Monday, January 21, 2013

Issue 2

(All the material in this 2nd issue is also the work of the editor.)

Table of Contents

Essay: My Student Letter

Poetry: The Freedom

composite by the editor, rose by Stan Shebs/Wikimedia Commons

My Student Letter

The creative course of essay.
I understand
How it bothers you
The Creative Writing Department.
Deep fountain,
How many papers,
How many?
Say them and see

     It hardly seems worth it and at the same time the point of all this really, all this teeming world, to go on about anything in particular what with all this everything we’re continually in the face of, but it may be that someone, somewhere, sometime would find this helpful, and if there is really any reason to write at all, it is for that my heart says write, however much my head says what’s the point.  The two often see things differently, but my heart, stuck down there somewhere beating about in the point blank of whatever it is my head can’t seem to get it hands on, is the better pilot, so I let it lead here and listen to it telling me to write, by all means write, whether or not there will ever be anyone who reads this.

    We are faced today in the beginning of the twenty-first century with so much information that knowledge, essential vision of the why and how of things, has ceased to be that and has become nothing more than scrapes of information equal in value to any other bit there is so much of it at our fingertips, and wisdom, the crown and cap of knowledge, what knowledge becomes when it transcends itself and is the simple bright knowing of the best way we can use knowledge, best not only for us personally but for all parties, has almost left the field entirely due to it now being considered more a belief than a knowing.  In this uncertain field I sit and write, and believe it or not I might have some useful information for you, and before you click on to something more instant, read on, as you could find that to be the case.

Following me,
But that will no longer be necessary.
Land space time,
Its tale expeditionary users
Swing over here,
Swing over there.
Stop right there.
Pick us some new Blackberries.

The film,
Shown to meet the camera
To the point
I’m shown to me
With you filming this.
You know that
Camera hound.
Now who said that?

     I’d like to introduce you to the muse, in this case of poetry, which, in its larger context, is part of the inner vision facility, or internal guidance system, or simply the creative reflex as I tend to look at it, since, like dream, which is also part of that matrix, it’s much more creative and spontaneously generating than it is reliably true, maddeningly so.  It’s the particular in all this everything I’m writing about, and this is as much a warning as it is an enthusiastic introduction.  I have a large volume of such poetry, or two or three smaller ones, depending on the degree to which you divide things, and unfortunately the poetry does not seem to fit either the contemporary literary or spiritual mindset (the religious mind is just too set), even though (more probably because) the poems are all about the very stuff of both as they express themselves today.  It’s the particular slant of the muse to be literary spiritual, an oxymoron by today’s standards, and neither milieu has much tolerance for an iconoclast (what a muse poet is you don’t water it down with the good ole boy of the mind).  Some, like Emily Dickinson, beat around the bush about the undiscovered continent with the grace of a hummingbird; others, such as William Blake, strip from us our innocence and do that by marrying heaven with hell, and still others, like Rumi, almost come right out and show us this sun in the voice of its handmaid and scribe.

     Take the example above of my muse.  The poetry, laden with metaphor, word play, ambiguity or resonance, euphony, and the like, as is characteristic of the muse of poetry, naturally since that’s the fountainhead of poetry and its technique, characteristically evolving poetry further in the verse of whatever poet actually literally listens to it (which often times also means the present poetry world of the day won’t listen to those poets), takes over from my prose in which I was saying I might have something useful for you.  To understand what the muse is saying, or my creative reflex, to remind you you’re not hearing any ultimate truth but something of truth that has been filtered down through all that is me, certainly not the biggest truth of existence, let me explain that for the longest time on what is known as the spiritual path, to give a name to something that really doesn’t exist in the sense that, that’s what life is pure and simple, the whole point has seemed to be to become somebody spiritually great, some splendid name, that others follow.  Just get a little spiritual knowledge, open the hidden wellsprings of the Spirit in yourself just a little bit, and see where you tend to go with it if you don’t believe me.  (I’ve had the fortune to have a very ugly disability, and that has kept me from being anything other than a poet, a claim not without its own pretensions, as well has made me dig ever deeper into the why and how of the whole thing, and I mean by that both life and the muse.)  On the other end, see what you do if you encounter someone and are pretty sure they’ve gotten something of that knowledge, opened even a trickle of those wellsprings (unless of course they’re offensively ugly).  We are apt to venerate them.  The verse seems to be saying something new is afoot, something more solution oriented than simply pointing out the hidden spiritual ego in our aim, more evolutionary, as I’m writing not so much to a general audience or even a literary one but more to people on the spiritual path, and what that new something is I hope will become more visible as I write.

     Before I go on let me, for the purposes of this writing, differentiate between the terms religion and spirituality, which are often used interchangeably.  Now, I’m no one to define anything as great as what these things mean, so let me also add that much greater people than I have made the same distinction.  Of course it should also be noted that there aren’t cut and dried borders between things in the inner world as our mind likes to divide things in the outer, and so any definition is apt to be a least a little arbitrary at best. Spirituality refers to the direct, personal, inner experience of what’s higher, as opposed to horizontal experiences such as E.S.P., lucid dreaming and dream travel, voices and visions (the creative reflex), out of body and near death experiences (unless of course in any of these you have a spiritual experience, which I define below), and experiences of the lower, which would include anything of the former if the experience has taken you down into the lower worlds or given you contact with them.  Such horizontal and lower experiences are often confused with spiritual experiences, since they are inner experience, but in a spiritual experience you’ve had a direct contact with what is higher than the world of the human ego, not, and here’s the tricky part, just seen it or heard it as something outside of you in your inner world, but, for however long the experience lasts, you’ve risen up there with the very stuff of your identity, and you are not exactly the same person when you return because, whether you want to be or not, you’ve become a spiritual aspirant, and you move your whole life in the direction of getting back up there.

     On the other hand, religion refers to the beliefs, cult, and ritual practices concerning or directed towards the higher and is more often than not a result of a seer’s (someone who sees the unseen) or a group of seers’ spiritual experiences along a certain distinguishable line of the higher, a seer or group usually but not always long departed.  In this sense, spirituality gives birth to religion but not usually the other way around, unless there are people (seers) in a religion having direct, personal, inner contact with that line of the higher in the same concrete way its founders had, and the religion is ever changing and adapting to the new revelation and not calling it heresy as is usually the case.  Wide-open investigative spirituality not at least partially under the roof of some religion or spiritual system is a rare bird, not so much because we as humans are by our nature herd sour (we are), but more because if you are having or have had direct, personal, inner experience of the higher you need a reference point and guidance; otherwise you’re for all intents and purposes dead meat, since the difficulties on the way at its razor path pitches far exceed mere human capacities.

     I have a teacher (departed and dual, a man and a woman, since when I encounter one there the other is also) and operate within the confines of a particular school of the science of Indian yoga, a spiritual system and not a religion per se, but it does have its beliefs, cult, and ritual practices that certainly make it resemble one, only, the whole point of yoga, if it’s not merely the exercise variety, is to have direct experience of the higher to the point you realize some status of that, become yoked to it as in union, but I’m putting the cart before the horse, where I’m going with this writing before I write the effort to get there, a common mistake on the spiritual path in general.

I have need of you.
The City of the Black Lake,
I want to accomplish something further.
Will you tell me what the red solution to the world is?

Yeah go get shoes.
We know what it’s going to look like:
I want her to grow up.
That’s said to her.
Think of this as our people.

Got a washing.
The whole country?
You see,
March universe.
All medium rare.

Gravity blasters,
Space break,
Go back in the box.
And what do we have?
Welded elastic.

     From a certain perspective, and many put forth this perspective nowadays, there is no search necessary since we are all (underneath it all) enlightened, realized, divine, or whatever you care to call it.  There’s a catch though: it’s not manifested is it?  If you can admit that to yourself (if you can’t click on to something more instant) then you have to point your pilgrim feet in some direction or another to get that to manifest.  But what direction, i.e. what must I do and not do?  Is there anyone that can teach me?  There’s a popular saying on the path that I don’t think most realize is a profound truth: when the student is ready the teacher will come, or, if I may amplify it and bring out some of its hidden meaning: when you have searched the high and low of yourself and have come to that wild place where your trials and errors are making a disturbing racket on the inner planes and are threatening to add only more confusion to the outer world than there already is, some teacher will have compassion on you and come and help, and (adding an add on) with an everything falls into heart-felt place shock you realize they’d been there secretly all along, and that’s how you know they’re your teacher.  If they don’t have the capacity to come to you both from your inner world and outer life, then they aren’t a teacher in the true meaning of that word.  If you haven’t opened your inner consciousness to the point you can hear and see them on the inside when they do come, then you simply aren’t ready yet.  And if, when they do come and you hear their arrival in the beats of your heart and see it in the stars in the sky, they want you to exalt their name and spread it to the ends of the earth, then tell them to get lost.  A true teacher will help you connect to your own inner teacher, get you more and more to stand on your own two feet, rather than want you to carry them around all the time.  Most people today, and many of their teachers, would not fit into the inner criteria and might even be hard pressed to know what exactly I’m talking about.

