Dance of the Bodhisattva

The flowers arose in time that is incalculable,

When the winter winds seemed to bring misfortune,

And the days of the elderly were crowned,

With delicate violence and vegetarian ideals

As the forms of the east danced with the seasons,

I remember being so ever much there

Wanting nothing yet seeing all,

And bringing to conviction the eternity of the real sun

As time tames to dreams the scepter of man’s mind,

The seasons are fewer and a few more harsher

The world somehow is lesser perceived

The trees at night howling softly at the moonlight

It seems like a darkness came to engulf the universe

Like a new spirit was born to twist the fate of the everlasting

Later alone I would come to see,

That it was no spirit but I that changed tune

I dance and I dance upon the waters of wonderland,

Like a magic fairy spinning the wanton dreams of forgotten heroes

I wail at the morning moon in degenerate eroticism,

Asking my heart to come reveal herself

The eye was made to look alone outward,

Into the trap-lands of colorful delirium

But could there be something that was free of change?

Some real everlasting thing that looked within for eternity

Soon I turned toward what lay inside

There was like a ghost hiding beneath memories

A something smaller than the smallest of things,

And yet expansive beyond the measures of perception

I turned and I saw that the world is a conjuring,

A conjuring that lit up itself with no conjurer

Into the light came the salted sardine of my dreams,

And disappeared into the blazing fire of presence

The world is a magic delusion of time,

And the ages of morality have brought us to kneel

Before the menial fallacy of death and her sisters,

Begging for a kiss more of life everyday

But what I never saw is that life’s not what it seems,

Not an endless play of survival and struggle

Life is another little drop of ink,

On the ever expanding canvas of ‘I Am’

And the dance rages on into the dark night

Of drudgery and depression

Until the sun rises,

Forever never to set,

In the heart of my heart

Screamjack

Bedtime

The impairment of our minds will open us to the freedom of our souls. The destruction of the articulate structure of memory will show us the simplicity of a life with no foundation. The suffering created by our struggle for purpose will reveal to us the beauty of purposelessness. The endless agony of our contracts to discipline will purge us of maturity. The emptiness of our deaths will bring us back to childhood. The weakness of our limbs will teach us how to fly. The hurt of our broken hearts will mend our arrogant beliefs. The deeds of our sin will birth righteousness. The limitations of our creed will teach us to be better citizens of the universe.

The need to break the norms of the day is fueled by the desire to have new norms. Art is not bettered by changing the paints and the brush that dance on canvas but changing the eyes that behold the light. The white light of reality that comes to the tired seeker moves through tiny crevices of openness of a weary mind.

We are creatures of blood because we are creatures of time. We are creatures with eyes because we are creatures of light. But creatures last as long as time does and time lasts as long as space does and space lasts as long as he who is beyond space hibernates dreaming of rollercoasters connecting galaxies.

We need to strive as long as we need to move from one point to another. When we realize that all points are contained within ourselves, where can we go away from ourselves? Can there be some other point to reach? What treasure lies for the seeker at the end of time? What treasure can be there for one beyond the discovery of oneself? Then why wait for the end of time? Why not look inside now and see the end of the world? The world is born and therefore it must die. But it is born from something and eternally dies to that same something. What is that something? You hold yourself dear to yourself more than anything else. Without that sweet Iness, could this world be conceived? Dance in that empty inside of your eternal infinity. The world will disappear forever and the inconceivable magic of the endless I will come and kiss your dreams goodbye.

Good Night,

Screamjack

Kisses from the Nebulae

What do we consider to be natural and unnatural? Is there an absolute scale to the justice of which we assign degrees of naturalness to events and objects that appear in the space-time phenomenon. It is a general convention to order the word ‘natural’ to anything that occurs biologically, organically or cosmically. Somewhere along the course of history man has learned to term most of his individual choices as events that occur outside the boundaries of nature. But the word natural, what does it mean precisely? In my perception, nature includes everything that occurs. If something is to occur outside the boundaries of nature, it must be caused by an entity that is separate from it. But is there such an entity that exists independently of the universe? If the universe is natural, can there be anything of the opposite kind that can occur within it? I expect the reader to consider the interrogative quality of the argument instead of digesting the interesting aspects of it and creating an intellectual pizza out of it.

