to themselves to

gossip about the Sun, who no one knows.





What we manage, everything, these cannot be known,

whether we have done them before, partially or



Often something new becomes deja-vu,

Deja-vu turns to awe, then inspiring slightly,

Suddenly that moment quivers away,


You feel awkward, question in a second’s time,

Does anything make sense?

No.  Anything does not make sense, Something does,


Sense is not willy-nilly,

It cannot fear the being of Loss,

Because it is the being of Found,


Love, Being, Sense, these are not Any things,

The Being of Loss introduces us to the shimmering

point of God’s sowing needle,


Not to mention the tailoring-work,

Tailoring is hinting at making sense,

This sort of sense is not adding to mind-numbers,


Love disposes of Sense’s sense,

Adds the humility of You and me,

We have not yet read the Angel’s books.



The pearl will not let go,

The Lover shakes his hand all around,

It is stuck there,


He rages,

Runs to the ocean’s edge,

Tries to fling the pearl into the waves,


Upon swinging, he is lifted by the force

of his fire-condition,

The pearl is still stuck,

They travel awhile together,


Propelled into the air from the beach by

the cannon of his Lover-soul,

Both plunge into the sea together,

The pearl is still stuck.




One night a thief crawled though my window, stole my


The next evening my Beduin carpets from Egypt,

The next, all my books,

This became such a frequent event that my neighbors,

though not the inquisitive types, had to see,


One morning there was a visit from the Neighborhood

Committee Chairperson,

He said, We have brought it to our attention that you

have nothing.  For weeks we have spotted a thief at

your house, though never during the same hour, taking

your belongings.  We have also given it to our notice that

you have not filed a report or complaint to the proper

authorities, et cetera.


I responded,  Oh, that is my new Lover, who owns no wagon,

only a little pack-mule, who is very sensitive to sunlight, I do

not know the details.


The Neighborhood Committee Chairperson left.


Have visions, Lover,


When they take anything from you,

You have been praying for that to happen for thousands of years.



From where I am standing I will fall tomorrow,

Falling is either personal or love-collecting,

Love does not get lost between lovers so long as they do not

doubt they were present,


Doubt is laziness and ease,

When you doubt your lover, you have never before loved

your mistakes,

Doubting a lover is body-selfishness gone to the mind,


Trusting really occurs when everything we have ever labored

to call our own pries open our cupped hand, lets the sand pour

back at our feet,


Watch sand falling,

No one of them argues with the other, they all fall,

If arguments were possible in Love’s domain,

sand storms would be too easy,

sands would perpetually float in the air, they could not fall,

We are luckier than we know that they are difficult and dangerous

to find,


If you wake, find that you’re completely submerged in it,

up to your lips, do not scream for help, you will only get sand on

your tongue,

Watch squinting for as long as you can,


Be grateful that you woke to remember yourself,


That you are not an earth-relic, limestone needing a name to

remind people whom their visiting at the Mausoleum,

Be grateful that you can still try to love while under the sand.



Often when the Lover is loving someone,

That someone is not only some one, they are,

they exude a quality of Love that the Lover

loving needs of themselves,


What is essential moves toward Being,

What is Being serves some purpose of Becoming,

All Becoming nears oblivion inside the Lover,

Rattling my mind off its rocking-chair,


I fall on the ground, searching for my glasses,

my cane, my hearing-funnel,


Lover,  If you were groping in the dark, having

just fallen off your rocker and found a heart,

Would you know it was yours?

Would you think to feel your pulse?

Would you know it was a heart and not your brain?


If you’re a Lover it doesn’t matter,

You stuff it into yourself, even if you have to take out

what the faithful call a vital organ,


If you are at Heaven’s gate and an Angel approaches you

with a sword, by now you should know why it has never

entered a sheath,


You’ll still gasp, though your present, as it splits your

chest into,


If you still have all your vital organs, you will have to love

some more,


Lucky are the human-beings sending themselves back to Love,

Luckier are their Lovers who cannot forget being loved.



Being is Love’s comrade,

Neither are exclusive to oneanother,

when in union or distinguished,

The wildness of Being-Loving!


Envision this Lover,


A circular waterfall rolling,

Like a wheel,

Across a blue desert with a clear blue sky

meeting the horizon, blue line,


The waterfall is blue,

Nothing seems, to the naked eye, to be happening

here, though Blue sees everything,


Naked Eye discerns the whirling wheel’s location by

using its hearing toward the sound, the splashing of

water puddling,


As it slowly rolls solid blue wet on solid blue sand,

This does not kindle Belief,

For Naked Eye there is a sense, though no obvious

separation of anything in the blue, it is all still All Blue,


Naked Eye writes it down as a premonition, a miracle,

some supernatural event, it cannot see it, impersonal,


To the Lover-soul belief is not reserved for the eye’s

approval, Love approved the Universe before it could see it,


Naked Eye, not Naked Lover, is often a greater impediment

for Self than those of the blindfold cloth,

To hear the hint-composers whispering inside the

almost-orgasm-music of Blue’s meeting is enough proof

that something is Lover I am,


Blue knows everything,

Soul knows everything blue,


When Yellow enters, the Soul is dumbfounded about this one,

Though remains intuitive, its desires to be,

Soul learns,

The Lover-soul of Earth drinks paint,

Satiation does not exist after this sort of tincture.