Out in the audience people were cleaning their pipes with gall bladders,
But still,
You’ve got to learn somewhere.
What that movie name?
Relative reflexes.

     Mainstream contemporary Western spirituality, it in itself apart from religious spirituality and its esoteric traditions, would I imagine hold as a sublime truth the Buddhist teaching story of a monk meditating and excitedly telling his master a golden Buddha is appearing before him.  “Ignore it, and it’ll go away,” the master replies, and in that reply shows you how to turn off, how everybody turns off, the inner teacher’s PA system, i.e. the muse, by not giving it any attention.  I doubt there’s a person on the planet that has not heard at least once the inner voice or, apart from the total immersion of a dream, seen a vision as they wake up or go to sleep.  Like the master in the story, modern society on the whole puts no value on such things and so ignores them.  Fortunately that inner guide has other means at its disposal we are apt to pay more attention to because they’re harder to ignore: lucid dreams or any dream that just wops you over the head, synchronicities of your inner world with your outer life, out of body and near death experiences, and other manifestations of the inner consciousness that have such an impact on your outer life you begin to suspect from that inner the outer arises and not the other way around as we are all led to believe by the rather dominating position the outer world has on our attention.

     Returning to the story, which most probably is not a true story but was made up to make a point, and consequently the golden Buddha wouldn’t be an inner symbol in the truth sense of one, allow me to interpret it as if it were a vision a meditating monk had, since even in fiction the maker of all stories has a hand, and some symbol of something true can be seen, as in that story of stories, the outer world, if you can follow me here.  Say that monk had finally gotten to that place of quiet in his mind where he was no longer following his thoughts, and they were beginning to subside like a retreating sea, though they still lolled in muffled trains on the tracks of his mind but without any engineer to give them a destiny, a place from where he could see far off in the distance of mind-space the shivering entrance to the tunnel of Silence, a place in years and years of meditation he’d never gotten to before, and since there he was finally behind his thinking mind the inner guide could give him some encouragement in the form of the appearance of a Buddha of gold, as if to say, “That’s right.  Keep going.  You’re on the right track.”  But he was a rather dull monk and had no mind for symbolism or any knowledge whatsoever of either the inner teacher or the representative way it teaches with a master equally dull and ignorant, and so the meaning of the golden Buddha was lost, and it only served to be the distraction both made it.  I’m speaking from experience here, since I do every so often reach that clear space on the spiritual path where what I’m walking towards becomes more real to me than the road and all this world I’m walking on, and I’ll have a vision of the sun bursting through the clouds or a mountain looming up out of mist and know, for the moment at least, all is well with my soul.

      Seen from afar, an occasional uttering of words that, however ridiculous it sounds, seems to mean something or another, and a rare sight of scenes moving or still that, however strange they appear, show something or another, or the two combined, often oddly, coming from the inner consciousness not from a dream, just look to be like dream does some bizarre firing off of your mind bound to occur as you unconsciously chew on the world and all the sights and sounds that have flooded your senses recently.  When you see it up close, however, you stagger backwards in disbelief, as what you’re looking at is the universe stealing in through your back door.  It’s not such a clear picture from dream so filled dream is with personal subconscious things much of the time (or at least the part of the night many are likely to remember any from, which is just after falling asleep and right before waking), and dream is the most basic, standard, no frills attached, no effort required model of the inner vision facility or creative reflex, unless you develop dream, which is where I started, since it’s the most visible entrance into the inner consciousness, or to the universe, depending on how look at it, but when you do develop dream other portals become visible, and the creative reflex flowers proportionately.

     Now, I cannot prove to you by argument the cosmos is your backyard, but if you turn your attention and concentration one hundred and eighty degrees around from where people normally put it, which is the outer world, and spend several eye-opening years exploring your inner life, making sure you continue to give equal time to your outer life (that is very important), you and the universe are bound to collide, and you’ll come to realize that, while your front faces the world of daily affairs, your back is secretly open to infinity.  When you’re on the spiritual path that is all well and good and needful to know, but you aren’t interested in an out of body guide to the galaxy, how many space aliens can dance on the tip of your pen, or the coming earth changes from the soon to occur passing of mega-planet X, or even of finally being recognized as the messiah or at least a prophet of such grace and power that even the atheist, on hearing your words, would say in their heart there is a God (who on the path hasn’t let one of those thoughts slip in?).  It’s guidance you want pure and simple.

Set you right on lights and things.
You make your camera
What you want to move on.
I can’t read it.
Come ‘ere;
What has to leave?
Are you here for a moment,
A few hours,
Or are you buying its Tupperware?
What need to lead?
Hear roses.
Give you a lift.
Just say no

     When you stand back and look at everything, especially when you try and write about anything, pen something down as it were, particulars blur into relativity there is so much interconnectivity between particulars.  Take the creative reflex I’m trying to describe (and at the same time give you some sense of how to fashion out of it spiritual guidance). On our highest tops with it we are directing into place all the forms that rise pellmell from the sleep of our lowest bottom, the mysterious Void, in effect creating the world, so it’s not so easy to pen down.  To get some vague notion of that, think about the ever changing world of any dream.  It’s something so common I don’t think many of us appreciate the magnitude of creation a simple dream entails: a sunrise or flood for example, a city and all its business of detail, the body you have and all the other bodies you encounter, and I could go on for infinity.  Are those things made of atoms?  Anyway, that same creative reflex creating the world of dream can also be harnessed to create art, fine tuned into the muse, what inspiration is at its wellspring.  Inspiration is not a popular notion in art today, downright heresy actually, due to the sometimes heroic, sometimes cowardly struggle art has had in trying to divorce itself from religion, particularly in the West, as the very notion of inspiration suggests something higher than us inspiring us.  We would not be able to placate those aesthetic egos by saying that the something higher is none other than us beyond Space and Time inspiring the creation of all of existence.  Such would only dig the hole deeper than it already is I’m afraid, offending even most religious sensibilities.

     So let’s just admit (shall we?) that down here in the relativity of it all, in the bowels of one of these phenomenal worlds, there are higher beings than us around to help and inspire us (call them teachers, gods and their scribe angels, or whatever you’d like  –God himself being a being a bit big for us to hear or see not dressed as one or more of his living attributes, who will always call themselves God since to the limits of our understanding they are; just be careful because you’re on holy ground around here and not on a pedestal), and not only that, their help has nothing to do with aggrandizing our ego, making it successful or anything like that, or of even giving our ego fine aesthetic taste, but has everything to do with getting us beyond all ego and become what we are in our essence, underneath it all, which, if you’re on the spiritual path, whatever you call it, you wouldn’t call it Ode to Ego Methinks I Am.

     That those divine muses do this in such a bottoms up way our own essence becomes the generating matrix for the guidance, or the creation of our art, depending upon whether or not you’ve been following all I’ve been saying and are now ready to reunite art with the search for truth, poetry with the soul (or at least let them be friends again in print, paint, film, music or whatever medium), is I think the greatest miracle of all because the guidance you end of getting in all that divine alchemy is from none other than who you are in truth, and no one knows you better and what you need than your own soul, or the suchness in yourself, if you’re uncomfortable with the notion of any reality in all this relativity, although I would strongly suggest first going all the way down (via dream or other portal) to the deepest most hidden part of yourself and personally encounter your soul before you adopt the belief that it doesn’t exist, or even before you believe surely that it does, since it in itself is liable to be quite different than your adopted belief about it, and to get that really good bottoms up guidance, bottom in the sense of the soul not the Void, it helps to have taken your bucket (your conscious) all the way down to the well of soul if you want the water drawn from there, living water fresh with this moment in your life right now.

