poetry

393: Poop and God Ramblings

| Aspergers Girls

I felt like Poop today. Hormones are all the rage…hot flashes suck, pain and couch time, leads to eating-cheescake-in-pajamas kind of day.

I wanted to write a funny prose about Aspergers, or a new top ten list of something or another, or a cool processing piece that hit home with the masses; instead this spiritual stuff keeps coming out of me. It’s like I’ve been given a God enema!

I shall be deeply disappointed, and view all these prolific writings as a huge waste of time, when the little purple men beam down from space and claim me as their lost leader. But I suppose, then these writings will be studied and analyzed for encrypted code! And I shall be like a famous alien. And that’s cool, because my alien race doesn’t have egos. Maybe my face will be on your currency. A kid can dream.

You’ll be glad to know I deleted the four paragraphs leading into the God Ramblings, and another 1.5 pages associated with hormonal moods. My husband always says, “It’s cool, but you could have said it in one sentence.” I like to see how he ties my lengthy monologues into one simple phrase. It’s truly a gift, I entirely lack.

If I was to reconstruct the two proses below into two simple sentences, they would sound something like this:

“Talking to the angels is cool and all, but sometimes it sucks for the me that doesn’t exist but can still write and think.”

“When people see their own flaws in other people our world pretty much sucks.”

See, I have empathy! I am considerate. I provided that brief clarification for all the non-aspies who dread my God rambles and for all the aspies who already think too much and have drawn the same conclusions as me. I have spared you the confusion and/or the review. For those that venture below, I gather you are my fellow purple beings and the one sweet nun who heard I am a semi-saint.

As you count how many times I wrote “suck,” I am going to try to decipher the secret code in my writings. Maybe it’s every sixth word, or one of those flashy diagonal linear things, or maybe it’s the second vowel of the first words and first consonant of the last word of each sentence!

Before you depart, if you happen to be God, or another universal force, how about explaining why we had to be put in this illusion in the first place. I mean, when does recess start?

Surrendered

I am appeased and surrendered at once, and brought into the heights of heaven unknown, and sung a lullaby of silence, as the rest of this me I be remains downward in a submission that can only seem holy. When the unwanted voices come, which I suppose are best described as ones of demise, I am able in this state, and this state alone, to see only the wisps of what was, and soon, in a time before time, all is erased. If I venture to state a challenge, then the challenge be this: I desire no other place to be than in the arms of what feels to be angels.

And here is where I tremble, as I step from one time into another, and wonder about the space and bridge between, the means in which I have been lifted, and by what variable means my heart so delighted in the still. The valley is endless in a rhythm of recognition and hope, the fear splintered out before the tree is birthed of wood; so in the very making of hope the absence of fear is born. I cannot describe this and only wish it so to return again and again; and thusly it does, though separating me further than the day before in distance from what used to be the voices of my truth; here in this space all is erased, and I made the badger to my only self, etching out the what of what and replacing with the truth of ages; this seems foreign and yet so much of home surrounds me that I would be as the butterfly dismissing wings to leave such world. For flight it is in truest form, the melody played out through the fingertips of my longing.

In desire I move, but of what desire I know not, except to answer the call of angels’ past. For what seems real is lost, and what is lost returns, as if always found; there is no way to recreate this, or to make this, unless a true form of me has un-kindled and re-pieced a part of long forsaken humanity; perhaps the brain forging through region less traveled or the maker reaching down to touch the making; I cannot say, nor wish to say, for to claim I know the slightest truth is to break the very vow of truth; I have been shown clearly, day upon day, hour upon hour, even as I slumber in the depth of nightly call, that I am but nothing of shadows, and nothing more can shadow speak than bitter truth of naught; and so I am laid upon the feet and bathed in mercy, wondering what path to take, if no path there be, what rules to surrender my burden to, if rules there are, and how to break through beyond the burden of eternity once-moved.

As I be so close, like the string that was round the finger of reminder, yet attached to the maker who remembers not. And thusly I walk as dangled thread apparent and the happenstance that spurred such a doing undone. All at once I am reminded of where I was that isn’t, but where I am that is; and brought back again and again to a peace so profound that even the sun would cease to shine in the glory. I cannot find my way home, for either this home or the never home seems lost to me now. And I move as lonesome traveler alleviated, yet removed. A pawn surrendered from both the start and the end; the very board of game itself diminished in size to fit inside a thimble, a creature of no height, no cause, and no avenue, with a thimble that slips from absent finger still. And there, beneath where the thimble almost was, is the shadow of the nothing tumbling, the shadow of the thimble of a finger of a no one. And here in the shadow of the thimble that was is the remembering of something that can be found no easier than the thimble creature still.

