It’s not as difficult as one might imagine —
this remembering and forgetting,

Even the sense of self is constantly arising
and dissolving — what is this mind?

When the body with its magical brain
has returned to its elemental dust,
mind is playing in vast realms of wonder,
which is simply that same emptiness
from which everything emerges
and to which it returns,

Time is a human construct, space is too.
They are conceived so that our stories
can begin and end, because we are
both stories and storytellers,

I was conceived in the year of the vanishing gods,
born in the time of the sorcerers of attention.

Blinded soon after birth by the appearance
of everything, raised to imagine the impossible,
I remained functionally mute for half a century
because, in the midst of this broken culture,
this mounting horror, what can one say?

My first true words were your name. I love
your name: Mazie Lane, Mazie Lane.

When you laugh, as you are laughing now,
I remember for one flashing instant
why I came here, and that nothing
matters but your Mazie laugh.

It’s not as difficult as one might imagine —
this remembering and forgetting,

Our miracle of appearing and disappearing
plays out in this story, our story, yet we are also
walking hand in hand in the luminous immensity
as if nothing has ever happened, even as we laugh.



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In the late day sky there’s a cloud skeleton
of some prehistoric monster, and as it’s foot
reaches down and touches the ground, the dogs
bark once and grow silent, everyone grows silent,
the ground shakes, and not just the local ground,
but the whole planet shudders, ripples spread
through the stars, beings on distant planets
pause to feel a wave pass through them.

Jurists in the far elsewhere examine
the evidence, declare the day null
and void, and I am born in that
holy nowhere, that no-time.

I follow you because I must
to your new planet birth.

I only want to be with you,
the reason for anything,
for everything.

It’s a night of wind,
of slanting rain.

We are water beings,
I mix with falling water.

I completely let go.
I’m falling through the air.

Morning — the storm has passed.
Heaven accepts the earth’s invitation.

Sublime evaporation — miraculous rapture
from the cavalcade of exquisite earth ecstasies —
grants us the boon of commingled bliss, aerial union
in the midst of limitless space, our original self,
prior to any subsequent transient modification
of ephemeral consciousness, that deceiver.

But don’t follow these words, follow
the rain, even as it falls, returns,
just fall with it, rise with it, go.

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Little Boats

Twilight along the western Lost Coast, at the border of knowing and unknowing. Beyond that ephemeral line lies our receding past and future destiny, both figments of some strange sweet lord’s imagination. At the tidewater’s edge, you were filling little boats with precious stones and packets of sudden joy. You were smiling as you did this work, which for you was always pure delight. Heaven looked down and saw it as the perfect ease of child-like play. Many hierarchies of invisible beings were all pressing closer to be near you, just as we all yearn for that particular intimacy, to gently wrap ourselves around such light, to merge with it and pass away in that divine sublimity.

You were carrying fondly in the tenderness of your cellular being the remembrance of swirling starlight, the emanation of your own heart song. You mirrored the glad astonishment of those who had seen how vast worlds could be shaped out of a brilliant thought, how they could spawn equal measures of love and fear to clarify their dual nature, and how they could at last all come undone. For you, this immense display was as a mere eye blink, and this is how it is to be regarded when all other explanations collapse under their own weight — the magical projection of your own mind.

Standing on the shore, softly breathing, you held up both of your hands. When your fingers opened the ships sailed forth, sailing with your bright light shining all around them. From the oceanic depths I watched them pass, and I knew it was you from whence they had issued, and I wanted to be so close to you that we could never be divided. This was how you found me at your feet. I had washed ashore by the grace of a wave, a wave that was an ocean, an ocean of teardrops wept by the ancestors for the sake of all phantom beings, unborn saviors, the last blush of burgundy before the quiet descent of eternal night.

At that timeless moment, you lifted me up, and here I was now, powerless in your hands. Unspeakable! You smiled and gracefully set me down. Without reliance on the old beliefs I grew into this man. This man looked out onto the sea, he strolled the beach at twilight, he sang without words, he made signs in the air, the sea breezes passed through him, all the burgundy skies passed through him. There was some indescribable mercy in all of this, like coming home after many years and meeting oneself standing in the doorway. There is great relief in the recognition that we will not forever remain a mystery to ourselves. His purpose became clear. His hands opened, light unfurled, swirled slowly out. It took the forms of little boats with precious stones and packets of sudden joy. They were sailing back to you.


Image may contain: outdoor, water and nature
Painting by Vincent Van Gogh
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Just To Say

We like to watch the old movies.
Sometimes we still hold hands.

We’ll say, “Remember that —
things sure have changed!” or
“I read she died some time ago.”

Our generation has seen plenty,
but perhaps today’s children
will see even more.

I was about 3 yrs. old when my Dad
brought home our first television.

He set it up on a stand, turned it on,
and a hand appeared out of nowhere.

The hand was drawing a cat, Felix the Cat,
who then came to life and started talking.

It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen,
although at the age of 3, I didn’t possess
that big of a memory file yet.

I’ve certainly seen a lot of remarkable things
since then, both wonderful and terrible.

This is just to say that none of it
means anything without you.



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Forgets and Remembers

There is an open portal through which
we leave ourselves and through which
we return to ourselves, but exactly what
have we left and to what do we return?

When I gaze long into your loving eyes
I become a small beguiled animal, I become
a shy ghost behind a tree, like a piece of cloud
I am drifting, vanishing, gone, gone beyond.

I might say to my body: “Be still, don’t move”
but it has its own time line, its own urgency,
so I will lie down next to you, and as we fall
to sleep I’ll reach to touch you with closed eyes.

Together we’ll become a free portal for beings
who love and watch over us to quietly enter
into our shared dream and whisper syllables
with no known derivation in this world.

When we awaken we forget, but the body remembers,
and this may be why, when we look at each other,
we just keep smiling, smiling, and this is how
it has always been, though we don’t understand.

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In the chilled hours before daybreak
we sit here side by side, silently loving,
loving with such an enduring intensity
that no words have yet been devised
to adequately describe its fullness.

It matters little to us that the nature
of things is change, since this love
persists beyond the play of time.

Outside, a frosty dew has been quietly
forming on the swaths of green grass.

At first light, when I take our little pup
out for her walk, her delicate feet
will leave tiny wet paw prints
stenciled on the sidewalk.

When we return to that spot later,
every trace of them will be gone.



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When We Are Ready

Not far off, the big bells are tolling.
If I sat down now, I’d fall right to sleep.

The world is a heavy wheel, crushing
the ugly and the lovely indiscriminately.

Their blood mingles in the soil, seeps down
to the sleeping roots of things, pushing up
tall stalks with sharply pointed thorns.

Blood-red rose buds bloom, blossom
into light against a deep blue sky.

We can’t resist their perfume.
Bell-like, they resonate at a subtle
frequency with the fragrance of experience.

When I came to your door, the rosy sky
was just about to open. The bells were
to remind us: don’t fall back to sleep.

Entranced by the gorgeous music of our loving,
amazing moments blossomed through space,
extending tendrils beyond mortality.

They scattered in time like fallen rose petals
without our knowledge or consent, vanishing
like the poignant echo of distant tolling bells.

With nothing remaining to add or subtract,
when we are ready we’ll lay down together.
Bells and roses will form that wheel
which rolls us gladly into light.

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