     So, to cut to the chase: if you want to make out of your creative reflex a vehicle of guidance I’m afraid there’s no short cut.  You’ll have to have opened your inner consciousness to the point the inner voice becomes often audible, vision often visible, and the best place to begin is where most people hear and see such things: as they wake up and go to sleep.  You have to prolong those times, keeping your consciousness focused on the inside, the land below the waves the ancients called it, and not allow your thinking mind to kick in and bring you out of the water of the inner being into the state of being fully awake or allow yourself to loss consciousness and go to sleep, no small feat, since it involves keeping yourself from thinking thoughts as much as possible, a passivity of mind few can maintain for long unless they are all the way in the Silence where there is no longer an I to follow them and no effort needed to keep them at bay, a state you do sometimes approach like a high flying pilot getting a sudden view of Space.  (When and if that happens drop what you’re doing and go for the Silence, since that’s where the guidance is taking you if it’s worth its salt –even further if it’s worth gold–, not an easy target by any means no matter how close you are, how many stars you can count.)  People on the spiritual path who meditate know that the concentration required to keep yourself from following your thoughts is difficult to maintain, but as you practice it gets much easier, since you learn eventually to go inside, below the waves of the waking mind as it were, where your body feels heavy or is buzzing if you feel it at all, and your consciousness feels like it’s being pulled or held inside, a place you can learn to fall into anytime you lay back in yourself a little bit, and in the inner consciousness you can hear and see its voices and visions, something I suspect a lot more people on the path know about than talk about, use and never let on they do.

Destroy them,
Take their art and priests and destroy them.  (vision accompanying these two lines of a commander in Roman-style battle dress who has just stormed with his soldiers into a Catholic cathedral, and he’s giving that command as he’s signaling left and right.)
A forward rush.
Right on Stewart.
Is it?
What the hell are you thinking?
Give an angel shock treatment?
They give a story,
What’ll work for a minute.
Good grief,
Are you just so dumb you wear wars?

I’m on standby.
Where are you?
Whatever happens.
The gear asked me if I would be offended.
I heard that helps,
Persuades the likes of a king,
If I grok my own fault,
(We say it’s Donny)
Search with me and
Do everyday
Touch the side.
Other side too God’s children.
There’s someone at work.
I know if it’s changed:
Clenched his fist with pride and humiliation
Your Royal Highness
The ego.

Fall about Worthington.
To entertain,
I will in love with me.
Oh I remember now:
For me to go
Get these things:
Is that right?;
I knew it.
He’s studying the truths he wanted.
He’s studying the truth?
There’s no denying here’s his Hollywood:
Somebody else get the shakes
On high altitudes?
Didn’t wanna take it
Never worried about anything
In all that floor company
Responding me to Nature’s call.

Move some on the left.
I have found
We are here for a private reason
I cannot get away from me.
Just what I have to tell you:
No sailor
Below his person
Gets rid of those.
Just one author
Get you to the airport:
All of it on the stand.
I don’t know what you got,
But today,
Right here,
The good news is
Man there’s this help,
And that is a form that let’s right out on the highway.
Come up here,
Your muse.
He eats at the TV now.
I’d need to explain.
So explain.
That’s a bad idea.
Peace and quiet,
It’s difficult
Without a report today:
You must be in art.
You need this to get the bubbles out.
In that influence,
Well you got it.

     I had a dream before dawn this morning where I was in a gym/science class, a strange combination of things common to dream.   Going on a break I went off and left my electric typewriter in the classroom (in waking life I don’t use one but compose prose on a PC and poetry with a pen and flashlight).  Realizing my mistake I quickly went back to the classroom but found the typewriter missing.  I went and got my parents, screaming that someone had stolen it, and returned to the classroom with them, which had suddenly become my teacher’s office –another common feature of dream: shape shifting.  I think it was my mom who looked under the desk and found it safe in its case, and as she handed it to me she told me I shouldn’t get so upset because it hadn’t been stolen after all.  Then I looked at my teacher’s typewriter, identical to mine in every detail except it wasn’t made of plastic like mine but of metal, but I knew if I did all my homework and passed the class I’d eventually have a metal one too, and to interpret that let’s just say I realized a student is not greater than his master, not by a long shot, but if you do humble yourself and submit to being taught and at the same time go for what your master got, the whole point of having one to begin with, you’ll eventually get it if grace is present, something you draw to you more the more sincere you are.

     To interpret the dream, only generally for the sake of brevity, specifically the main storyline of my typewriter appearing to be stolen, I should tell you you’re fortunate to be reading this, or I am to continue writing it, depending on if you will ever read it and feel lucky in the least, because during the writing of the above poetry unfortunate things happened in my life, not the least of which was facing possible eviction for failure to pay rent three months running.  The goings on as a writer writes: they would prove to you beyond a shadow of a doubt there is more than a casual connection between a work of writing and the writer’s personal life.  Struggling in the midst of all that upset to get quiet, hear my muse, and have faith, not only in the higher but in myself, which at that moment was really waning, the rent got paid (by a friend that had suddenly gotten a tax windfall of the amount of my back rent), and as happens when something like that happens I took heart and carried on, and the poetry that came out of that is more down to earth and real that it would’ve been if all that daily life interference hadn’t happened.

The Tree of Knowledge and the world
Have been talkin’ to me.
There’s one way to figure it out:
Some settle hope.
What a romantic
On the North Pole.
Could you give me a reference to
You can tell if somebody is being sincere or not?
He’s different –
The world’s most powerful bittorrent application
Got a white light.
Where the earth is.
How did you like the question?
Let ‘em ride your elevator.
That do it.

     Opening the inner consciousness even specifically for guidance is a bit like going at night into some inner-city neighborhood loaded in dough with a neon sign on your back that reads kick me.  You’re being up against someone ironclad who wants you to channel their teaching for the new millennium, Look At All These Lies, to the world, or what comes to you from your inner world will be so dark and depressing you just want to kill yourself.  These are the first depths, and they snare many if not most.  The second depths, a bit more illuminated, shine the light more on you like a spotlight does than the way stadium lights show you you and the entire field, equally, and so you’re also kept in the dark about what matters most: your game, since that spotlight tends to make you appear rather big and important and doesn’t show you your shadows and shades, but in these deeps you’re very good at pointing those out in others.  In the third depths you meet the outer world again like you’ve taken a journey in a straight line out from yourself and followed the curve of Space all the way back to where you started, only now you know you are the world as is everybody and everything in it, a rather sobering humbling experience because you see you really are no different than anyone else, every bit as messed up, but you do see and feel sometimes close, sometimes far a presence in the world, call it God or the Relative Absolute, that has made the world for you anything but mundane and business as usual, and this feeling has gotten all the way down to your feet and has quickened them on the spiritual path to realize that presence as something more than fleeting.  Here in these deeper depths the guidance you get gets good, though sometimes a bit hard to take because it’s so spot on on what you need to work on (like the unflattering way your mom would tell you to go and take a bath and put on clean underwear when you just came close to her for a moment on your way to some important kid business), but you need a form for it to fit into, one that captures for you guidance in the same way the world and everything in it is a living symbol of that presence, in such a way that the very act of having to interpret the guidance teaches you to interpret that presence in all things, making you walk on your own two feet towards it because you’ve got to stand up out of your stuff, at least for a moment, and figure out what the symbols mean.  Art anyone?

     Since we are all on our heights inspiring all that is, albeit unknown to ourselves, down here in the thick of it we are all artists in the usual meaning of that term if we can find our talent and the time to develop it, something that becomes more apparent and begins to manifest the closer we get to finding our soul or our suchness, since art will always come out of that search like the world does out of that presence.  No particular art is supreme over the others, but if you’re looking for a particularly fit form to give you guidance and capture truth (truth being not as we tend to regard it today as a name to believe in or a dogma to adopt but simply what is actually going on, the why and how), the language of poetry is literally readymade for that, or it is if you’ve fashioned out of your creative reflex the muse and do not make art with the mind or even the heart but with the inner ear and eye, which show you the art of the cosmic mind and heart.  It doesn’t matter if you’re a poet or not; you’ll still hear and see poetry in your muse, the inner voice speaking as the inspiration of art, though if you don’t already have a well-developed poetical intelligence, if you haven’t learned the art of poetry both by the writing and reading of it, the verse you’ll get won’t be poetry in the sense of the word, won’t pass muster as art, however much you like it, and it’s best in the beginning and for a long time into it to put the am I a poet question aside and the submitting to Poetry Review Journal Magazine or Spirituality Online.  Would that I could take back a lot of my early muse that I prematurely put out in the public eye.  I have to warn you; the muse will write itself to people, situations, you name it, and want you with a pressing urgency to send it to them, from the onset, but you have to have the presence of mind to wait until it flowers into art, and we by our nature being so full of ourselves and self-important, all of us I’m afraid, simply cannot be objective enough to know when the bloom is finally ready, and so you’ll make a lot of mistakes with your muse, and that seems to be part of the process.  Later on another layer of muse appears, an editorial one, which seems to correspond to that slow change of seasons when your muse blossoms into art.