And I question much this one I be, united to something I cannot see and cannot attempt to imagine. I wonder in the infiniteness of the world why the perfection is found only outside the illusion, and what of the players we be; I wonder what of us, this collection here left to unravel and unwind illusion after illusion; how this came to be, this loss, this disconnection of self from whole, and why the time can seem so real in a place that is encompassed in no time. And soon the thoughts of my youth come back, piece by piece, the same pain in the mind that used to cause me to retreat into another world; a dream within a dream, as the illusioned-one deciphers her very illusion. I am brought back to the breaking, where the bread of me was dipped in the wine of All, and how I trembled in the demise of self; how I stepped in a place of no stepping and wondered what entity I be if able to walk on the solid but speak to the divine. How each step was made lighter with one thought alone, and all other steps made heavy. How even my thoughts became the burden. And here I was, here I am, this child of the universe made as one, forged as All, and given the ability to create thoughts within thoughts that hold no power except imprisonment.

Here I am made to choose between the fleeting joy of life or the all-encompassing joy of eternity; even though I know the choice be none, as just as the rivers flow, I flow. Just as the very limbs of trees surrender, I surrender; I have not contemplated a plan, or surmised an avenue of escape, I have only been brought up in the arms of wind and air and turned asunder; my own mind the quicksand that pulls me down, yet indeed the arms themselves that reach down and return me whole. A connection completely intriguing and entirely painful when given thought; how the vessel of such love can be a vessel of such shadow.

I still bleed out in pain when I think too hard upon the own ponderings of a mind that is not mine and of a body that isn’t here, and I wonder why it is I have been granted this opportunity, for what must be the torture before the gate to freedom. And if as acting examiner I am dutifully undoing the doings or doing the undoings, I know not. It seems better to be a quail upon her eggs and lay in waiting, my heat to the hatchlings, than to fly, but surely the sky calls upon me to surrender. I am dumfounded in my waiting, relieved in the coming, and horribly suffered in the delight; how something as great as the merriment can breathe inside of me without limit, and how I carry this avenue of nowhere that seemingly leads everywhere. And so, as I see I cannot escape this cage that holds me still, I still see the cage itself is freedom-filled; the depths so infinite, I lack for nothing beyond the release of want of explanation. The only thing I long to shed be the anchor of thought that remains beyond birthright; except, in doing the undoing, I aptly destroy the very making of me to establish a maker of naught.

The Prisoner’s Voice

I hear the prisoner’s voice, the one that arouses the outer region of illusion and teases not the taunted but the unbelievers; the ones twisted in their ways of lost memory. He is righteous in his indignation, scouring about with a bristle-bone of edges blight; he eats away at all semblances of mercy, willingness, and dreamery. He casts out the thoughts that teach not of his trickery, and erases the way of the one who was given light; could he be this shadow before me now, nibbling at the very spell he casts.

He blows upon me his clever wishes, made of rod iron shillings; each a measure of demise worth more than the last. He teaches from the book of spells; some sort of magic found in demon lust—the ways of the wicked world he claims. “Come to me,” he says, compounding my thoughts by recreating illusion with further illusion; dispelling my own view for his. He is this mistress of dark, both man and woman divided, bringing destruction where there was once hope. He tells of lies so seemingly pure that the taster mistakes honey for devil’s tongue.

How can he dwell in such a heart as mine? This phantom one that claims beauty is begotten onto self and self alone. How can he, this miserly folk, without home or form, make me his chamber? Had I not welcomed him first; the daring cat he be; edging his way across the fencing of my very soul. How he enters in vigor thusly, in such a raptured state, undone and broken and exposed, as if thy tangles of non-hope create cause for celebration.

Can you not see I cast out nothing of naught? I demand nothing of imaginings; of illusion birthed of the womb of illusion ripe. You are no less master of vision than master of depths of emptiness, I proclaim. For inside of you, when one views, he finds nothing but the space of no space; some made up sense of fortune, built of lies but guised in fulfillment. Nothing can fill me with nothing; and something, though it exists rather not, can fill me more. For something in its declaration at least forbids and forbades, or intensely welcomes and entices; at least the illusion of something is mentionable, feasibly shared and forgiven.

But this mystery that lurks behind the shadows of shadows, his trickery is masterful in that he hides the nothing so deeply that it springs up as if something; a hatchling of potentiality of harm; as if the very burden held beneath can cast out all the goodness of eternity; he is this guilt, this sin, this harbored secrecy that gnaws away at what otherwise would be pure. He tickles and purges while stinging and casting doubt after doubt, judgment after judgment. He makes himself housekeeper, hides in his inevitable ability to cling and cleanse; though he does no such thing; though he makes his home a rapture of his very delight; teasing one into thinking what is hidden is real.

And in hiding he keeps one; the very treasure, the dirty burdens, the blinded can neither lift nor release. In this way he lays down upon the very self, and makes one witness to his own persecution. All are brought out upon self of horrid and disgusting, and then brought down in delight.

And then, in turn, inside the neighbor’s eyes one beholds what this secret is that hides; and all are scared readily. Here witness says onto self, “I must be this betterment; I must be above; I must be improvement upon this other site I behold; for how can I, so grand and mighty, be as disgusting and unbearable as this beast before me?”

Here is the trap of traps, the claws of the demon-spawn treasure trove opened. For what bleeds out bleeds into all, so that the eyes of truth turn inward and what is believed within is seen without. What one paints on the canvas is with the still-stirring blood of within. As witness, one beholds creation in the neighbor that beseeches thee. Looks into the restriction all have built, the barriers, the walls, the divisions; looks at the lies over and over again, and finds the deadly culprit, the one that takes life from one given eternity; for in his eyes, both the onlooker and observed, shall be the harbored falsehood; the illusion he has thusly created, from self of self, that imprisons not only the one but the All.