In a certain shop today, I was sitting.  The front door opened,

a familiar and oddly pleasant woman entered, I will call her

Magic-Woman.  I was silent.  Often the strongest impressions

left upon me after meeting people are their possibilities shown,

the ones about which they do not know.


Magic-woman sat behind me.  Another woman, already

seated, was greeting Magic-woman, I will call her Listening to

Magic-Woman in Order to Hear herself Reply.  The saleswoman

I will call Not Listening to Either those Two while Forgetting her

Own reply.


Isn’t it strange how shyness will spend an entire lifetime taking

down a mountain just to read about it in the newspaper once?


The story goes:


Magic-woman asked, Would you like to hear some Gossip?  The

others replied in the positive.  The story was about a young man

escaping from the police, who were on their way to deliver him to

jail, such and such.


Soon there was talking concerning certain types of heart-medicine.


I thought it curious that before the young man’s story, there where

several complaints among themselves concerning a certain so and so,

who would not let their dog out of its cage.


Magic-woman rested awhile as Listening to Magic-woman in Order

to hear Herself Reply left.


Another wonder occurred before Magic-woman’s entrance.

A family visited the store, promoting their daughter’s showing to

Not Listening to Either those Two while Forgetting her Own Reply,

her new Celtic-tattoo.  Afterwards the father showed his.  I was eager

in seeing the mother’s expression as she revealed hers, though she

hadn’t one yet.  Unbeknown to them, it often takes such a family

invocation to summon Magic-woman.  It is the desire to contact Magic-

woman that creates such decorations on the skin.  The family roared

out as they did in.


Magic-woman began speaking about how a certain here and there was

practicing American Indian ceremonies alongside Australian Aborigine

ones, how dangerous this could be.



As I listened to them talking I noticed a vast range of natures inhaling

and exhaling oneanother, internal enthusiasms meeting with daydreaming,

reality, madness, loneliness, the shear intellect being interested in anything

it has not figured yet.  Whole dream vistas unrolled themselves off their

tongues, glassy eyed girls running through all reason, logic, adulthood,

knocking it all back into the earth, from where greater mishap has come.


Do you know Lover, they write thousands of books each year the Earth

completes its cycle round the sun, these books are very similar to this

shop-story, its glossary?  In the silent world these words mean nothing,

they are ghosts of what those speaking want to be in the flesh, soul-flesh.


Have you ever noticed the quality of a crowd’s voice once it is heard as

one voice, not your choosing to listen to this or that one, rather, together

with it to you.  Listen.  It is a type of bird crowd chirping, each other a seed,

then a bird, then a seed again.


What does gossip really want to say?

Where does visit really want to go?

What does I care less if they do really want to give others?

What does, You cannot do that truly wish others do for them?


In the silence of gossip, loneliness is a crazed old man beating on

a wooden trash-can-lid.  He is drumming a summons with his own

leg bone, torn away in a bear trap.  He does not consider rules as he

pronounces mantras backwards.


Plenty happens to those who are fools and do not wish it to be that

way.  Nothing happens to those who are fools to themselves as kings,

garnishing the old man’s other leg with the scent of fresh butcher meat,

the bear is running now, past the trap.


Lover, we do things before our thoughts get the news, before our hands

turn the door knob.  We forget that in having so much to do, this allows

the mind no space to remember why it did last.


The inner-world is thumping everywhere, inside Magic-woman too,

inside hair falling on the ground, inside the cage barring the overly active

dog’s flight to shred.


We know things that we are not patient enough to think about.  Knowing

is not wisdom, thinking is not wisdom, nor is telling the news of thought.

Some wisdom is in the ability, the able ness not to react to that which

is immediately obvious, what is obvious is foolishness and foolishness is

simply the result of another foolishness chirped out, gone unabated, a

thousand half years ago, it is Ago’s echo.


I want to talk about sequence.  The shop stories went together

like this,


The tattooed family exhibition,

A caged, too active dog,

The escaped criminal,

Heart medicine,

That dangerously double chanter.


Closed-mind puts things with a kind of logic, which

supersedes obvious, yet is traveling underneath it.  This sort of

logic is the simplest, universal way of showing something that

a person wants without themselves or others becoming keen

to it, it remains a mystery-labyrinth for some soul.  What happens

to that which we show, yet is not deciphered for the inner world-

participant from where it came?  Perhaps lying is a form of



Remember Lover, when you wish upon a star, it is not you

who is lying, it is the star, the light is there, the star is not.

We wish upon spaces inside others, yet there is no one there to

turn the light on.  We exchange one unopened Pandora’s box for

another, unopened is unopened, no matter whose name is carved

on the bottom.


The orders of the stories are near correct.  There were others to follow,

a section of the day will do.  Lets talk Love-seeing.


The tattooed family was very anxious, too active,

roaring in and roaring out, lions’ teeth without the lion,

There is a dog of that family, caged to exhibit themselves,

showing people signs carved on their portion,

Let Love decipher the world of tattoos, squint sandman and

you’ll read the words Let me out of here!