     The muse is quite eclectic and will show you all the forms of art however much one form is shown more than the others because it’s your focus and forte or how much you couldn’t even begin to capture in outer expression the forms it’s showing you that are not.  I’m not a painter, but I’ve seen many paintings, and I don’t really play a musical instrument only pluck on the guitar, but I hear a lot of music, some of which I do sing and play because the muse is so insistent that I develop that ability.   Once in Paris I even heard a symphony in my head complete with an entire orchestra.  It came about as a result of staying with someone that listened to Classical music all the time, because what you fill your eyes and ears with and dwell on with your mind and heart will be the subject of your muse, the substance of your art, so turn off the TV, put down the newspaper, and fill yourself with art if you want to make it, read poetry if you want to write it, and, if you aim to go into the Silence, turn everything off and put everything down whenever and just let the natural sights and sounds around you be your entertainment, a secret passage that can be thrilling for longer and longer moments when you get the hang of it –the presence you see.  I have very little interest in architecture except to stand and gape at it when it’s good, but on the Camino of Santiago seeing a lot of that art I saw in vision a cathedral whose front was a semicircle lined with intricate life-size stone statues of all the craftsmen of daily life, plumbers, electricians, nurses, road workers, and on and on.  In both the above instances all I could do was look and listen to all that feeling quite inadequate as only a poet, a one trick pony.

     It’s impossible to give you a picture of the muse in the two dimensions of writing because it’s not three dimensional as we usually encounter things but four, as it’s coming from that place where seeing is seeing multiple scenes simultaneously, divine vision, and so it comes at you busting at the seams wearing the variety of the universe, and only being able to see one scenario at a time, you can put your attention to very little of that and are able to capture or record even less.  And I should warn you not to cry over spilled milk; the one that got away will always be the best one and will always get away.  That’s a universal law I think.  The lines of poetry that come to you you have to record, and that means learning to be a frog and going back and forth in and out of the inner waters, and so you’ll lose many lines, the best ones more often than not.

     Perhaps, though, the most important piece of information about the muse is that it comes in so many pieces from so many places, not whole from one source as you might think (if that is, you are indeed in the third depths open to it all), is not something you’re just given verbatim but something you have to sort through and make out, discernment being the most important handmaid, able not only to tell the true from the false but also art from the art not, which means you end up throwing away more lines than you use, since the great bulk of what you get is grist for the mill.  The muse itself, however, will aid in the process, as there’s the presence of what I call an overeditor commenting, in verse or by visual art, a crashed airplane for example if things aren’t going well, on the writing of the poem, and believe it or not you also have at your disposal a sort of line thesaurus, and if you’re not happy with a line (or a section, verse, or even a whole poem), you can reject it and wait for another line to come of the same idea dressed in different clothes, and several more lines will come all the way to the point the antonym of the idea is being expressed.  Of course for such mastery over the muse, i.e. the presence of an overeditor and the thesaurus function, and other things too detailed to mention here, you need to be well-versed in your art, putty in the hands of your soul, and you have to be in a place of heightened clarity, not muddled by your life and the world, which for most of us is a lake house we but visit on vacations, as well as the fact the concentration required for such over the top will-directed listening is excruciating, as is just being in the muse in general it takes so much listening will, an openness and passivity in the use of will and not a pulling down as it may sound, an extremely important difference to understand, as you’re not actually waiting on a line of poetry but on the divine to give you what it wills and what you need, which isn’t always the next line of the present poem, something only the word surrender captures.  This does not mean you can’t put an intention on the muse, what you have to do to use the thesaurus in the first place, or to redo a section of verse, or to ask it to give you a poem on a certain topic, and this is not a pulling but a waiting with will on whatever the muse would like to bring you in regards to your intention, which, again, is not what you want but what you need, and so often you get something different than you intended.

     I need to explain, however, that the clarity and over the top concentration is only for the editing ability, since you can certainly hear your muse if you’re messed up, even dirty as hell, since you can say the main function of the muse is not necessarily to impart truth to you or the world but to get you the listener out of a jam, pull you out of the water because you’re drowning, you being generally not some good and noble person but the type of guy or gal ugly in the eyes of others but who is secretly preparing a beautiful heart-temple for God to inhabit, a secret you hardly even tell yourself, the kind of person the divine is apt to pay more attention to because no one else will, and so you’re open to God, wide open –take my story for example.  For its ability to get us out of trouble and defeat the hostile powers the muse was called in India in times passed Agni, the purifying fire, and if you’re an ugly person having just been lead around by the nose by your stuff, the lines do burn like fire as you lay there almost unwillingly listening to them trying to go into the oblivion of sleep.  The muse just won’t shut up (the temple in your heart makes sure of that), and eventually, through it all, through every single fall, it carries you safely beyond your stuff into the plentitude of the Spirit, or will if you allow it, since failure, total ruin, is always a present looming possibility.  I’m trying to tell you the muse is not exactly what you may think it is, and if you’re listening to it, that doesn’t mean you’re a great guy, but it does mean you’ve done with your concentration what few can: made of it despite yourself and your stuff an open inner ear.

     The concentration required for editing, however, returning to that thesaurus, is not something you can do when you’re muddled by your stuff, costs too much to use more than a couple of times in any given listening stretch, a laying or sitting in for only a couple of hours normally so excruciating it is.  That’s no matter because the muse can pick up right where it left off, amazingly so, and so poems can come over days or longer.  My first muse poem, A Suicide Bomber’s Broken Arrow is Broken, begun in 2001 in Brazil shortly after September 11th (however the poem is not about that particular suicide bombing), formed into a working poem in Paris, and as yet unpublished, was ten years in the writing, finishing it depending upon further development both as a poet and in the knowledge of life and death, since the speaker is a dead bomber speaking from the other side, literally. For the most part, though, poems really like to come over the course of a night’s sleep, not something you’re all that happy about, waking you up at all the watches of the night so to speak itself.  The overeditor is also quite expensive because hearing it means listening to different levels of muse at the same time (levels you won’t for the life of you be able to sort out other than know with your heart the overeditor is concerned with you and the poem with just itself), a feat of concentration you can’t maintain for long since it’s too close to divine multiple vision for our one thing at a time mind to be comfortable grappling with or even all that able to.

     It should be apparent by now that your ability to hear and see the muse and record it and make out of it art depends on how much mastery you have over both your craft and your consciousness, your stuff  and war with it notwithstanding, since for example if you’re not a developed poet possessed with that innate talent to make language dance with the tip of your pen you won’t get Poetry, or you’ll have to wait and let your muse flower into that, a process that can take years as you study your craft, whatever art is your particular talent to mature, and if you don’t have deep spiritual knowledge that you’ve gotten by spiritual experiences, of the Silence, of the soul, of the divine consciousness, or even wide horizontal knowledge of life and death you’ve acquired by inner or outer travel and going for the heart of Experience in your thought and feeling, which doesn’t necessarily mean you’re spiritually oriented, you’re not suddenly going to be expressing things not in your league to know, and if you do try and express them anyway, or if your creative reflex gives you that I should say, it will come across rather flat and one-sided, take the form, in language, of a strange or awkward prose and will not be possessed with the substance and subtlety of art, since it will not be imbued with the reality of having seen what your symbols mean.  Increasingly we’re being bombarded with many volumes of such half-truth expressions, channeled works that usually redefine everything but tell you nothing about how to actually change your consciousness or get out of a tight fix, half in the sense of things only heard and not actually seen, and often consequently also in the sense of their truthness, so much so the muse, the whole notion of inspiration really, is a dog in court.  But I have to say not all of these works are for the waste bucket; a few, rare ones that show the divine leading someone out of suffering, conversations or whatnot, despite their often stabbing in the dark, give us needed shallows leading into the deeper experience.  Now, it hardly bears mentioning that this ability of which I speak normally comes with a lot of spiritual development, but not with every person that has used the muse extensively to write poetry, watering it down with the mind, spitting out the spiritual bits (is that what they said? an unheard quote of Shakespeare on his muse).  Apart from some notable exceptions there’ve been many inspired poets, though,

