I’m just throwing incendiaries into the dark, to light this place up, hoping to catch a picture of what’s really going on.
Tag: consciousness
All of these
All of these receptors are also transmitters
Wave after wave
lapping at this molecular
shore wishing to be dust.
We’re gathered on this
family bed playing at
making each other laugh—
her joy and his excitement
have no lampshade.
We watch each other learn
from each other, still these
voices echo into some distant
future where caves have not
yet been painted.
I’m gathering all of my attention
in order to try to give it
to them, yet the best I can
do is tell myself it’s not
enough, and they don’t think
so, but they do think something
is missing. They know it
and show it in there timidness
which is just questioning
acceptance. Self-righteousness
is innocence refracted.
In my head the next morning
the scene is something like
the end of the world
and we’re bunkered in a cave
instead of the bed
and I’ve got my arms wrapped
around them trying desperately
to apologize, to make amends,
to comfort them and
I’m singing in my head but
crying while rocking back and forth
while plump, fat raindrops smack the
windshield and I realize that all
of these receptors are also transmitters
all that receives also gives.
Always Love
there’s always love available. our job is to find it. when we are stuck looking for where its not we won’t find it. only when we commit ourselves to finding the love that’s available, even in impossible situations, will we be able to find it.
Some trees are already bare, and the leaves that remain, may well remain until next year. When a breeze ripples the giant sequoias, they whisper to each other the lost ancient name of loss and pain
—My love, are you awake?
and the dog down the street sounds the trumpet, and the oboe in the moon soaked starless sky whirs from far to near to far
What’s in the Lens
Sea winds foam sea hymns
and we disappear like robins
in the fall; by diffusion
and through vapors
that stretch from coast to
coast. Across ceilings and walls
trying to cover it all—
or at least get a better
vantage point. My face geometry
is less than desirable, but
that’s OK because humans
agree sacrifices must be made.
We say we don’t have a god
complex because we don’t
have a god. Well, then,
what’s in the lens? Dad’s
hiding in the walls again,
my daughter says. (It’s true
and the ceilings too.) We’re
living in a zero-sum
universe. That is if you
were to add up all the mass
in the universe and subtract
it by all of the gravity
within the universe it would
come out to zero.
Zip. Zilch. Nada. Nothing.
Hiding behind vantage points
finding solace in people’s faces
*Humans agree… is a line from the song Soup is Good Food by the Dead Kennedy’s.
Participation in the Act of Observation
When I think about the traits that I am passing on to my kids, it’s all too easy to criticize myself and lean towards the negative. In truth there are a lot of negative traits that I inhabit, though some might say that these are also what makes it possible for me to flourish in other ways. When planning a camping trip I think back on the past camping and hiking trips and how we used to take my son when he was too little to know any better, and now I see the excitement and wonder in his eyes when we hit the trail, even on days when we have to drag his ass out the door. I watch my daughter lean in toward the same instinctive voice of mother nature, and I know that she’ll always have that with her. And we helped to create that, to shape it.
Within nature there is the participation in the act of observation. And isn’t that just what life is; participating in the act of observing, always, even when we aren’t aware of it, we’re always observing.
Carried Away (A Poem)
Carried Away
Scattered leaves,
various shades of chrome-yellow, and currant,
stream endlessly, carried away by the current
over and over again leaves pass, not
too dissimilar to discern the difference.
However, without the underlying knowledge that
there is change, there would only be insanity –
Still, the water, seamlessly drifts –
flashes of silver and white water rush to
the surface, rippling wakes
that never completely dissipate,
but eventually reach the shore.
It’s like this.
BNSF thunders and howls,
trees thrash,
wind ripples molecules
and you sit, sturdy enough to
not fall over, though on the edge
of some kind of breakthrough
that just gets missed and
carried away like the
breath on the wind.
Too Many Mistakes (A Poem)
Well, i was laying on my side, melting into the mattress,
liquid layers of vibrations, carrying me away.
i was listening to my aura, as subatomic
particles in mid flight; like a helicopter above and
around my head. i felt the energy created through a lifetime
my heart beats like a time bomb, everything whirring
into a directionless direction.
I could feel the anger and resentment
built up in adolescence, aimed at the world
-which didn’t care either way.
I could feel the weight of the damage done over the years
trying to punish this body
that caused so much pain
-and it turns out this body doesn’t care either.
corroded stomach lining,
eaten away by battery acid.
weakened bladder, what does it matter?
if i’d had the resolve
and the right concentration
i could’ve continued my transcendence
back into the subatomic Original vibrations
but i was distracted,
again,
by the fear of having made
too many irreversible mistakes.
The Net
Consciousness is like a net; it can either catch you, or trap you.
We are here to discern change and differences. Which we do well, sometimes too well.
Am I comfortable right now? Does this benefit me? Is this what I want?
I’ve been here before.
I need to name this feeling.
Perhaps it’s not any one feeling, it’s a thousand things tied into one knot.
Intent on tension; intension
dis-ease; unable to be at ease; disease.
I’m trapped
Within a web of consciousness
The more I try to explain, the more I try to be understood, the more I wriggle, the tighter the bind
Let me explain;
Consciousness is a net
Like a murder of crows
Undulating caws, in unison,
What one crow sees, and knows,
The whole knows and sees.