If anything does get let out, escaped, it was already on probation

before its imprisonment, struggling simply to live, though simple

was not his idea of living, so he ran, jumped over a fence, the pursuing

lawman gets caught in the same fence, he was too short, the criminal

had taller legs.


All this, if it made any sense to the gossiping, would be the right

heart medicine.  No one really wished the family exhibit publicly,


a circus can be a degrading place for the human heart.  None

wanted the dog in a cage, none wanted the criminal to escape, furthering

his chances at being imprisoned longer, a longer shared by the dog they

wished to rescue.  The double chanting man is both these aggravations, he

is the embodiment of both predicaments, desires to rescue the imprisoned,

desires to catch the imprisoned escape, desires to see the imprisoned

without acknowledging they are.


All this Lover in one little shop, guess what Love-seeing could do with

appropriations from one’s own home.


Underneath all this, another unfolding of Loving-seeing occurs.  The

women were all speaking near my silent listening, was I not their young-

man-audience, their sponge-star?  It may be wondered that something

they didn’t know about had no choice in these particular stories told,

their sequences, interrelatedness, based on their to me and I to their

particular dispositions and historical roles upon this planet, though this

would place the Lover as a fool not wanting to be one.


Being a Love-fool is far healthier than the No-fool, these think for

themselves, the Love-fool thinks for others.


The outside to the inside feminine messengers were telling mine something,

I will let you figure it.


Too, they were chanting from themselves, exercising their existences as

they have naturally brought them out, as Magic-woman, Listening to

Magic-woman in Order to Hear herself Reply, Not listening to Either those

Two while Forgetting her Own reply,


When there is no door it is not necessary to jingle your keys,

What will you do with them in a place of no doors?

Without doors very few people would live in their houses, for

fear that anyone may walk in while they are doing something

they wish not to share witnessing.


Lovers, sell your house, keep the door, since it was the strongest

part of owning.


Now you can use your keys.  You are in the place of No-house.



Often listening to what you never feel asleep to yesterday or last

night works, though keep it in you, from and to you,

Be good to your memories, you will need them,


The heart of the Lover is not slowed by the body’s recline,

This never feel asleep can lead the day’s oxen,

Whether your wandering to water or wolves, Loving cannot know,

Knowing does not matter, everything eats and drinks something

ahead of us,


A legend says Love is the son of Poverty and Contrivance,

Let this idea roll around in you awhile, saying,  I want to love, though

I am too rich with earth, with animal-soul, what is a Love-looker to do?


Contrive ourselves, put the pearl behind your eyes,

To be earth-poor, then we may begin to love,


We often, not being able to receive results from our usual methods,

are met by stranger ones, as what occurs to us, which may

then be taken as an omen, hint or sign toward a soul direction,


There are things given to us that no one can know about,

Explaining a problem is not figuring it, though sleep will take any

dream, whether it is solution or mystery, both keep us company.




You’re looking for something to do, wondering whether you

should go to town, shop for a new suit,

Suddenly remember you have never wore the one you have,

Why argue with that fact?  Do not go to town,


You will go anyway because the other suit is old,

not fashionable, wrinkled, a shade too light,

Perhaps altogether quick-forget you have it,

Purchasing another to match,

Now find you have outgrown both,


We do this too when we think we are loving one another,

Pulses are important,

Impulse loving is not,

On your lover’s wrists, beautiful bracelets hang, check them,

Do they vibrate with heart beating or cover no place to take

a pulse?


If you find who you think is the New Lover, try not to give

them the whole picture, tell your name, they will know where

to find you if they truly can love someone like yourself,


We young-loves pass by the self so much,

Scribbling over it with summing up the unfinished,

Knitting our person into everything before we can call it



Where do you keep your cotton-mill?

Who sold you those knitting-needles?

Where are your glasses?  You’re crocheting in circles.


Daydreaming is fuel for missing the personification of the

Someone-us today, which does consistently exist.




When you depart from a Lover, you get back a certain

enormous portion of yourself, this is not to be missed,

This portion, a peninsula, which was often intentionally

let loose from your continent so to share with another,

with we,


Most times the peninsula establishes itself out there by

means of an earthquake, the pressing together of two

Lover-dinner plates,

In earthquakes there are no clear intents,


What do you do with this peninsula?  Your you-part,

After all the larger continent needs your attention now,

There is a feeling that the rest of yourself does not have time

to experience this newly returned portion, separated so long

from the usual territory,


So you rent it to someone to help in taking care of it,

No one knows what that means, they take it anyway,

You do not know either,


Perhaps you do not lease it,

Leaving it out there for flocks of seals and gulls to inhabit,

Here is where Sentimentality is born,

The seeing of that peninsula through a looking glass,

For some it’s a periscope,


After sentiment, by now it has been framed,

It is only an idea of a destination, an antique map worth

thousands, kept from the sun, attached, on a wall,

Bound with archival paper and tape,


Be the absentminded map collector,

Get yours mixed up with someone else’s,

Whose peninsula it is does not matter,

If it’s on a map you can be sure no one is there,

Get out of the house, live allot, not a little.