That have gone and catch spiritual concepts like the Sufi.
I thought the party was over.
It slipped her mind.
I knew somehow.
Your own answers to your own questions.
View the stuff of your life.
I wanna go,
Gonna go somewhere.
A cause to run
And the whole wide world
Gets to hear it.
It’s busy.
Everybody stole your exercises.
Ego swarm.
Hear tonight
The more middle of washing machine data.
Do strike you
Don’t it by God?
What did you mean?
No spaceship.
Talk with me.
We have a little problem.
A message
Better get goin’.
Stay on alert.
Defensive maneuvers.
What happened?
You hit a snag
Pulls you
Away from your target.
What to look for:
That private tutor.
Or you’re ready to
Give some serious adult fist
Where you’re going.
You don’t want me to fix it for you.
Just a breeze
Blow you there.

I think we’ve done enough homework already.
I’m sorry.
Walk through camp.
There’s a reindeer
If you open your eyes.
Let’s continue north.
Tonight we have a particularly good starback
He hired from his own house.
That’s my particular.
Why does it cover everybody?
Redistributed the Press recently?
I call it seeing
Union reels.
Can you see me now?
Maybe you need a personal committed story to accept this water slip.
Four times movin’.
Face up to the point where I am,
And then there’s your movement.
Would you like to see my poetry blog?
There’s other things about poetry
Than Ode to Paper Basket.
Give this to him:
I am a treasure hunter.

There is a world of the seer consciousness.
This stays in cold ink’s fish:
Putting a bat to
The thousand and one things.
You heard it though.
This part’s money.
I bet though lord
Feel it
Throwing it away.
That’s how it works
That’s yours.
I’m gonna get in this thing.
He’s gonna
Try to find it.
Find her
Over there.
You hear that?
Listen for the Silence.
Well there’s proof.
Listen, this is a race of sieges.
Well I’ll tell yah:
The only chance you have
Over there
Live your life apart.
You’re willin’ to leave
Every single thing in the world
And you’re in it still.
No one can stop the world for you.
Not even warm
(Go and get his gun)
Sittin’ up readin’,
Sittin’ up
Listenin’ to a preacher talk to yah.
Anybody heard it,
A night watchman?
Find it.

The sun came in two directions:
The sun from there,
My eyes from there.
Who are you?
But you look at somebody in the world.
You take the table.
Another altitude
Invite you.
I know
Because I live there
Under exercise of all this.
You said you were skatin’.
I have regular employment
From a variety of sources,
And I have passing marks:
I protect in my living room.
You do?
Sure enough,
A hall pass.
I don’t believe you.
That don’t offend me.
Let me tell you
Air Force One,
I’m goin’ up to the top
Instead of up.
I’m going stabilizer.
This is a drawing.
What that for?
Someone help me.
If I can make it through the Silence,
The empty bucket,
What you land there on the ground,
Well I just go and see it,
An undiscovered continent
Secret from our days.

Real nice
Thank you.
What have you got for us
Over here?
To Superman
Over there.
You’ll have to excuse me.
Just like in the old days
People think differently.
He is a star,
All these things they believe about.
What am I doin’
Telling you to believe in somethin’?
I do not believe;
I want…
What do you want?
Remind them so much
Of that eye-witness
Seen what he saw
Because it’s real.
I want you to see this.


Atlas by Galileo Lo Leggio

The Freedom
Everybody heard the most twelve suspects of all time?
If it works.
Educating public opinion
The length of a poem.
They go ready for people.
They go in on a plan,
Undercover op.
Something else has been declared war on,
And we catch the News.
You said somethin’.
It’s mostly in America,
You know what,
The pedophile sting ring.
Did God cause this?
Is that the only way to deal with this like that, Nazis and the FBI?
A pestilence,
This blight on children.
What their nature burn.
As we get to the root causes of America,
As we come to the apocalypse of America
(This is not the principle destruction –
Find the end result),
We see a rudeness has no handle.
All history long we have been doing this to our children.
Okay we put the brakes on.
There are no more pedophiles Joe?
They’re proliferatin’.
The lengths we go to get trouble.

Predatory alert,
I’ve seen it on TV.
Arrested in the middle of everybody.
Wires and things they were all listenin’ in.
He had a kid to meet.
They got ‘im shoppin’.
Now he hung himself.
It was all in the report.
Yeah, kill yourself you freak.
Looks like
That was at the top of the story,
Shot a wolf.

Now what did this do in TV land?
We don’t’ know.
You haven’t lost your brother.
These guys are monsters okay?
These guys are strangers okay?
Who makes this racket?
It’s the Press,
A News team.
Shape public opinion
As they report the News.
Who’s the lion and the tiger anyway?
Can you control them
A problem’s out of reach.
I operate on that.
You just think you know everything don’t you?
Can we see a blind spot
In our public opinion?
Do you have any bigger plans?

How America limits change.
We need to review this case.
The public media does it,
And would if they whisper gun?
Should we exterminate them,
What, who molest children?
Is this on News service tomorrow?
It’s got a way with guns,
All you can answer.
You load bullets that way.
It’s your last bullet.
The art has the empty chair.
What can we do magnet?
Excellent, I hope.
Art would magnify it,
Pull people away from their dramas
By showing connections,
Identity bonds,
Between you and who you hurt.
That’s bigger than sin.
Well that’s too old.
Ever amplify it?
Push the button down.

I don’t smoke.
This is a cultural misunderstanding.
Where does pedophilia come from?
How many babies are born?
Can you light that cigarette?
It would be washing and cleaning and things like that.
Your child,
You rub that child’s fingers upon his board.
It’s like casual contact
With some finger on it.
How many mothers have that for pie,
Daddy’s drinking beer?
Fish this one out of the water.
We look for pedophiles for sure.
Measure cultural mechanism.
Rob babies,
Give ‘em some emphasis there
They don’t know what to do with.
Let’s grow up and explore this thing.
Now I was here and she was there.
Hello little boy.
Great crap game huh?

I’m showin’ you your shorts.
Now take the pedophile
And hang ‘im.
I can’t look.
That’s what we need him for,
Not to look at blindness.
When you hear a special report,
Cultural wide,
We’d question the homophobe.
That’s a concept to get across
True or not.
Cute kid,
And you feel another ocean.
You don’t know there’s fish in it.
It’s not something you drag up.
Dangerous sex offender,
He’ll wear it,
And we find a role for him.
No one wants to see their teddy bears
Get a lot of their lap.
One second.
Bendin’ rules
Tryin’ to get a point across.
I’ll rush in on things.
You won’t see this till tomorrow morning.
They certainly smeared ‘im.
I certainly told myself…
What did you tell yourself?
His brain’s on our fingers.
See, I’ve opened your eyes.

Now I want you back there now,
On the forays of revolution
Mr. Poet.
Think about it.
Probably lined the page.
Martin let’s go get older.
Well I just don’t want to be here,
Between Jerusalem and Palestine.
It’s difficult
To see your place in life.
Before you come up here
It’ll be your soul speaks.

I don’t know,
You need to make up your mind:
Where are you at?
Look at each other.
Worry about the food later.
She had devote him give it to him,
What poetry sees further,
Something muse.
I would feel very exposed.
Is this the pedophile saying this or his society?
Imagine on a workday.
They come in those airplanes.
Are you service?
The other role come out,
An empty one.
Where would a pedophile lead us?
Up would be
His only way out:
Don’t abuse kids.
If you had money
Would you give it to him
For immigration?
That monster,
What’s he worth?
Oh a little story about society
It hides in its purse.
A scapegoat’s got your bag at heart.
Can we say large projection?
And so blind.
What would free him.
Can it come to your house?