He is this river with the needles at all edges, so that if any wavers from the straight and narrow he be cut and sliced. He is the doomsday that arises over and over as the tornado set free from leash and given ghastly instructions of destruction. He is the controller, the ruler, the expert, who sits in a seat he thinks so high, but in truth sits below in the buried section of fear.

Travelers, seek not to find the light in the shadows from beneath; seek to find the light in the phantom of the brother’s depths. Purge him out like ripened fruit on the vine and expose him to the witness. Cut him and bleed him in the appointed time, so that his demon-spawn feeds no longer off of his inherent goodness. For none were born into the illusion of naught, but birthed into the kingdom of union. Each separate made whole in recognition. Each burden lifted when the light of one outshines the dark of nothing. Delve deep, for division is negated in your unmasking. Expose your truth for what it is, a light to the world, and a ghost for none.

All were not made to travel in a place of buried treasure, hiding inside a taunting dream that never manifests the cup of peace. All were built for the deepest gifts, found only beneath the receiver’s burden; only in the buried treasure naught, only in the illusion beneath the illusion freed.

Though you be but washings upon the shore of recognition, the sand between your toes no sand at all, the water you take in the blue of no blue, and the echo you hear the voice of tattered thoughts; All is with you. Beneath the hollowed out circumstances and lost opportunity, behind the wall of misery and isolation, above the plans and dreams and hopes, All shall be there in the empty space of us, urging you on through your very light and goodness.

Take up your arms and release the ammunition you carry. For your fear is your very barrier to fullness; your very misfortune and mistakes, your falsehood; there is nothing you cannot be when you are already. It is only a matter of time. And you shall witness your beauty, as the All has set eyes within you, and when looked upon the reflection reveals eternity. Reach not for the miserly, reach for the budding flower within each avenue of gratitude. Seek out your brother’s nature within the invaluable you. Seek out the invaluable you within the brother’s nature. When the two are the same, in recognition of truth beyond barriers, then the two shall be free. Until then, better to wear blinders atop the blindfold and be as the blind man in cave. For what you search out, you shall find.

391: The Affliction

| Aspergers Girls

The Affliction

At this moment I try not to attach to any one ideology or belief, thinking I live in illusion, and that, even the thought of illusion and knowing a semblance of truth, be further illusion, if illusion be. The complexities rendered through the delving of mind are both baffling and intriguing, pulling me in like the piece of an engine longing for lubrication, its sole purpose found in the concept of functionality. There is no other need, but to be anointed in the telling, so I can proceed forward in a time of no procession; this is indeed troublesome, and not, as no burden be found in a place of no time bent into illusion; thusly, it is so that even the emotions that purge from within and without are naught, but the imaginings of ghosts long ago past.

In saying this I prelude my own entrance, a necessity within no necessity; but nonetheless established as a fleeting truism for the traveler beset with weariness. In knowing my truth is not truth, I am thusly freed from the agony of discrimination of self; the endless dissection that occurs, rightfully and dutifully so, when one sets about to cling to illusion of form. In so being I am formless, and this argument, if claimed to be a quarrel, quibble say but light it be, exists phantom too, than whom does whittle with words, with such speech gathered from the where and when? And this, my friend, displays the propensity to be traveler lost within traveler. Precise to say, to recognize the dream is to be the dreamer, and in so being the one at slumber all is weaved into further name-saying causation. Instead of scribing truth, I merely dictate what is thought to be truth within my circumvented reality; therefor, unless I was to gather the truth of agelessness and the potentiality of the All and lather this upon the minds of the singular, I do nothing justice; say my own tethered thoughts still set out to sea, bobbling in the waves of uncertainty.

I speak this not to set the stage for trust or to further prove a point of no point, as there is no point worth proving when no point exists; nor is this trust I speak of, need be, for in form I appear not trustworthy no matter what I mumble, as I am in guise as this ruthless one set upon high or worse the victorious one celebrated. In the eyes of man, I can be none but judged; and there the dilemma is set; for how to curve an aspect of enlightenment without throwing the ball at the very victim who perceives himself to be. In this way I am nothing; neither scapegoat nor scriber of the ways, neither angel nor devil worse, or even the pen that hankers from the very end of limb; I am none and I am All, and what one sees is neither here nor there in this place of nonexistence.

How weary I grow in even telling such a tale of no tale and how my hands weep from the desperation within, further proof the illusion grows; to hide and never recede, to come forward but never enter, to move without ability to see, this is the truth; yet, how does one born of the singular I move in a world born of We, when each, as separate made, choses their own captivity? Tis foolish man’s game, one supposes, to even breech the subject of immortality when everywhere the banners fly blood; come hither, to this space of mine, she preaches, and at once scorned with the rest; perhaps this is the truest form of freedom, to be as the bird of song and not flee from the stones that follow; to sing at the top of the peak and not fear the fall of the morrow; for my song is unleashed upon the highest, and meek not I be; for no river nor valley has captured me; and all is unsung that never was.