Lovers-true play toss with cannonballs in the mud,

the pouring rain, the icy slush,

It’s all out there,


We are truly exploded puzzles,


Hercules built an ark,

Gathering two of every animal on Earth

according to God’s instruction,

Or was it Noah?


Lovers-true play toss with cannonballs in the mud,

the pouring rain, the icy slush,

It’s all out there,


Adam asked Eve to taste the fruit from the forbidden

tree, or was it Eve who was the host to Adam?

Perhaps they were not vegetarians, roasted the snake,

dined on it instead,

Some Gods are very fond of their snakes, thunder bolts,

hammers, bows and flutes,

Try closing a hole in Pan’s flute, join in Diana’s hunt,


The peninsula is our never-thief, our sanctuary,

The only real thing a Lover can give to another,

anybody, is their presence with current conditions of

being love and not being love, those proportions

determine much,


A person can live a whole life and not see the scales move,

Perhaps they could have tilted a little if not left under the


This must happen though,

This is how we learn to take care of Love.




When we rage, something is pulling us back into place,

an energetic location, the body-voices do not understand,

Only Heart-presence can figure the cryptic wailing of

Conscience, the rage who wants to burn everything and

protect itself,


Without Heart-presence rage hides in the mouth of the whale,

does not read Shakespeare’s fire-starting-pamphlets,

or were they Jonahs’ first?


Start a fire, leave the whale,

don’t worry, this sort of whale will not give a chase,

It swallowed you out of sheer not knowing,


I love you Lovers inside the whale,

We will have so many corresponding, delightfully,

nearly imperceptibly different stories to share,


I will not be on the beach waiting for you,

I do not have time to hope your on fire,

or that the whale was size enough to acknowledge

your burning,

Trust me though,

if you’re someone walking around on fire,

eventually I will get to know you.



What is it that seems to be so determined to take the Soul-sense

back to the Living Tomb, the body?  When I say seems my sensibility

is in between times, I cannot explain the details, perhaps we talk

too much about near misses and near hits, the question is,  What is

near where, and who determines themselves by making the dart in

the bull’s eye and not?  Is your Love a sport or after the Game?

The softness of a worn out player is indescribably lush.


Our animal-spirit has a voice, a mind and an appetite,

The gods lean on this part,

It is this part they are assigned to tow about to

educate the Love-seeker,

To consider an external someone from the inner-world

is difficult, own suffering shows us these limitations

and forgetfulness, the human correspondences,

If you were asked to consider an external-internal god

from the inner-world, could you try this?  What would

your suffering be now, in the company of an angel’s

possibilities with you?  How might you merge all

considerations together into one looking?


If small voices can ruin a whole party, certainly they are

capable of taking down a single you,

We judge the voice for our own, who does the Judge belong to?

Who gave you the extra money to buy voices from the sky?


The Judge is the same one who didn’t read what he was signing,

permitting the lover’s garden to be occupied by Professionals,

Gardens are greener on all sides since there is no such a thing as

a Professional Lover,


When it rains, does the rain lift itself from holes in the road, saying,

I will not see me as a muddy puddle!?

No, We lift it out by stepping into it,

In a hurry to finish our sense of inner-world-conflict, spirit splashing,


There are some fools who think the conflicts that do not harm

anyone else are normal, natural, healthy,

These are those chickens that grow their heads back after they have

been cut off,


See Lover?  If a god cuts your head off, leave it down there, do not

worry, no one’s going to think your head is theirs,


Who eats the chicken that grows another head?  No one.  Consequently,


while its busy growing head number one thousand thirty-six, those

number of eggs are constipating it,

By now this chicken is very big, perhaps the most fragile bird on



While our condition does not hurt anyone else, where is the Fireman-

Lover asking,  Who is Else?  Do not think that no one picks up where

you left off, leaving Off is a special occupation behind the human scene,

It works for itself while not telling anyone its building a credit,

Pay your bills Lover, always pay your bills,

Leaving On?  I will let you love-figure this one,


Our proximity to oneanother is no less significant than ours to the gods,

We hear ourselves more than they do and this is why taking our inner-

world-conflicts as casual acquaintances is easier done than said,

Death does not bite its fingernails.  It bites ours.




Think of it Lover!


Your dinner guest suddenly stands up, after hearing something

from you they disagree about, they say,  I could love you most

deeply right now, but no, I want to argue my point, which I will

have forgotten by this time next week.


How stunning this would be,

Lovemaking would surely follow,

Though this is a parable speaking, not you or me,


Remember the constipated chicken,

One cure for this, if you are the chicken,

Stop hanging around the chopping block,

The Judge, the deprecation, the holy martyrs,


Try to remember your whole self, not the little bleeding parts,

These will heal once you get into the sun of forgetful-remembering,

Its fine to show your Lover your war-wounds, if they have got better ones,

Humility is knowing that knowing you’re not alone requires no report,


The Lover does not play dead on its own battlefield,

Its all right to do this if you wake upon some other’s,

On the Lover’s own battlefield, armless,

the Lover holds its sword with two feet,

This sort of desperateness cannot be incapability.