We are led to understand that there cannot be any event occurring in the universe that is beyond the boundaries of nature for it is clear that nature has no boundaries. Every action conceivable by the mind occurs within the consciousness of one which obviously makes it natural. However, for the sake of technological applications it is sensible to make the division between the natural and unnatural as much as it is useful to have the separation between subject and object to understand oneself.

I am forced in this argument to believe then that there can be no event, no action and no object in this universe that can exist outside the will of the universe. This leads us to understand that everything that occurs is perfectly correct or perfectly perfect. Inclusive of the vast experiences of suffering that human beings subject themselves to (most of which one might consider unnatural even though none are), everything is a unique aspect of a vaster cosmic harmony. Most of these things are commonly heard spoken around in spiritual conventions and metaphysical meetings but what does this mean in reality? Is it possible for one to understand and imply this harmony in one’s own life? To know a concept intellectually is almost the precise opposite of understanding it experientially.

Let me exemplify the conflict that exists. As you read this article, there is a constant dialogue running within yourself, a compulsive voice that decides for you which point to agree with and which to set aside for further examination or which to disagree entirely with. This dialogue is the intellectual aspect of your mind which separates the observer from the experience. As long as one is absorbed in this dialogue, the only experience one will be having is the dialogue itself and not what the dialogue is trying to imply. This is the simplest understanding of the egotistic conflict which exists in every individual. There is an idea of oneself through which one constantly looks at the world and the only experience one is exposed to is the idea of oneself instead of the fresh experience that is brewing outside every moment. As a result of this, in the History of the Earth we are the only sentient beings to have experienced intense boredom, intense lasting suffering and a constant fear of death.

Look behind your eyes, there’s something there that is really nothing. But in this nothing, exists the potential for everything. In this void, there is the potential to birth a trillion endless universes, a magnitude of multiverses imploding and exploding and tumbling eternally into an eternal nothingness. You are this phenomenal nothing. Everything that has ever happened, that happens and that ever will happen has done and will do so in the ground of this nothing, and you are mystically not the content that happens in the ground but the ground itself. And you are all this ground and you will always be. In the light of this self-realization, we can proceed towards structuring a more mature society that is lesser gripped by the torments of fearing its own subjects, we can construct technologies that are founded on intelligent compassion instead of the greed to progress. But such a realization begins with the subjective approach of every individual rather than a political molestation of organized concepts.

You are surfing on ocean, take a deep dive into your own depths every once a while, it serves to bring you to your own true essence. And it is groovy, and it is good and it gives you power that is beyond the thirst for power. All you have to do is turn your attention to who is watching this entire phenomenon of existence.

Who is watching?

Rootedness

Being, my eyes can see when closed,
My senses tuned to simply whisper
And all the noise that discontent,
Causes is silenced

Being, love can pour its ointment,
Onto the wounds that cannot be,
Touched or seen but felt like lightning –
Striking down to destroy

Being, my ears are alert and intent,
To hear the littlest cry that’s sounded
By tiniest ant or greatest beast,
In this miracle of life

Being, I lend my whole self,
To the writhing friend, in tears dying,
For I am not me, but you and all,
In this one universe

Being, I learn of a greater reality,
Where thoughts must be only tools
A pure space, I see myself,
To dwell in entirely

Being, eternity ceases to be,
A distant joke misunderstood
But a piercing truth that the moment holds,
Presently at fruition

Being, life is more than dreams,
Hope, ambition and circuit races
It is the unquestioned river of grace,
Forever growing in beauty

Being, the ego comes to ash,
And is reborn to its intended duty
Not to rule, but to work,
A peasant, not an emperor

Being, the clouds can be my home,
The leaves and trees, my family
The roses, oh what wondrous splendor!
I am awed and this is all true

Being, I touch the current of rootedness,
And meet my lover, the creating spirit
He who moves in every molecule,
Of life and death!