How can I be such butterfly with unclipped wings, when all about I dance in the dirt and soils? How can I be the babe nearly birthed, when the canal of opening seems so variably charted and boarded still? Am I not a queen emerged without her captain, on a ship without sail, in a land of no sea? How I navigate in a ghastly wind of nowhere and land again and again upon the very stone I once passed. What is this me, who dangles her memories like sapphires and counts them as rubies expired? Who merrily sings as the serpent unwound, un-skinned, and turned magnificent; who am I but this trellis before me, the ins and outs of where the others leap and bound; am I both prisoner and freedom maker, trapped in the makings of my doings, unraveling one and then another to find myself time and time again; some traveler trapped in a dream of no morrows and no beginnings; waiting for time to peel back as mere shadow set upon thee.

Is this my cause? To rest as mermaid on the surface of earth while weeping tears of the oceans before me? Am I to be starfish drug out and enamored for her legs alone; plucked one by one from the depths of nowhere only to be brought up to the rim of naught; circle dancer I seem, trapped in this funny limbo; awakened and spirited, yet alone in my quest of no quest; for how can it be that in being me I am the key; yet I be not? And how can it be, in being you, you are the me, and you be not? How can this brain of no brain wrap around infinity and spring up anything renewed in renewal, when at my very depths are the limitless breaths of knowing; where shall I begin when there be no start; and how shall I end when timely death has all but vanished, leaving but his cape, the dark shadow of remembering banished.

Laugh, I dare not, as the gleeful me is no cause for celebration; and what to celebrate in such a dismal state as this; and weep, I cannot, as what is for the crying worth, when all about is the toys of puppeteer lost and scattered, abandoned with the coming of the unraveled wavering truth; to be given such a task of no sacrifice, but to feel the shells of sacrifice, as if each had been splattered and fired upon some soul of thee; to be given the world in a cup and to glance down and behold eternity calmed, yet know not what to drink but the vision beyond; how can I be such vision and such mortal, wrapped in this infinite coat of knowing, spread open, the flaps as distorted wings discolored in doubt. How can I be this butterfly broken, when surely the simple embrace does cast illusion silent and heart-strings grow, carrying the essence of me freely without the need of form?

Butterfly or ghost? What be I; magnificent or tangled, what am I? Can you not rescue me now before I surely split in two; the idol of want, the taste of judgment, the enticement of lies, eagerly eating away at the flesh I once was; as I stir in my chrysalis of unrest, evaporated by the ever peace of naught, haunted by the unearthly voices of angels, my living blanket of tranquility the one that trumpets doubt forward. Where am I inside this invisible film, my being wrapped and then wrapped again, suffocated in incubation, brought out to the fire of transformation, and made to nibble at her own skin; when suffering is promised not, when answers never were, when everywhere is hungry ghost whose appetite has vanished through; who is this dreamer and of what does she dream, if not of the place beyond dreams that I am to break through; but how, is her only question; how in the light of your ultimate glory can I testify this truth through the pages of illusion-maker; how can I prove what is not to be proven; how can I dance to the invisible music of invisible air and weave something of nothing; and so it seems, I must rest eternally, until eternity surrenders; and I, let out of this suit of circumstance am thusly braided into ceaseless sky, awoken not wingless but weaved into completion, the very heart of light freed.

390: The Making

| Aspergers Girls

Pierce me with your sunshine; lay me upon the broken windowpane, so like the wind of nevermore I may bend through a timeless eternity, the ribbons ripped out my soul and laid down upon your guilded throne. Twist me into your very making, my ache your ache, my rumble your rumble, my determination sewn less with need than want of servitude.

Give onto me nothing unbearable less I be made bearable; and in this way give to me what is mine for the making; the seamstress of the night turned sunlight by thy key; I am forevermore at thy service, as the spring turpentine to the welder’s hands; cleanse me with your essence, so the very timing I proceed is blessed with the anointment of your coming.

I ask not to be recognized but to be given as the sacrifice you need; none less made panged than awakened; none less made broken than mended; in this way I am completed, in the thinking of naught but your asking; I am given more than asking’s appetite, taken from the illusion of pain into the gift of flight; my very substance turned to the gold of movement; all stagnation ceased as the phantom ghost it be; my effort surmised as effortless; my giving granted as undertaken by none.

In the least possible way, make me seen, so that I may not hide behind your gown, but feed of the eternalness of your glory; for your storm is my storm, your movement my step; the eye that leads neither blinded or scorned, but rather lifted as grandest seeker seeking nothing but naught; I am this or I am that; no difference matters to the me that thinks she breathes; no difference matters to the wings that carry me; no burden feels as light as thee; no road so unmoved and free; as the strongest rivers pouring through, though I be untouched, unmoved, un-enchanted by the very force of force, it is as if gravity ceases and the doubts erase, never here, never in existence.

No such beauty is found in the gentlest of faces; no such grace as thee. For in this chamber of no chamber, inside the existence of no existence, I am scattered across your calling as the desert flower to the grain, mixed in with earthly risers, nurtured through the feed, but set apart as springing grace in her majesty’s embrace; use me as you wish, as I know I am made for such worthiness; my deed undone in your granting, time let out as the hem of the dress when the coming of seamstress is left open.