Supposed to fire.
You just get some pistol out.
And we see some things about you,
Your fears.
Is this all that’s bothering you,
What he would do?
Add to it
You have it
Where intimacy and you meet your kids.
Are you holding something flush?
Is that your bright staple,
Or would it wound around awhile?
Let’s go here:
What are you afraid of puttin’ on?
Did your child draw up the boundaries?
You exercise them everyday.
There intimacy meets.
How are you protected?
It’s not an equation you see on paper,
But when a person does that
It weakens everyone.
Can you not put News here?
What would it do?
Help us all to behave.
One moment
As to why that is.

Screwin’ up everything.
Are you a blind bard?
That’s history.
Believe it or not I help.
I got it replaced on the other side.
Until you kiss me you don’t start the television.
Why would he send it?
He did it.
He knows the One inside.
He can see the doctor.
Plug him for it?
How about you,
Would you scrap it?
Now what does this vision do for us?
Over the line,
Got some things to think about.
Let me be intimacy,
And that hurts no one.
We were gonna add
A little survival dinner,
But not there.
Are you mistrustin’ my alliance?
I’m identified with you.
That’s just long on paper.
I grant you see One.
What a delivery stable.
Can’t get that look.
Look right here.
Some pedophile has shown the way.
How many times have you seen God act this way,
Used the humble and the accused?
How many times seen divine process work?
Are you starvin’ in this world?
We got a lot to lay down,
And it’s reachin’ for yah.

We’re all in fact Brahman.
Interior is first.
Have a market with it.
I’ve gotten along in dreams.
It just pushes me.
Don’t listen
To take aim further away.
Who’s he understand?
No I don’t wanna hear about it.
The reason by India:
Population pressures.
They’re not gurus.
Oh we would be around
Your most precious holding bucket.
Our yoga interior answer
Deepens the way up.
We’ve acted like frogs,
And if you kiss us we turn muse.
Why does it have to be so moon when it comes out?
Wash your underarms.
Near reveal to us.
That was kinda fast.
What you have to get through first:
Some unlimited attention.
They don’t have one.

I knew there was a way
To see You again.
I’ve been claiming that You are a little boy.
It’s just about enthroned.
Operation additional control measure,
Fifth’s parlor,
I found it on the way home.
It’s over because
It costs too much.
He played with his weeks.
On his altar
He put an image:
Every person that day he’d find.
Even animals have a right to regard.
A tree would not sink from hope.
This is One activity plan.
You don’t want with appetite.
You’re there
As a friend.
To wash in,
We gather direction that way.
What’s wrong with this?
You dislike ‘er.
The bad thing about it,
Everybody’s strangers,
Hate just grabs the page.
That’s not smart protocol.
You fear the invasion,
The betrayal, the leap,
You have this friend idea.

Daddy, what I do?
Now I told yah,
Well it’s almost nighttime.
You can’t trust anyone.
You read in the paper…
You know what today?
I guard in many numbers with police.
I have to tell you too
We’re off with your doctor.
I have a new posture.
If you get burned,
You get back on.
He said that?
Superman talks.
Think about
To announce:
It’s not a violation
You have the proper treatment.
Yeah if you’re sittin’ there
Quite lost in the body,
You think
It’s you.
Handle some body part,
I can’t believe it,
The suffering all life long.
They’ve been killed we carry on.
The child might not see it that way.
Do you know what he did to you?
That child learns.
See the violation mark?
It carries around like a bag of worms.
None of this would happen
Safe we looked at the body.
It’s not you.
You’re wearin’
An organic machine.

I don’t get it.
In the attitude
Don’t sit there and be violated.
Man you just
Take our support from us.
I’m giving you One.
Not a person or a thing stands anywhere else.
Support at its most real.
And maybe you don’t have to feel so violated.
He knows it,
Knows for sure.
His mom
Would sound a lot of Pittsburg at night.
Tell this to the nurse
And get out that touch.
Do I continue suffering?
I choose.
How much mother and father removable from the scene,
Or whoever it was got in there on yah.
What do we fly here,
The woe of our misfortune?
Is that our life downed by that?
Maybe life is bigger than her scenes.
Would an actor know that?
Maybe that hand on you was a push,
That violation a goad.
Perhaps the secret will in things
Operated on a plan.
How many people say evolution here?
Contented I think not.
See the drawbridge?

What are you doing?
What are you watching you fierce wolves?
I’ll look around the Internet.
Can you handle the vision?
Goddamn that’s just society cuffs.
So many opinions what can change?
In every opinion
An underlying speak out.
Tell me there isn’t.
Is everybody mad?
Punish those responsible!
Can we get a better basis for intolerance
Than pretending to be tolerant?
Everything’s so hyped up.
Is anybody not?
There, I read your e-mail:
Blacks and fried chicken,
You racist bastard.
Not one word
Questioning his ability to translate angels.
It’s death by paper.
Now let’s shove this down people’s throats:
Everybody has to marry the homosexual;
No one hold the pedophile’s hand
Or even let ‘im speak.

Your Internet local connection,
Do you hear these voices speak?
Now I’m the radio.
We got worms.
Everyone’s alarmed.
And you think it’s what he did
Or she said.
But you’re holdin’ the gun.
Reaction fires and aims.
Mark our first foray into world-space,
And we just knock each other around.
There’s somethin’ over there.
I can get it across.
Let’s take some time
Be more fair as we grow up.
Tape this up on your world view:
See everybody?
That’s me.
I’m just alone in details.
They’re alright,
I like everyone.
If I’m hurtin’ anyone
Change detail.
There’s One on that regard.

When it’s advancing that loud you stop it.
Dream make for us.
This wolf might kill us.
Dreamin’ so let’s hide it.
What’s this?
Who broke the towel?
I don’t wait to come over.
You’re not going to be kind to me.
Predatory wolves,
Shoot ‘im and hang ‘im on the fence.
Now square off a minute.
I’m so much in your stomach.
Are you sure that’s what you’ve got:
Donny you snake-wolf?
Are you so sure I blind you?
An unethical point I’ve made?
I look and you follow me do so.
Engage me
Bring to doctor.

It’s not an easy situation.
One in your inbox Donny.
There isn’t a way to do it.
There just isn’t.
Thanks but be careful when he gets in there.
Kept askin’:
Hi mate,
Somethin’ good for yah after school?
Something’s down that floatin’.
Don’t be so hesitant to mentioned enlightened.
That’s where Donny’s goin’.
He sees there’s a change of consciousness ahead.
He listens to everbody
Rise here.
Some future trickles slow.
You think this is all
Silence and that just no-self show?
It’s just our first boat.
What would master existence and leave you in it?
A certain individual you are
I get up out of my mess
Mastered by my own impulse to rise
Into the fullness of what I can be.
You’ve never felt it?
You smile.
There’s more isn’t there?

Choose liberalism.
He put his daughter.
There’s a light out.
Are we usin’ the money?
Even if we put on,
Put on those uniforms
– You know I’ve been watchin’–,
They’re not gonna
Honor us no way,
Give us any kind of prize.
They’re not gonna
Be more kind to us.
Tom’s father used to say
They’re just wasting their time.
That make ‘em
What would open freeways?

Where we were back then.
Give us the money now.
Not an excuse
To let conservatism happen.
Now a wolf
Is not gonna be so visible.
We should see this.
Try these on,
Some predator names.
Give you a link to us?
Slow I think.
People’ll buy anything
If it’s wrapped up in the official package.
Don’t cross out.
I’ll put you down
For a larger stereo.
How many times went through it?
We are not dumb people.
If you are afraid you are.

Listen to this:
Media hypes fear.
Want to tell you
South African.
That should get ‘em.
You mean this is a plan?
What day it’s gonna be
The totaltalitarian government?
Only in the policy of war
Or to mediate a disaster
Would it be.
That’s not the form
Control is used.
It’s just a radical involvement
To get you to accept policies.
Go lay down.
What are you supposed to look for?
Where is the fear?
Some policy
Might be behind it.
Runs it’s available
To get to.
You know what that means:
There’s a propaganda of ministry.
We got a few goin’:
A think tank,
A state and a local government,
A business headquarters.
It would tell you something sensitive:
You can eat man.
We would not organize a conspiracy.
Government takes too long.
You get a flavor
When you’re watchin’ the News.
Halved of it, come down.
Don’t worry,
All your children
Stay over there.
One thing about America:
Grow kids.