Screamjack

Crickets Me Calling

Crickets me calling, the river by,
To a betterment which that,
Of transience is born

Here tears are fragrant,
And a song shall be sung,
To her, queen that weaves my dreams

Memory it peers, takes form tangible,
Knifing its way,
Into my deepest fear

Only you to answer, in roses I drown,
When shall I enter?
My home, prepared!

Saxophone leaks down,
The creator’s tears
Wounds to be washing,
To never bleed again

Pass must all wit,
Into the silvered waters
Of a flowing love,
That a gift of blindness

Screamjack

A Fading Afternoon

At times, it's difficult to handle sorrow. You assume you've figured it all out, and you drown in the greater assumption that you've learnt how to swim through this great ocean of surreal thoughts and emotions. I feel like I'm lying beside large speakers emanating sounds of this entire generation that is mine. I lie there, almost dead, not just in the physical realm but in that of the soul. I feel empty, and do not misconstrue this to be the blissful emptiness that all those sages talk about, this is a miserable emptiness. A craving emptiness, craving to feel something, to feel anything, even pain would do. Nothing remains to excite my mind, absolutely nothing. No rose-flavored drink or psychedelic drug can understand me. No bearded mystic who forges phenomenal breakthrough techniques of meditation can help me out here. I don't blame them, they only preach the truth. The issue is that truth is of relevance only to them. I'm yet to find my truth, I haven't even found the correct thirst for it yet. This is not a complaint, it's simply a release for every freedom-craving thought that swims inside of me. Slowly, I look at the ceiling and make an effort to draw the slightest amount of positivity from these mysterious feelings. I'm restless still. I keep taking walks down to the riverside with my earphones on and a couple of cigarettes, hoping some sense of enlightenment would click. Nothing, just moments of inspiration that fade away into the deafening distance. So now, what remains? Just God. I open the Bible, the same texts that have pierced my eyes in the past do so again. But I don't wish to be cynical about the Bible, it is a joy for me to admit that nothing else in the world has helped me or expanded my thinking as much as The Bible has. Tremendous book, I do believe it truly is the word of God. You can call me a fool, I am one.
I can never come to deny the divine essence that surrounds the Bible. It instills a kind of eternal purpose in you, that is more than just comforting. That eternal purpose can lift you of your feet and place you in the sweetest most colorful meadows of salvation you never imagined could ever exist. I guess that's the power of God, undeniable, inevitable.
I seem happy now? I am happy. These are fleeting moments of my life, passing me by, and now passing your eyes. Imagine me, I am you, and you are me, we live the same life. Miles apart, hearts with different shapes and minds oriented in complete different directions. But still, the life we live is the same. That is the magical oneness of this existence that never ceases to enthrall and amaze me. All the sorrow drifts away into a distant void that is beyond my concern. I am in love, with life and death, with hope and hopelessness, with joy and sorrow, with you.

Lady Alina

Of all that gracefully swims,
In the world I often imagine,
A, certain grandeur holds me still
Breathless as the marvel edifice

Beyond winged perception,
Her dwelling-place a fantasy
My heart can skip more than rhythm,
Fair lady she conjures ecstasy

Her hair can dance with no wind,
A chaste glow circles her soul
I see her dream to no purpose,
With no know of all the hearts she stole

A conjurer of words she can drive
Beyond insanities of common dreams
The sweet day of encounter in my sleep,
When I saw her dancing by a stream

Men of old as well she cradled,
Gave bliss with a heartening phrase
Immortal her soul of egoless chastity,
Unnumbered as a guardian angel’s days

The lucidity of conscience is a gift,
But none that she cannot tune
She steals the day of another,
To sweeten thoughts noon to noon

I am a mere bearer of words,
An instrument that bears witness
To a heaven of truth and eternity,
And the fair lady that blesses my dearest dreams

Hope with me for a brighter morning,
Where men will do more than good
For I draw motive from fantasy,
A dreamer with a mind beneath a hood

She swims in my thoughts swirls in my dreams,
The lover of a better humanity
Though fantasy she, seems so real,
Lady Alina my friend, for eternity

Screamjack