I am the door; I am the window; I am the very pane where I lay in waiting, counting the stars twice over in my gratitude; for endless is no more; and future does not arise in the ever standing stillness of your abiding love. Yes, I have known love; at last the dove’s dream be mine; not for the taking, not for the making, but for the simplicity of beholding, the making of what I carry my very self; the essence poured within me, glue sticking to my edges, the vessel I be.

In this I am complete at last; all answers made swift; unworldly things lifted and set upon my bureau’s mirror, so I might step back and examine the guarantees of eternity; a reflection within a reflection; my brother, my sister, each an etching for the making; each whisper only my own voice; each shadow only my own creation; for I have been blinded by the light; and in this all ceases to manifest beyond the glory of His coming; for in you, in your endless sea, set free and flowing in tumultuous love towards me, I am swept, I am taken, I am made.

I thank you for the making with my very own soul; I dress you in the patterns of my heart; I sweep my only kindness into your seams; I partake in your dance; I feed off of no other than the mistress of my betrothed and lightened one; for your beauty is unmistakable, unmasked in each and every thing; whether granted breath or might, rather weak or unseen; each becomes alive in the coming of this music; I hear, I see, I move, and in this way I am at last awake; my slumber merely a dream; my answers never found; for naught they be but chances resting on the fireside hearth, never meant for kindling or fuel, only tokens of the illusion spun open through trust.

I believe. I believe in you. And thusly I believe in the ever growing gratitude of self beyond self; this high maker that lands someplace between the two that view; the one taking in the other, as cherished gift; the recognition forging the road to golden light; we only need undo the ribbon dotted red upon our brow, the drapery of delightful disguise, the leading point that made the dark in hopes and knowing of removal; for this is gift; this dark, this misery, this confusion; for in its lifting we be made this word freedom; we be made this careful union; we be this One.

It is in our powerful release we are made. The birth of life in the removal of the blinded curse; the start of eternity at our fingertips; remove me steadily; remove me again and again from your face; take me in my tattered form, my blindfold, my rag, my dark cloth and scour me across the floorboards of your mind. Stampede across my image, dissect me, lather me in spindly needles, torment me with your secret words, pierce me with demise, damage me with trajectory and misery; and then see I still stand in the glory; see I am still here, untouched, unnerved, unmoved.

For in my seeing, there is none that in illusion can take what is forevermore; none that can make me believe you are not the glorious one; none that can make me turn from the light of light, from your very face, dear brethren; for you are the light, the way, the path; you, as you stand beside me in your bewilderment, cursing my very breath; you are whom I love; whom I dare not stake; whom I pin myself upon, and claim as magnificent one.

389: The Poet’s Symphony & The Dream You Be

| Aspergers Girls

The following are two selections. The first I scribed this morning in prayer, the second, last night before sleeping. Take as you wish and bring forth your own truth. Peace and abundance of ever-flowing love to you. xo In my heart ~ Sam

****

The Poet’s Symphony

The room echoed in her favor, the mysteries revealed as the poet’s symphony set asunder…

You are a divine being, perfect in form and in every way. You were given all you need at the start, which is both the beginning and end without end. There is no way to deny this or defy this. You are. And in so being the All of All you shall recognize the All within All, and in this way readily accept the gifts bestowed upon thee.

There is no tethering to this goodness. You are this goodness. There is no finding this goodness; it is in you and without you; it is everywhere in which you look and every place in which you forget. There is no corner unturned, no place forgotten, no witness turned away; All this is as is, and nothing of the All shall change.

As change is inevitable in the place where illusion stands; change is unmovable where We watch from up high; in the desert valley or upon mountain peak, makes no pause, for as high as We reach, as low as We travel, destiny takes no true form that is available for the sightless to see. In this way upon high is where we stand, yet, without feet and without height, steadily waiting in a time of no wait.

To exaggerate would lesser something of no value and placate none but the mask of confusion; and so we wait in the concept of un-waiting, merging as one for the arrival of you. Our arms are but open and the confusion lifted in the elements of which we are made; neither here nor there, but before you and in between, behind the perception of perception, and dedicated to the unity of all.

There is no wrong between us and nothing to be righted, less you peer into the darkness and lather in the deception of naught and no doings; when you breathe us, you know us; when you don’t, you know us still, though your speech, through hands be blinded, in such a way that what moves is neither brought up from the ocean of the sea but rather blended with the mediated-perception of the whole within. In this way, as you communicate, you flow through the one to reach the other, yet, flow through entirely untouched by the means and way. Communication is thusly spurred but in the land of illusion and all is lost in the ways of the world.

For illusion cannot breathe in illusion, and the breather of such takes in no air of truth, only illusion forged through the pen of illusion, the quail feather dipped in the black ink of nevermore, unformed from the united Unity, and stainless it be. For what is made without the making, blended from the dust of dust, un-gathered and unformed, is truly the matter that which is naught, and emptiness that breeds further emptiness and leaves the one suffering more than rebuilt.