Would national policy be in my conversation?
He kept in it in his coffee a lot.
Visit them in school,
And we can see the Internet.
Don’t you help ‘em.
This is the first time I’ve ever seen it:
Americans tellin’ on each other.
It was in the paper.
You have to report.
Don’t have to.
I know a girl that act like that.
Isn’t that piracy?
Get ‘er stupid name,
Click it in.
It’s not easy
To know what to do.
You’ve got to listen
To a partner with Sun.
Those terrorists,
Right here at this moment?
Oh doctors.
We winched two people from the Caribbean today.
We got half of them out.
Of course the beauty would have to see one another.
Invite yourself to their house.
Hand that down please.
I am a friend.
No way,
I just treat you like our lives treat us.
It hurts doesn’t it?

It’s wonderful that all listen to music.
You get some of the ideas that
Art puts out.
You know you had comin’.
Look at what you’ve done to art.
Be valuable.
You’ve put it in concentration camps,
Got it out of the public eye,
You, laziness and snobbism.
Not everything
How much concentration to read a poem.
How much time involved.
You don’t have to take that off.
News media does that.
What are you laughin’ about?
The News media,
They know what they’re doin’.
They get intah everything.
They want to be where you put your attention.
Good one.
Repeat me,
In store…
Liberal ideas
Usually come from inside.
You say.
They don’t come that far.
Wrong peacock
You’re lookin’ at.
I’m not a Capitol Hill.
Art shows us
The inner.
That mystery shines in us,
Gives us keys to change.
Art polishes that.
And I’m here inner.

Donny and I
Absorb change.
We got a handle on it.
I’m standin’ just outside.
We put this strength in your hand:
To change for the better.
Yep, you need
To be liberal right here,
In that specialty,
Letting change happen.
It’s a creative growth.
You might see Nature behind it
And something guide ‘er.
Standin’ there scratchin’ your head?
We’ve evolved.
The status quo arrange that?
I’m standin’ right here.
Will move you.
Now if you could see
Why we’re wasting
So much time.
Oh I don’t care.
I’m okay.
I don’t need you the attic.
An ogre
Have dinner with us.
Even if it wasn’t
A survival emergency,
Take a long change.
Maybe you’re here for that reason.

Law enforcement officers
Are the greatest defenders
Of the status quo.
Hi kid,
Don’t you dare
Break any laws.
It’s already starting to break down.
The system’s breaking down
Justice said.
That’s how it’s always been.
Would we break laws
To change the system?
Everybody’s supposed to hold it.
We don’t want anarchy breathin’ down our necks.
Alright I’ll arrange you.
I’m seein’ intah the future.
I think we’d look for art
To give change its growth,
Policy its format,
Take any law down
Not good up on that.
That’s an individual there
Recordin’ growth.
He got enough room to do that?
When he comes home
We’ll ask ‘im.
Sister yes we’ll have to change language
Give you credit too.

Don’t get down on your step-brother.
Art’s just fell into a hole.
It’s not the lawmakers you lobby for change.
It’s the editors.
They’ve just fallen asleep.
Art to them would write about itself
In a way inbred.
It would not speak out of its word.
They’re fond of music.
They won’t grapple with the hook.
Now you know I see you.
Who said that?
This is fresh art.
Can we counter a bomb?
We can explode,
Show you a peaceful way
To counter terrorism,
To bring the public revolution.
If it does explode,
Though I’m sure it’ll be a contained blast
(We’ll have the bomb experts on it right away),
You will see the power of words.
Why strap a bomb to your chest and kill the neighborhood?
Why send your tanks to that country?
Write a poem from where the One sees us.
That’ll shake everybody up,
And you’ve brought change right.

What does it mean to bring us a full home?
Daddy cleans and he whistles.
Oh he’s talked the TV now listen kids.
You know one way’s a bad wagon.
Yeah, I needed to fill his shorts,
Or graft my review into his underwear.
I have more for you kiddo,
Everything you always wanted about attention,
And there it just hits the spot.
I’m gonna call you to your bank card.
Stand here eager on yourself.
Unreal a boy gives his father that ultra-politique.
When they’re in that swoon,
When base is being gone over,
What a boy could hide there.
Daddy do it daddy.
He grows up with hungry clothed.
It’ll be his reason to see evolution
He don’t just sit there with it.

There you are.
Into the sea you’ve been hollered down,
Into the sea that touches your toes,
Where that hurt.
This is the trail in the sea-ward.
Every father has an account with us,
However remote,
Moving in the intimacies of a man.
It’s not out of the direction of his love.
It just spoils there.
Might not ever even think about it.
Might never try anything,
But a man’s nature be around his children.
No, not all are drunk,
But there is a liquor cabinet.
If he’d open his dreams he might see it.
The father that does cross lines
More often than not it’s the casual touch,
Little tight pressures he holds his son.
Squeeze daddy.
This is just an occasional glance.
That’s where he tests city limits,
Shows that he is the owner
Of the boy’s whereabouts.
It’s his flesh.
It’s just a little squeeze
Where that little boy grows,
And he finds men attractive.
When this grows up in him
He’s the opposite
From pedophile feelings.
This was not to churn his shorts.
More romance here than touch.
He wasn’t put in that strange place,
Something to make him investigate further on.
His daddy is the love of his life
That time,
And he’s comfortable there.
Grows up lovin’ men.

Homosexual we’ve reported.
This is generated love.
He likes its squeeze.
Follow your counts.
Get rid of a fall.
You don’t believe it,
How wrapped up he is.
His life that regard.
Now a boy wouldn’t remember
His father’s affection.
Way too young
To bring memories back.
It’s a rollin’ stone.
Maybe he likes it
Being gay,
But he knows
That life has not given him
His natural fulfillment.

The first boy
Don’t fair well.
He remembers the pounding serf,
Was I enough to understand
They wasn’t supposed to do that.
Y’all keep your mouth shut about this.
Oh here we go.
What does he visit?
Dad does the talking boy.
That’s interesting.
He makes me feel at home
With the arrangement in the hat.
I could go in any direction.
Maybe there’s a woman on my arm,
But I can give a man more than a kiss
And take a child into the basement.
I could, but why bother?
Our policy is your papers.
Gain a step.
Your sexual orientation arrive in the breeze?
By the way the professor was kidnapped.
Stare at your business.
I am sorry,
These are the lines that appear.
Well I was gonna take you home,
But it’s made me mad.
We’ll see what the door is
That’s what I would do.
Now they’re shipping it off.
He didn’t recommend it.
Seven of us like that.
It’s warm and squashy.
This is your sexual identity as it’s being determined by them,
All your mothers and fathers
When you were a teddy bear.
Most people turn five.
Is that what it is?
Hands up.
You don’t remember.
All of them
–That’s true –
That would do it
With some little kid
Got so much more than a tight squeeze
In their waddling years.
You would know
Mommy and daddy.
One of you opened up that land
See how it grows.

Let ‘im plug.
Draw back.
That’s the way.
You have evidence spokesperson,
And you only have intelligence monitor.
That’s all you’re gonna get.
You gave
Even more.
Well alright,
Givin’ it,
So much attention to sex,
Some cultural peanut.
Can a teddy bear grasp that?
It would
Be about getting laid
Being a man.
Boys you have to understand,
What you got
Is so exposed,
And their attention just goes there.
It’s like all aglow.
All boys
In my gramophone.
Pardon the little lever
Not bringing girls along,
But we gather.

I’ve brought you to thah
Floor place,
The wet ‘et end.
I’ve given you a vision of mud.
What’s going on in your head,
I’m going crazy?
There look at it,
A library full of knowledge.
The box is strong.
Hard to open it.
Oh the police have videos.
You can find it on the Internet
You hear about all the time.
But I’m giving you art’s vantage point,
Not some liquorish of lust.
We’ve looked at this through the art lens,
And we see more than just the act.
Nature’s been uncovered.
I’ve brought something out of her
Deeper than her photograph.
We’ve shown lines behind.
Every peck we practice art here.
It reveals.
We could use the revelation.
Are you all ticked off?
It might be you sittin’ there reason for their being in their homes.
We’ve got to look at this.
We wash dishes.
This is a cleaning rainbow.
What root of it?
The powers better
At the universe,
The ones that turn on lights.
Say we ignore them.
They are just to come back later.
That’s orange actor.
Dropped him while you were off to sea.
He’s got a big of muse.
No easy way out.
Bigger things we handle better the bigger we are,
And that’s an art show.

