Lull A Bye

That billion dollars isn't going to drop out of the sky.
All you have is that electrical pain shooting up the back of your skull.
No miraculous omnipotence will manifest in you.
The festering decay in your jaw will eventually spur a stroke that annihilates all thought.
You will not discover
You will not invent
You can not hide
You can not obliterate every foe
You are not the champion
You are not the conquering hero
You are not the next big thing

Fanfuckingtastic!  What are you trying to tell yourself?  Or are you trying to tell somebody else?  Who?  Who the flying fuck is listening?
You're overcome with weakness and fear and dread and hate and intolerance and impatience.
Who is in control?
What happened to the "inner I" riding peacefully on?
You can't even be pathetic.
Close your eyes, let the horrors of who you are not torture you to sleep. 

Just give me the hole

The spaces between the empty spaces are filled with what is really nothing of meaning where something lies in those empty spaces if you let it.
That way it is the nothing that is said that you should hear, the nothing that is written that you should read, the nothing that is thought that is profound.

Drama

As you dissociate and drift off
Watching your Self play the roles
You create

To fit in the seat of the theatre
Packed with fools all watching
A different Play

Of Thalia and Melpomene you muse
You fit in neither
and both

Are seen by the crowd there
Around as you exist in their time
and Spaces

Between you and your Self
as you view the pitiful animal trapped
in the Audience

Watching the actors
Watch You
watching them watch you
Create

Potent Emesis

Someday I will laugh at my Self was the thought I lost in my striving to keep a thought that was not programmed by my need to hide behind thinking.
What is hidden but just emptiness filling a pure vessel with a luxurious peace.
There is a form, an art, an expression longing to be realized within this emptiness.  I can feel it almost projecting out my throat like a potent emesis that will save me.
All these notions I have been fed block the release, hinder the ignition of personal realism.
I will gladly turn myself inside out and float in my own excrement if it means I can just get it out of my way.
Turn off and do.
Turn off and be.
Turn off and see.
Turn off and feel.
Turn off and ...

Northwoods excursion 1985

The odor of decay from the forest of life; an epiphany of the cycle of death.
Stopped in my tracks on a useless journey into the mind of an empty soul.
The simplicity of nature revealed; not in her perfection, but in her banal essence.
The constance of energy acknowledged.
Joy and loathing simultaneously erupt and subside.
A mushroom sprouts, a eye see it.
Infinite thoughts scatter in a vacuum.
Everything is touched, nothing is felt.
A rip in the fabric, a glimpse of time.
Ineffable understanding.
No one listens to what they cannot hear.

Vision of Cortex

Two eyes alone on a dark palette without a face
or head
or hair
staring nowhere
but piercing my stoic soul
divulging a weakness
I cannot see

Defenses flurry to heal the wound
to patch the chink.
No scab.
No scar.

A sliver remains
unnoticeable.
Undeniable.

How many milliseconds to "Now"

It is never dark.
It is never silent.
There is always some assailant bombarding the peace.

Constant motion wards off the pressure.
Eventually I am overcome.
I am washed away.
I am emptied for an instant
pure for a moment
a fleeting freedom
an unpolluted absolute nothing;

and then the blink is over.

A Break in the Synapses of Purity

I miss my muses of Love.
I miss my muses of Perfection.
I miss my muses of Beauty.

Gone is the impetus to fill my mind with color.
A pall of black and white reality veils my longing.

I would gladly take a laugh.
I would gladly take a tear.

Oh! The spinning incoherence of thoughts that evade some truth, trying to tell me, or you, or some judge of all things something: something about me, or my condition, or us, or our condition, or...nothing.
Some stream of emptiness tumbling over cataracts of abandonment washes over my selfish mind. Why has the perfect friend left to find their own course?  I am flustered, flapping in the jet of time; losing my grip I will I will howl to an end without a sound, without a mark left to behold.
Laziness, contempt, intolerance; excuses.
I'm lonely.  I yearn for stimulation, for purpose, for control, for freedom, for independence, for contentment.  The joy of the search itself lost, gone the way of futility, meaninglessness, and the jading of age.  Lost is the youthful exploration, now nothing rings anew.
A bland, fat, old man shuffles by my mirror, looks back and shakes his head.  Tired eyes, empty and unfulfilled hint of fear and wasted opportunity.
You can escape if you have nowhere to go.
There is nothing to prove.  There is no approval needed.  Then why do my dreams put me at the forefront?  What creates the desire to be sought out?  I have no expertise.  I have no song to sing.  I have no story to tell.  I have no poem to write.  I have no vision to prophesize.
I have it all.

Koan

What?
No Words?
Nothing.
Emptiness.
How do you write that down:
The words of no hand writing?