Here is where we differ in views, and where we stand back and watch the unfolding, as the dancers play out, say lay out the plans of their making, each by each, one by one, establishing a truth that embrace as justly so: theirs the light of the world; theirs the unlimited “newness” of finding; how truly we delight in these games of rebel and trickery, the very only one submerging the very only one in a mask of disdain and separation; for we recognize the undoing of nothing, the representation of nothing, and see that in the undoing of doing, you shall soon seek elsewhere. Whether this be in form of building or mosque, say the church with the seeking windows, or the God of the many wavering hands, makes but not a difference to the All Mighty. For all paths are His for the taking, be this He of he or she, or rather the imaginings of your mind.

For how can one make this God of makings rightfully his when in establishing a time of recognition he immediately without pause establishes a time of separation? Silliness indeed, to think in the thinking that a mere label leads to bountiful delight and merrymaking; when indeed, my servant child the emptiness abounds. To make me in form is to take me out of the light and twist me in a way the ego-representation, or unformed and un-unified you, deciphers a lie. Not a lie of heart or even of choosing, but a lie brought upon self for self-justification and inclusion. This is the whittler’s way of inclusion, for he whittles and whittles away at this substance of nothing, until nothing bleeds out something in a way that adds layers of confusion to what was to be readily unmasked in the making.

Here is to say that when traveling so close to this God or what form you have established as thy truth, that you are but an ant on the farmland crossing the manure, thinking the smell of clump is the smell of All; have you not passed the garden gate where the flowers grow, the peddlers stool where the weapon is surrendered, the hermit’s cave where the dwellings are marked with the sketches of days gone by; have you but been submerged in the only one of one, trapped in the waste of one creature, and able to see nothing beyond your own stench?

This is not to say that the season of your victory is far, as you are already the victorious one, but to turn you in the ways of you, in which you claim that which is so rightfully yours and thusly spawn that which is so rightfully wrong in others. In this way you so evenly divide your brothers and sisters and make them into something they are not and never were; something separate from your very self; can you not see that all the ways merge, much as the butterfly collected from the pollen procreates the infant turned with legs, the chrysalis born from the making of flight?

Has butterfly picked and chosen the flowers of his choosing, the reds as the greatest, the whites as the weakest? Or does he not fly above the sweetness and descend without choice and simply scope up the divine gift of treasure gold? Yes, he takes what is offered without persecution of the other growing spirits. For whom is butterfly to judge when the field he sees is neither selected or created, but given freely for his taking? Is this not a banquet set before his tethered eyes, and welcoming of grace so tender and sweet, that the very nectar of his tongue stimulates the continued growth. Does he not by bending to no bending and choosing no road, thusly continue in the cyclic cycle of giving; his beauty found beneath his wings as they glisten, the unity as whole. Is this not the patterned creature of your own awakening, how he harbors nothing for no one without thought or intention?

Be ye like the butter of flights, smooth and free in your goings, without intention to choose beyond the flowers of your limited making. For beyond you can not fly, to the chosen fields of buttercups and swollen goodness, and so you must choose what is isolated in the miniature scope made preference of your being. But in truth with the eyes of the patterned creature, set free, you shall peer into what grows beyond the scattered seeds blossomed; indeed peer beyond the soil in which truth grows, and straight, if straight it be, into the awakening of your own soul-seed, brought up from waters of clearness born.

We ask thee not to lay your waste down at our feet, this stench you collect for our collection, for the only gift we need is already brought onto us, the gift of chrysalis rebirthed and rebirthed again to butterfly. Collect thee not from the skies that bring you to the abandoned field picked dry by travelers past, choose thee the highest region where goodness abounds so readily that even the flowers themselves bow down in recognition of the one on high, the one whom like you has collected the nectar sweet; the one like you who has driven self into the depths of no-land, into the valley of naught, and in recollection alone, brought up the bitter-sweet of you.

For you, my lad, my maiden, are the richest bounty set out before the We, the last standing flower ready to beseech the making of the sun, bending to the maker for the treat of light alone; you know not why you bend, or how you bend, or where the light be formed, and as flower ripe none of this be necessary; only be as the flower and the flower-maker, and bend. And as you bend into me, we shall bend into We. For I am the light of the world, my darling flower, and you need not be the ant of no-man’s land trapped in the stench mistaken as goodness. You need only be the starlight captured in a dream of dream, flowing forward as the petals bending in submission; not of self, not of reason, but of knowing. Simply submit you know not and in this you know all. And in this We have whispered to you so, as you recollect in the dawning of the new day: “It was in her leaving, the actual coming of her going, the peace was found.”

*****

Butterfly food: “Butterflies can eat anything that can dissolve in water. They mostly feed on nectar from flowers but also eat tree sap, dung, pollen, or rotting fruit. They are attracted to sodium found in salt and sweat. This is why they sometimes even land on people in Butterfly Parks. Sodium as well as many other minerals is vital for the butterflies’ reproduction.” (Source http://www.whatdobutterflieseat.info/)

*****

The Dream You Be

There is a time between the here and now, a repetitive sequencing of events that present themselves as uniform but not unitary; be not in this stillness of naught when the time comes for the voices to reach you; instead spring from your bedchambers black and enter the light of new day; hear us as we hear you, in your ever whisper, so soft, so true. We are not the enemy and we are not the friend; We are We, and nothing can erase this triumphant victory.