I must just cease it, residing there, here tonight,

If you want a good game, do not play chess with Wonder If,

he always stalemates, by nature, not purpose,


There, some quartered offset portion of myself,

I say, No wonder my feet ache, I am standing on my head,

The tension in the arms, the left watching the right one

scribbling, though they’re not supposed to be here on me,


My heart on fire,

Flame on fire twice,


You say lighthouse,

I say  It’s built for a warning,

You say sun,

I say It’s built for another sun’s birth,


You say I love you,

I say  Love the I,


Perhaps we have a hundred oxen tied to our necks,

waists, ankles, arms and sex,

There is one bale of hay,

Light it on fire,

Don’t let anyone eat tonight,


Stay in the No Choice Place,

Choice is competition between the parts,

The body’s simple living, not self,


If you cannot sense the whole collection of your desire,

wait, look, talk a part into considering itself a whole,

You may find that your imaginary picture would never

have an ending if someone loved you first,


We do not notice Love-firsts, photo-albums get in our way,

Parts feed photo-albums, not the One-Eyed-Heart-Lover,


Treat the part unto itself as a whole,

Expectation begins buildings, which the current material

cannot do,

When you treat the part, remember you’re the host,

it’s there to be loved, not questioned or reminded that it is

loving out of its natural surroundings, to be taught some

things the Lover-student must be caught out of class, off guard.





Try to resist thinking that the sky is the limit,

You are your limit,

Imagination belongs to the nation,

Which, in its own turning, cannot include you at all,


Where then to go?

That going at all would be determination,

Determination is foolishness,


Necessitate Love for failure,

Run backwards if your being chased by a lion in the jungle,

So that you may be present to your death,

It will catch you any moment, any way,

No matter to it, the heart or spine,

The moment known lifts you and the lion out of the jungle,

wrestling, loving blood, flesh and tears,

Soul is railroad laying,


Love matters,

All that you do to be present adds to the Lot of Love,

the trail to it,

Love does not use the psychologies of flesh if you are in its realm,

That does not mean distance, aloneness,

Its integration and compassion softest for who is held up in there,

in that house of houses called the human being.



What mind-reason tells you that if your Lover does

not love you they may still take your love for what

your being in love with them means to you?


This is nonsense,

No reasoning should ever enter your House of Love,

If you find it there, wake up!  You are dreaming,


Watch the heart, how it circles great exhibitions,

wars, epochs, civilizations, novels,

Notice how it loves the lover in waiting,


Love knows this to be practice only,

She is waiting for her man,

He is waiting for his woman,

Someone behind all that is waiting for their Soul-call,


Love knows the winter of spring,

The summer of autumn,

These seasons in a season are our businesses,

Between the Lover to be and Love,


This is not our stage,

We may walk around it too,

Though a few steps behind the foot prints we

somehow reckon as our own,

Love does not confuse its feet with someone else’s,

it has paws, it has wings, it has fins, it has wind.



We sit,


Who calls our name?

The cat purring calls everyone to pet it,

Why do we purr when we want to swim?


The oddities of life belong from the works

of the gods,


And to Love’s sheading hair,


Do not imitate book-love,

Be as much as you cannot love.




When we drink of oneanother,

Make no mistake, we love,


Doubt belongs to mortality,

If this is your lot, then do not think about it

when someone says What do you think about how you feel?


Tear the idol down,

Know that an image of love does not exist,

To think of feel?

This too does not exist as mind mattering so much to heart,


Friends are firstly friends to themselves,

If this has not happened yet,

Be, always be,


Enduring is not will or strength,

It is being un-categorized,


To be does not choose prerequisites,

I love you as we see together,

If I think we are not seeing,

If I know I am not seeing,

Some love waits round our fairytale for it to end,


After this show, Love appears applauding,

Clapping with planets colliding,

Galaxies collapsing to propel another rising,


Love applauding!  Don’t let mind get to it, feel,

Clap your hands,

Love is between so much,


Why do the eyes see and not hear?

Why do the hands feel, the ears not?

Why does And Not appear to us?

Listing our world this or that.


We have dreamed it ours,

It is not the real mirror of self,


Love can place feel in the hearing,

Hearing in the vision,

Love can keep you afterwards,

So far to the degree that you have kept yourself.



See Lover,


Love is not self-perpetual altogether,

Once it has entered the workings of a human being,

We can or cannot be its server,


Boss-love, no, this cannot do,

Slave-love, no, this cannot be,

Try-love, no, this is mystical,

Anticipator-love, yes, this is nearer,

To have anticipated, you will have already failed

at the other three,


Intuition comes from the jungle within,

Intuitive-love is a train whistle,

You do not have to see the rest of the train to

know where you stand,


In a vase of brilliant flowers there is a water we

cannot see,

You can be sure that the flower anticipates the bottom of water,

Though does not let this turn to early drought,


Its wilting is always subtle,

Nature is not so abrupt as its inhabitants,

Love is not so abrupt as its inhabitants.