The Chinese,
The Pawnee Indian Southeastern Association.
Sam I am.
I have to be bigger than my paper.
Sacmont is a word and I am going to do sacmont.
About hands,
Hope to win the war.
You were really skewered.
Tell that to your activist window.
You don’t know the carpet.
An opportunity
To see things firsthand,
A reference point
So we can safely arrive.
It goes through the airmail.
I’m going on the paperclip.
The amount of hatred
People have sent in our direction.
Good morning ace,
We have you scheduled for a speaker.
I think we should stay
Out of politics.
A child can say anything.
I have to be liberated from this.
One did that.

What’d yah do when you were little?
Dodged bullets on the ramparts.
We walked by here a couple of times.
Some kids sure don’t leave me alone.
You have to be very careful.
You met Toady Beach?
No, I don’t know the area.
A kid’s lives aren’t over.
Any man can be a hitter.
I can’t stand
That look on the table.
Start over again
So close to your world
And handle upside-down cakes.
My poor wisdom bleeds.
It wasn’t exactly hell on ice.
I was friends with ‘im.
It had a sound to it.
It looked joyish hum.
As a stranger though it tolled.
He got more expensive.
Fell into the seep holes.
I lay down for him,
And that becomes our game.
He got good at it.
I get electricity waves.
Gives so much pleasurable explode.
Hey, where did I go?
And he needed awhile.
They’re into hurtin’ you in bonds of love.
Time lane they’re spinnin’.
Now I tried to take it off.
Let it and smiled.
Nothin’ where I want,
Where ultimately I want to be touched about.

You wanna hear the rag?
I was all one partner.
I got ‘im into it.
Looks he gave me destroyed me.
It had promise.
Just exposed myself.
How a boy carry on.
This is a lot of boys.
You don’t look.
We’re carried around in silence.
What’s the trouble between our legs?
And they put so much on it to cover it up.
How many times I’m corrected.
Like it’s some ray gun
Ugly to see.
It’s so feel to ourself.
I can’t get anything tighter.
Yet you block this away.
There’s so much guilt and shame put there.
And this man love with that,
And he was a pressure cooker.
No I can’t build on him.
I get robbed.

There it is.
Look I’m showing you a lot of the table.
I get adult and forget.
I’ve been abused.
Is that all there is to it?
Something else:
A window open
(You watch it.
That’s the Law),
A love triangle.
When people join my faith they take over,
Give themselves over to union.
Oh we’ll start.
Somethin’ there One sings.
It’s a little pocket of it.
You’re not interested in singing,
But the heartbeats on me there
Like the end of the world.
They’ll give it to me wide.
You sit there and explain to me my feelings.
I’m not gonna disagree with you.
It is weird,
And I know this has done me wrong,
But what was that
Did we broach upon a power of play
Used One?
You’ll understand when you’re older there’s a body now.
Yes, I’d add things
You needed to know,
Union reels.

And you’ve heard it,
The big mess.
To say he makes the mess and that’s all there is to it,
Not even close.
You’ve gotta change.
Society don’t handle right.
From day one you get the big stick.
I mean how many knows how to treat properly the cash box?
It’s so loud in there.
Look at these,
They’re sour fruits.
Can you hear me society,
Can you hear me?
Givin’ the ball justice.
I’ve told you its court.
A weapon was made.
It’s to help you see dirt.
Dignity stand up.
We are soldiers on the line.
I’m not talkin’ politics.
I’ve gotten intah human terms.
Have you ever thought we’d look at them?
Is that a rule to avoid?
You’ve sunk headlong into this like you have one.
Blind reactions policy your decisions.

Now you at outcast lot and see what they flower.
I didn’t get under your gun.
I looked for change.
No outer remedy helped.
You know, you avoid the inner.
Everything you make points us away from it.
I sat down like the Buddha and demanded change.
I opened the inner doors.
Dire necessity lead me to it.
I had no wings for messiah,
Friends ourselves of outer space.
I don’t get paranoid.
One laxative:
Yeah I read of all this waste;
I needed change.
How deep you have to go inside yourself
To get on that movement.
What’s the problem with this here?
You can’t measure change outside of doors.
They have to let you in,
Other people.
When they say
Stay out of the reach of children,
They take from you the wheel barrel,
Something to carry
Change in.
Not a popular vision.
So anyway,
Here, get it fixed.

You know what art means?
Got a looney movie,
Vampires Stalking Earth.
Some half-vampire comes along.
He’s managed to step out of darkness.
He’s stopped feeding.
Our knowledge to our liberated son.
I think that was the light speaking.
Humanity needs ‘im
To cross blood.
His type for the antidote.
Do I see the engine kill ‘im?
You know how ignorant they are in the movie.
We see the man’s worth.
Come on see how big you are.
How small I am I avoid the essential details.
Kill all of these damn flies.
Why do you presume to know so much?
Know all that you do is a secret triangle
Where the One meets
You and the other party.
Even with an object this intimacy is found.
One builds that up.
Now what do you do with that?
You have to strike your own kind of balance.
It’s an identity bond really.
Come to that regard.
Who is a thing to you?
Who do you abuse?
You love yourself you love it all.
I’d call that girl.
Anywhere where unity doesn’t meet,
Call that to our attention.
What immediate cure?
We’re in the ways with each other a long time
Before the One becomes apparent,
Inwardly seen and outwardly acted.
You have my vision.
It’s not a little cost.
It’s not a little vision.
America are you hope here?
Travel down the road some.
Give this vision time to feel
What’s in store for you and carry need.

The United States of America
Just can’t see itself.
A young filibuster,
You visit warlords,
And you’ve scribbled out some thoughts.
The private retrieves them,
And the penman retains them.
You’ve board a door:
A child’s link with sin.
Let’s look,
If you feel like it,
Right here.
Porn does not make you image real.
It stretches things too far.
What’s you’re movin’ by art
Is everyone’s have to see
To know the problem.
I’m the one on details,
What’s going on in the house of soul.
Does Nature essence this,
Or is it in fact blind?

Five minutes.
We’ve square rooted on a problem.
That’s visited,
The solution.
I don’t know,
I’d love to Bob but,
I’ll get back to yah.
Really believes the attack that Tibet is sending dogs.
I’ve gotta go to the phone.
Enough Riverwood.
Flowery alphabet.
High avenue,
That’s a lot of surplus.
Heads down.
We’ve spotted Virgil.
Come over here.
What would you say one night greeting the world?
All I can say
Is change.
Would an American epic suffer?
American employment.
You’ve got your stadium
Young poet.

Linked your mind.
We’ll put you down for
Visions of mud.
We go @Firefox.
Pick him up
To your determination.
Hell, Jeff Gardener
Would turn it against that way.
He figured out
We pay for.
What’s that?
When you abuse,
Since you’re okay
You put people outside
On it.
Can we poddle?
I apologize.
I have that in perspective.
They can explain
Fit into explode.
Win the house
Are you gonna freedom?
Are you gonna quit?
I mean,
What would the address
Be hostin’?
What’s he mad for,
It’s them in America,
Or you’re tunin’ it right
The guitar,
The avenue,
Of the greatest public instrument:
All for change?
Just a lot of difference pal
You’re workin’.
I wanna see what I’ve been doin’.
He have a place to live
Every soul?
Help out –
Have to have a group to do this one:
You are a soul,
Something that’s not
Offended by anything.
No reactions.
What a gift
To society.
(I ain’t givin’ this stance.
I only seen this stance.)
The most wonderful
It’s a challenge
To find.
The biggest thing I ever saw.
When I saw that…
They didn’t go in the backdoor.
They talked to Someone.
Will help
See the soul inside
A reference point
And over your head
There the God.
Toilet paper
Can’t cover it up.
Donny saw what he saw,
And he looked.
Whose coveralls are these?
Could be mine.
There are other trappers.
You made us there?
Just a look,
But I saw the world through those eyes.
All this equipment,
That’s where it came from.
You have no idea.
You can play the player.
Play One.
Here I am always played,
Rubbed out,
By your enchantment.
Soon fire all this light.
You take off.
Many times right there
The food the fight.
I write all of you.

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For the text of the essays and poems by the editor on all pages and posts of The Atomic Review

Creative Commons License
For the images and the audio by the editor on all pages and posts of The Atomic Review