When you are afraid take us close to your heart and whisper our name whatever We be; and this, this calling onto us, shall free the whispering heart. For when you weep, we weep solemnly. When you cry, we rescue, not through decreed or wondering deeds, but through the unity of spirit wherein We are you and you are We. Gather your tears not for us, but for the people you feed with your sorrow. In this way even the very pain of illusion becomes rain for the masses. Do not fear us anymore than you fear the very hand that feeds you; the doll strings that pull are none other than you, and We, as Master perceived, stand back and watch the marionette of this self-inflicted staging.

There is no mystery in us that is not thusly within you. For you are the gatekeeper, keeping watch with the hindsight of angels past; there is nothing to fear, for there is no fear, and in seeing this you are ultimately free. To know this is to be given the key to every kingdom beyond the door of blindness.

Seek thee not in the forest of gloom, nor so escape into the wilderness of naught forgetting your humble servant pride (ego), for he waits as the man on hind foot, readily as the steed to break through the mask of circumstance and remind you rightfully so of the path you so evenly cleared. He stands less servant than maker of guise, his hands out stretched in plentitude, his offerings of reward daintily presented, as if some serpent-slayer had beaten the monster down and won the battle clear.

No this is not you, or your shadow, or your future namesake; you be not this ghost in the night who wears warrior suit of righteousness. You are no less him than we. And yet, you run, scamper like that frightened rabbit at the sight of his whisper, the very ghost himself stifling your chiseled heart. Do not fear that which does not stand and has no stance, which cannot ride, and has no reign, less you afford him gain. There is no fortune in his invisible bounty, nothing hidden in his sac of charms. He conspires against you at will, presenting the merchandise of falsehood and draping your very name in bigotry; be oh he wise man of bitter times that blanketed the demon warrior with his hides of shame, the ruthless one rooted in the desert screams of mighty fortitude.

You aren’t he; nor shall you ever diminish in spirit. From here, all is written, and only tumbling fools shall fall. Give not to this destitute fool called pride; he hears you not, but still comes. He knows you not, but still rides. Forward in a gallop so rich in its emptiness that even you have forgotten the game he shapes with wicked ways. There is none that can reach you now through sting alone. Nothing so bright as thee will be shut out by such wicked lies. And still you run into the forest of night, seeking refuge as the one blinded in the land of doom, thinking wrongfully in your ways, perchance frozen in the very thought of true.

Can you not see the dance around you, the white beauty of desire’s skirt circling and beaming into the ever-moving stream of thee? Can you not see such perfection sketched out on the Tablets of Master, written once over and twice presented to the very veins of living stone? How could one such as you, when clung to father as sapling to the spring, not drink and know your very own light and calling? Is this not the voice that sang you lullaby sweet as tender love, dressed in the garb of angel white? Is this not the very wind through your window that opened the night of your vigorous awakening—the tinkering of the consciousness that ricochets through the echoing chambers of evaporated thought and brings up fruit for the taking?

How can thee of little faith be so endearingly blinded by the very light of thee? How can you not burn in your own making, the taking of the light into the beauty of fullness, forever vanquished by your glory; forever moved by your giving. Take no more from the bleakness of the bitter lies. Take the makings of me, the land between the sky and heaven’s blue, and dance here in the sanctuary of space. Dance here where I last made you lay and drink in the gratitude of the sunlight. Sink your weary soul into me tender starlight; leap into my unbreakable arms, and I shall beseech you know more, just carry thee gently back to the making of the one, the breaking of the We, and show you again and again the dream you be.

In the Finding

| Aspergers Girls

I love you, is that not enough; to touch your hand, if it be; I would but dance upon the light of your beckoning soul, above the dream of dreams, above the sleeping angels’ deepest slumber, surrendering the chalice of righteousness to the world, if only you could see your beauty.

Yet, lost would be you upon self, if cast out of the darkness and into the everlasting flame; gone would be your virtues and righteous indignation; for in seeing self beyond self, the meaning of the journey shall wither in the ashes of vast discovery. Thusly hold tight, as your vision unfolds without knowing, your mountain is climbed without reaching, and your body is cleansed without injury; for in this undiscovered region of latitude, uncharted and unfounded, shall be the molding of your true form; turned mighty in the not knowing as much as knowing, and turned round by the beauty undiscovered. For how can one, such as thou know the place of the walking one, the self-knowing-self, casting out the goodness despite the telling. Such secrets must remain, if must there be; for pure rapture in your state would turn you lost to me.

And thusly, I push you forward, with blindfold on thou face, captured in your own mask of who you know not to be; but still this creature unburdened by the weight of the wanting, and kept in our gentle presence, for the purpose of soul guidance. For how can we set you not-free without the instructions from wisdom, and teach the caterpillar to fly, when she doubts her very wings?