Today I had thought that the cycle of fire was nearing some

transition, a softer melee,

Tonight has shown thought misleading, its senses far from home,


Lover, perhaps as Schools of Love, we think too much,

Our subjectivities are tempered by thought,

Stop thought and the weapons begin to chip, crack,


Our relationships with oneanother, the truest one,

that of Afterthought’s mood,

This sense is nearer to Love, often it only pauses us, waiting for

deeper second chance, or not,

It will show us either way, how much of ourselves we hold unique

to being with it, ourselves, how much of what we do inside and out

with self depends upon the dispositions of others,


You could say that the Lover edges toward its soul by sitting

with others,


Men on horseback, they follow the foxhounds, the hounds follow the

fox, the fox follows a trail leading to a hole,

The men chase the chasing, the fox is chasing the hole, chasing chases

the retreating, while the horses remain as they are,

Horses do not eat foxes, dogs or men,

The hole and horse are most similar,


Love is not a horse, it will not play these practice games,

It will lend us a similar cousin instead.



Under loving, to Love, the most difficult task, as I

see it now in my life, is to become a man, a real being

through the consistent exercise of minding that everything

branches from this inner world conflict,


There would be no hurricane without a calm eye in that

storm, the gods know this Law better than we know ourselves,


The poet does not prefer to write the word conflict at the

end of such a hierarchy as the inner world,

Though in my setting, conflict is the first step the inner world

takes toward me, us,


I tremble at its toe print,

I have not seen a whole foot yet,

A toe is good though,

This tells me its not a Pegasus, mysteriously romantic,

Or a lonely nymph in the wood, of consequential solitude,


Inside whom we are is someone we cannot be,

This someone is closer to practical self understanding then

any voice, action or thought,


Someone is our Lover,

No one is foolishness,

When we think we have none,

None is holding the pearl, the point, the heart of hearts,


None can’t speak though,

We must notice it without being told to,

None is the olive orchard where Christs present wander

and present lay,

None is the Buddha’s cobra-umbrella,


Losing what we happened to find is deeply painful,

Thinking no one else will come looking for it,

Yet what if that something comes looking for itself?

We are all curious-seekers,

Even the lost ones’ daydream about oblivion,


Don’t forget Lover, not all Earths are the same size,

Where your sea is gigantic, one wink of Jupiter’s eye

and the Earth is taken under its lid for a particle of soil.




Othello’s flaw,


There is always another person while there is always

another self,


Jealousy is selfishness,

Sel-fish-ness is its name, chopped up,

A fish in a cell who is all about fish,

This is absurd, yet the Earth-laws deem it so,

Love eats different sushi,


Too, we are allowed to diminish jealousy, a precious

stone of child unfinished nesses, with revenge, deprecation,

torture and the haunting of oneanother,

How does a fish that cannot get out of its cell bring these

things to occur?  By simply looking the way, it does, through

clear glass, clear air,


Haunting does not have to speak or touch us,

We have in ourselves enough valves, knobs, hinges, tools,

that where the cell-fish cannot speak the specifics, we write them

for it, each knowing differently what it means to say,


See Lover, jealousy is the dark side of Joy’s moon,

Every positive sensation has a moon,

Every thought as well,

Jealousy looks for attention,

It is the highest order in Mortality’s clan of thieves,


What does it wish to pilfer?

Nothing worthwhile, excepting your soul-work-time,


Jealousy replicates its inadequacies through teaching others

not to become themselves, rather, listen to me  I love you and

I am jealous, this is foolishness, this is too big for Jupiter’s eye,

This cannot become,


Would you?  For a moment, taste the apple, Lover, who says,

I am ripe to a certain depth, yet underneath there has begun some

rotten thing.  I do not know how close it has developed to the

surface, though I am sure you may take one bite of me, in the dark,

and not reach it.

To begin with Lover, do not eat apples who theorize about themselves,


What I do is where I am, you Lovers are the same,


Do not be fooled by exceptions, this sort of elation is often the

child of the real man-being showing how mortal gratification

can balance the spirit,

Keep it in check, that sort of scale-excitement,

Be present, let it float,

Though be careful near balloons who can unintentionally lift

you with them,


Probability has been kind to the camel and the desert having

to be crossed,

Now the Lover on the camel’s back is a new addition,


Probability knows the camel better than the New Lover,

So you, the camel and the desert are not one,

No old lovers are riding on camels across deserts,

Though they have told me that sometimes New Lovers have

seen camels riding on camels,


Old Lovers like to play with Fire,

Especially those in it.




Our relationships to oneanother,

Friendship, marriage, companions, lover,

All these spectrums are human and soul-like,


I sense the gods share one something, not portions leading

toward, yet this is not my focus, it helps when I record

that whatever we are unto oneanother, of any degree, is

proportionate to our relationship with the gods,


The romantic does not like this,

He is inside imagining, writing too many books about

dreaming dreamt done,


Romance is the chocolate beside the wine,

Eat too much of one, drink too much of two and

neither remembers the other, the wine is Presence,


Presence and Romance create Gratefulness for what is

essentially now your loving and lover’s ability to bathe

themselves with it,

This can live alone or with togetherness,


Be the soapy water, not the tub,

Tubs arrive in all sorts of shapes,

They may even surprise the New Lovers,

Water fits into all shapes,

Soap fits into all types of water.



The meeting of a Lover,

This experience summoned all that was not my thought,

All is one, this was to be not thinking,


It is laborious, a fireplace stocked to the top and stoked,

To not think about,


Condition of mind is the rabbit-farm in a hat,

No one believes the magician who pulls out a farm’s worth,

Though somehow they will accept one,


Lover, do not accept the magic-show,

Let it lease away and everything, all the wants to know how

something came from nothing disappear,


Trust me,

There are no naked magicians on Earth.



To keep it there, in the forehead,

The tree and roots,

The oak from the chest,

The alder from foot to fingertip, to ears and nose,

The cypress of sex,


Let loving shed enough that others may build nests on you,

Rumi says,  We’re helping people we don’t even know,  yes.


Borrowing roots from another’s is right if you give them back

before the storm,


Love will not come storming if all in its path have not called

back their investments,

One thread, kept out of this path by fear can change

Love’s course, while whomever allowed that fear to keep its

strength for its absentminded sake must endure experiencing

the storm pass over, not landing,

To watch the kisses from Love, flurry over,

The snow is not the snowstorm, nor is snowing snow.



Ask any house-lover if they wish to be torn

apart, knocked down,

They may startle you at the long line that will

form for you,

Especially if your on fire when placing the inquiry,


Some will settle for a flood, termites, anything,

It is all the same, Nothingness,


Many houses block a view of the sunrise for themselves,

These will be the first in line,


Those who block it for others will have camped over night

and be seen standing beside the first in line,

There can be two first lines in such a place as this.



Gods, I pray, cease not this shedding of me.





I am looking at the flower,

I am trying to sense how each individual must change

in proportion to what and where their particular life has

intercepted, occurred in relation to other individual’s


When the Lover must, they are hunkering down,

heading into the Love sea,


I am certain that, as the hippopotamus immerses its whole

self in it, a cat sips quietly from this,

The fish live there,

That each of us, no matter our decisions on what our lives

mean at any one point, are flowing waters into oneanother,

There are no islands in Lovings’ sea,


The cat cannot see the hippo,

The fish can only see of the cat its lapping tongue,

The hippo eats the inquisitive fish, emerges from the water,

The cat has left, a witness to nothing.



Suggestion is caring for another,

Telling is exclusion and hurried,

Asking is often too innocent, though may be

a way to see togetherness,

Advice can never be free, that is, when it

concerns good advice, not necessarily good for you,

Rather, for the one offering it,


Complaining is starting unfinished business twice,

Perhaps duplicating it for a lifetime,


Once a new Lover-student approached their teacher,

telling their life story in great detail,


The teacher was very patient,

Intentionally having sat in a comfortable,

listening position, before this student’s arrival,

Afterwards the teacher replied,  Act as though you were on

your sixty-third life.


What!  Exclaimed the student,

Love-cats only have nine!


The teacher replied,  Perhaps you have been more than one Love-cat,


See Lover?  Mice choose the cats who chase them,

The expert mice prompt expert cats,

Why else be anything if you cannot run with its likeness?


If a Lover is standing still, it is because they have been running,

There is heavy panting inside,

Love trains repeatedly not to let the breath show its fatigue.





This flowing water into one another is difficult to stay with,

Often we will trip over those fascinated with the foam on the shore,

The little swamp bubbles slowly wobbling to the surface,

Their certain type of participation, which is beside the point,

To let it flow, trusting each other’s time without setting them,

this is a point,


When we let anything, we are giving ourselves away to the truth,

And whatever the truth needs to become, in that moment, to pull

you out of inner-world-conflict, it will be that, it will take that,


Giving someone permission inside yourself to have themselves,

without telling them, in any way, that your working in such a

Love-shop, is a presence of Loving.  Here the spirit of permission

is not advertised to the external world, or for those means,

It is for the Lover to use with his Beloved’s name on it, it’s a key to

forget your self, so to find, that when eyes meet another’s there is no

He or She, only I,


There is no such anything as a woman’s eyes,

There is no such anything as a man’s eyes,

There is such a thing as the stuff around them,

Here we sleep in such stuff,


On Love’s ship there are wine barrels in place of cannons,

One cannon is allowed to remain, since our love is still stationed

for earthy water,


In Love-storms, as legend tells, they have told that whole crews,

from their one cannon had shot themselves nearby safer, sturdier vessels,


The cannon never dies, it often sinks the ship by rolling down below,

We Lovers always retrieve the cannon before the jewelry,

And the captain never goes down with the ship,

There are no self advertisements on Love’s sea.



Naive love is the spirit drunk from too much window



Bold love is the spirit angry that your only shopping

for windows,


Confused love is the spirit dazed by its reflection

laid across, mingled up with those items behind the glass,

Spirit dazed says,  If I am inside the store looking out

at myself looking in, then I must have chosen not to

purchase anything, so where shall I go from here?


Confessing love is the spirit begging for money outside

the window’s items, which show what their costs are,

for what amount donated its begging will cease,


Holy love is the spirit painting something else over the

window, blocking out, not so importantly the view of

material things, their allurement to be sold, rather the

sunshine into the shop owner’s store,


A personal lover is a spirit who hires others to window

shop for them, to bring back photos of photos, reports

of undecipherable things,


Real love is the shop owner running all these hungry

spirits off, ceasing to stare at her own merchandise from

the sidewalk, fixing a sandwich for herself.