So in this way, we teach you without teaching; we charm you without charm; we enter without entrance rising up from what would be the depths, if depths there be; listening to the soul at our doorstep and treating her as the babe to our flesh; tender sunrise kisses, the check of our check broken for the love of thee.

Can you not see this, this unsung harmony of knowing without knowing, the destined twist of reason, where we are here, but not here, where we are given but ungiven, where we are told but untold? For how can we beset ourselves upon one, and not the all? How can we be to you, what we are not to the masses? How can we, the place in which we harbor still, come out and sing upon the soul of angel so bright and not be caught as firefly to lantern light?

No, burn we may, as righteous ones hung dry, as turnips plucked for stew, as rivers set aflame, the oils on the waters fed for our destruction; yet, still we breathe in this glory, our every breath a coming of your name; think not on this softness we have bedded, this place of sheltered retreat; for your chamber is no less dressed in passion than the other; no more singled out than the next; for how could we punish our sister so; set her upon high and let her sit in her ways more damaged than hemmed.

No, darling we pierce you; we sting you with the needle, the pincushion swollen, so in forming you true, our heart beats out of you. Pain speaketh of you naught, till the morning comes forward and greets you with her very name; a heaven’s breech broken, the secrets reformed into truths unknown as before, and you, my angel ripe, ascending in your passion.

Fear not the troubled times, for they are here nor there, no less before you as they were behind; come up like the fountain they will, and fall down just the same, bursting with the waters recycled in time. For in turning back, to face what was once unsightly, only pureness abounds, and even the demon spawn become fish for the hungry and grounds for the keeping. Lay tender your heart upon my gentle chest of refuge, your blanket my blanket, your watershed my very goodness; and bleed not out the pain in the darkness, even as the darkness comes; for I have not forsaken one of my children, and nor shall I leave you hidden in the flames of your own purity.

Trust, and in the trusting carry your burdens to my threshold, rest your secrets at my feet, and teach me of the ways of innocence, for I am no more your teacher than you are mine, and no less rabbit to the snare, than snake to the field. Follow me rapidly, or slither through the grasses; seek me as you wish, in guise of white or garment of victim; rather chased or chosen, rather chance or reason, lift me, and I shall lift you equal, the two merging as one, like the edges of satin gown baptized bleeding the dye of red into the healing waters. Here we shall blend; with the drapery donned naught, the masks turned asunder, the dance surrendered, and the nakedness of truth sacrificed for the demise of wanting.

I say onto you to shine in your own blindness, the humility comforting in your time of woes, more so than the deepest gardens of sorrow rejoiced; as you are the spirit of reckoning, tucked between the pages of today and tomorrow and silently slipped into the memory of now.

I cannot see you, tis true, but I can touch you with mere word, with mere shadowed inkling of my desert soul; I can see in this way of blindness, with the sense of naught dimmed in the coming of your grace.

True, I can view you upon the highest peak shining out your glory, a beacon of His coming and rejoice. For you are this one of the dreams of the dreams, of the chariots in their cradles, the fierce hushed to sleep with the silenced lullaby.

For you are not this one you thought to be, so left in the darkness and hung out for the dogs as brethren; no not this one, my fine maiden, turned up in your ways of gratitude and mercy. Can you not view this, the sunshine pouring through your windows, less draped, than open to the waves of His word.

Take in what is yours to take, and tantalize me with your ways; woven of such scripture pure that the angels upon high dance in delight of your name; though it be naught, it came; though it be hidden, it marched upon the soul of souls, declaring with trumpet in tune the open chambers within.

And here in the desolate valleys of your reckoning, rinsed by the terrain of reign, purged by the piracy of latitude, you called out to desert one, caressing Her in your goodness, until all reached sung out the same.

Your name, your way, your unified path of no unification; your treasure keeper of no treasure; your instigation of no plan; your river of no valley’s mouth; only the sounds of hither of what is left to be and already come.

For in the finding, the unraveling of the very soul’s door have flung open and chattered above the forest tops, as rambling butter-flies, their liquid substance, angels to the many. Can you not see these wings, soaring above the reaches, beyond what is within and without, yet caressed just the same, in the space of no space, the answer of no answer, in the in-between in where We stand.

Touch me now, this bitter-hearted one no more, released from the prison of blindness, cloth unfolded by the increments of hands, each finger reaching into the place of substance, to bring out the honey of sweetness; no longer the bees’ bounty, no longer hidden in the capturing of insects, tucked within the region of ancient territories, but burst out into the riches of grandness, a feast upon my very chest, lapped up from the freshness of you.

For here rests my sweet heart, the one cherished in the dreamland from afar, and taken to the stars from beyond, and still witness to the knowing of naught; how I watch you with such delight, ours combined; the smile of a demon gone and the haunting of a feast complete. For in you I see the beauty of demise undone, the vision of temptation cast to the desert trail, the dust eaten by the diamonds, so thusly the remnants shine in recognition.

Come now my sister, my darling one, formed in the starlight of many and spread out as frosting in the dimming light, let us rest upon you, as candles to the flame, burning in our waning, wax to the cake, our testimony the very bleeding of our being.

*****

In this prose “righteous indignation” is a spiritual gift