Stepping into the bouquet remembering,

You I forget what where then love remembered,

You, so tied to my dearest strings,

You now,

Not then,

Touching my.



Listen, nothing is here,

Only a place where your breath may rest,

I am not breathing,

I look and notice you here,


There is a nighttime,

A place where we sit and do not have to

remind oneanother what to kiss,

Where to touch,

What way is to ourselves who we shy from.



There is me, so long as I attain a presence

trusting so far as you hold yourself beyond

envy of an ageless mirror without a reflection,

Without a house to action its chance gain

another reflection.




You mind me, then you shy into a forest,

whose trees are far too forgiving to the blind



Whole root systems move so not to trip him,

An acorn found under my foot is a reminder

that our lips have touched where blind men

have not.



We are as we have forgiven the portions

of ourselves,

Those portions that are so allowed this


These are mysteries,

These are domains awaiting our failures

to reinvent another entrance.



Where I sit, Lover, I am Blue, Green,

Yellow, Red,

Your navel is upon my lips,


I adore what your birthplace soon afterwards


For through so many births that birthplace

becomes nearly indifferent,


Yet something from a greater spectrum

calls me to request of desire,

To wonder about the placement of your lips,

Where you choose after I have chosen, how,


This is your proof,

Your love rising to meet my disappearing sun,

My all there,

Yearning What,


Through us nothing adores,

Through us all impediments erase into the

laughter of Love.



Here is our greatest destination,

As much as we can see,


Forget what is legend,

Forget what is holy man,

Forget myths,


All performances want a human companion,

All is elsewhere for you Lover to become here,

Here is you.  You are unforgetful.



There are no distinctions,

The Soul keeps running,

A plate crashes on the ground.




In as far as Time conceals Love,

Time is real, though this sort of concealing

stands next to me,

Prompting that I look back, forward,

never sideways,


And the real, who arise from such a relation between

Far, Time, Love and me,

This is to be sacrificed each present day,

For Change is on the other side from Real,


And what the Lover of me would accept as

real now has most relentlessly proved yesterday’s

being had become toward becoming still.




Tonight’s morning has chosen to bring thousands

the sound of their first cry out,


Following these weeping rolls the deceasing done,

their estates, auctions, children standing on the

flat repose of what sorted questions they never touched,

sink like the setting sun into a sea of soil,

While a ship hewn from granite pauses, anchored

till the tidal of overcrowding comes,


Death does Life as great as Life does Death,

The proof shows in the grief,

The silent black dragon procession with a hollow

pillar on its back,


You, my dragon, rainbow hues,

Where have I been with you so far?

When you choose the void to wear upon my death,

upon their noticing, ceremony of it, then all is my fault,

not Death.




How much of me stands a galaxy shattered to

create Again?


Since my Love crumples paper, I have been

seated its bin, a vortex contained, needed,

Finished meteorites, not stars,

These collected in me,

Between them lays the dust of their stacking collide,

mingled, not any one,


Add sparks, the scent of flinting,

The mild touch of the purple stone’s chip let go,

Fire flashes, not Love,


When going is finished setting me down, it is there

those once of me’s will happen together into some

face giving out,

Removing from its Love the Earth,

Glistening forwards like a new cat,

On a new limb,

Of a new walk,

Straight through all of its old sun.



Whatever we think has finished us,

Carries the same us inside its now,

No matter which has been done, that something

Is added, is kept wide open, the shutters on a race?

Horses’ face,


Where erring makes more music than its lesson,

I can be honest saying,

Here is my tempest,

Here is the crash and motion of rubble,

Here are men who changed their names to match mine,

There goes the cannon securely fastened to the deck

sinking them,

There roll the kegs of wine, ripping each other’s vests off,

Here is the hurricane,

There are the clouds attracted to all this loving,


I hear them moaning, as the sea’s froth brings my passion,

having lived through one becoming a man, surrendering

to the real kiss as it gives my lips the tidal wave to reach

the eager cloud,

We need kiss only one cloud to carry the onyx to the island,


The men are floating,

I am floating,

Watching the bolts strike the island on fire,

The first lighthouse is born,

Sailing atop shark fins,

Perhaps we are small enough now to live on a blazing island.



As I lament the loss of a worldly Lover,

whose already building, existing, full of loving to be

untouched, save for One’s own,

This lament shows me,

Pulls back the partial, hidden by independencies, willing,

true condition,

The Soul’s wavering between what looks like it and not it,

Though, while I do not have the script, I can be I am,


To plant a flower I have often insisted that it needed to be done,

Yet, before planting, wherever the flowers, even in my hands,

it is planted there,

Wherever its roots are, planted is,


Love is that,

I have pinned down my heart,

Like an exotic beetle,

Putting it on the white portrait background of what would be

the Soul, the beetle’s sky,


Seeing love walk away is to witness one of the greatest truths

in any,

That Walking walks and Seeing looks, having paused, stopped,

If too, I walk, then Love is not seen going,

It does not disappear ahead of having become a dot.


Poems 1-92 Copyright 2002  Michael E. Angell