FOUND DOOR(s)?

Here is a picture that I took of a bathroom door.

CHOCOLATE

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Untitled IIII

wishing I could blog in the future.
Meaning the post date would be Jan 12th 2029

this is the freedom blog
the nonsense
this shall be my freewriting
insane blog
this is the life
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barking dogs.
silence.
no need to write anything?
breathing hills
as if Los Angeles were on fire during the day
and now its gets to breath and recover during the hard night.
I hear the radio in Spanish
and the barking dogs
the dynamo of caged dogs
the barking of dog language
a yelling of language
a yelling at the moon?
a yelling at the stars?
a yelling at engines?
there is a primal sadness happening to me
outside of the moment there are wild demons
in the moment there is nothing but light
I hear the accordion and violins in the hills
like I am in Mexico or India
the soft light of the lights in the hills
the darkness
the radio tower in the mountain
the stars
things have noticeably settled
and now i can hear the crickets
i'm in the mood for becoming a river.

TREE RESSURECTION

I found a piece of a tree outside the redwood bar and grill.
So I made a newspaper stand look like a tree.
Then the guitar player of the band Johnny Hootrock
Clem Hoot took a picture of it in front of his Texas tour van
with an illuminated Los Angeles in the background.
I asked him to email the picture
because I was proud of my sculpture,
of my desire for nature overtake us.
It reminded me of the Talking Heads song
"(Nothing but) Flowers"
I'm sad.

OUR SUN

black feather on the path
rustling in the bushes
walking silently on
fallen leaves
helped an old lady down the sandy and dusty hill
"YOUR MAMA RAISED YOU RIGHT.
TELL HER THAT FOR ME."
held her hand
nike swoosh under the black umbrella
OFFSPRING-hat
crown Chakra
Griffith Park observatory
like a Shiva Lingam
Joshua Tree in the mind
desert
Lisa Bonet
Trippy
HELICOPTER ZEN
one hand clapping
headed NORTH
into the mountains
"I just moved to
New York recently"
Greece
and the blue domed churches
Colossus of Maroussi
HENRY MILLER
GLENN MILLER
FRANK MILLER
MILLER LIGHT BREWERY
clockwise SILENT
gliding around the
observatory------>HAWK
to land in the tree
on the side mountain
FACING WEST
TRANSFORMATION
sun sign of the Akbal
off the tree now
five cries,
a man running backwards
APACHE style
sound of the circular saw
and hammering
in the landscape
RAWANDA
woman running
holding water bottle
downtown Los Angeles
almost the exact same
color as the sky
barely a city
Asian woman with white dog
Banyan Tree
SIX birds
spider hole in the Tree
"THE HOLE"
man holding music player
and water
MUSIC & WATER
walking on water
through music
ITH OBSERVATORY
FITH OBSERVATORY
FFITH OBSERVATORY
IFFITH OBSRVATORY
RIFFITH OBERVATORY
boy carrying girl piggyback
thought she was talking to me
about getting out of the way
got startled while note taking
GRIFFITH OBSERVATORY
standing on the orbit
of SATURN
facing the Hollywood sign
little girl in neon pink dress
over the railing
LOW BATTERY WARNING ON CELL PHONE
The Head of James Dean
against the gray sky
the Savage Gray sky
star -five points on the pedestal
STANDING ON THE ORBIT OF JUPITER
Asian man stretching
jumping jacks-- sneeze
MARCO POLO
god bless you
ORBIT OF URANUS
bird women
ORBIT OF MERCURY
right in front of
"OUR SUN"
The Son
my shadow is perpendicular
to the "OUR SUN" plaque
golden plaque in the concrete
took picture of the "OUR SUN"
plaque on my dying phone.
ANT going in and out of sun's engraved diameter
one single staple rests
and the top right outer edge of the sun plaque
the sun plaque is bolted into the concrete
with a bolt that looks like the sun.
10:28 1/2 AM on the SUNDIAL
GLENN MILLER's cock
is on the SUNDIAL
his cock is the big one
and then there is the time telling wire
that links to a smaller cock
Maybe HENRY MILLER's not sure
about the second cock
but for sure I have found Glenn Miller's piece.

"SUNDIAL IN SUN LIGHT
THE SHADOW OF THE WIRE
INDICATES CORRECT WATCH
TIME ON THE RING"

GALILEO 1564-1642
KEPLER 1571-1630
NEWTON 1758-1822
HIPPARCHUS 1758-1822
COPERNICUS 1473-1543

guitar player video shoot
guitar astrology
Mayan percusssion (TIME)

ORBIT OF NEPTUNE
man in neon vest
watering the bushes
yellow truck
satellite dish
LEAF BLOWER
walking on leaves
rustling in the bushes

ORBIT OF PLUTO
i can hear the guitar
clearly now
it's a leaf blower guitar
DUET.
He's plugged into a portable amp
that looks like a stage light
leafblower on steps now
steps of the temple
guitar player facing WEST
elderly man
with emerald green watch face

it's an orchestra up here
man with rocketship on hat
HELICOPTER, ladies getting
giddy near Glenn Miller's cock
helicopter flying SOUTH
counterclockwise now
around observatory
yellow flag waving
from golf cart
FIRE on helicopter
John Deere Gator
just crossed the Pluto orbit
Man in LAS VEGAS shirt
stepped over orbit of PLUTO
not on it
walked through video shoot
following ORBIT OF PLUTO
Pluto orbit disappears
into the grass
standing in the parking lot now
guitar player's name is
Paul Nagi
singing
FOR MY LOVE
THIS IS FOR MY LOVE
the video guy
taped our interaction
i walked up and asked him
if he had a myspace page
and he handed me his card
with a pixelated HEART on it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
mypace.com/paulnagi79
plugged the EVANGENITALS
because i knew I was being videotaped.
told him i was a tabla player.
Leaning against the
CAUTION STEEP SLOPE
sign about to turn around
STREET LIGHTING
HIGH VOLTAGE
yellow flowers
yellow fire hydrant
ROOF (up arrow)
haha
headless lovers
bird call
TINY AIRPLANE
suicidal impulse on parapet promenade
singing SOFT & WASTED
by Confessions of a Corn Silo
STANDING ON THE WINTER SOLSTICE SUNSET
MAJOR STANDSTILL SOUTHERN MOONSET
MINOR STANDSTILL SOUTHERN MOONSET
SUMMER SOLSTICE SUNSET
SU "NSET" FULL OF WATER
"SOL" STICE FULL OF WATER
"CE" OF solstice 80 % FULL OF WATER
COMMON ERA
7 lingams
average of 6 and 8
six eight time
waltz
to the elevator
ORBIT OF PLUTO
AND NEPTUNE
are converging
in the mind
as they shoot under the ramp.
man power
washes the sidewalk
"They open at 12"
THE OBSERVATORY OPENS AT NOON!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
back to the sundial
11:01 1/2 AM
12 Noon is 6 cm
to the right of Glenn Miller's cock
2 girls
11:04
"The angle of it is crazy"
Galileo is also holding a telescope
could be a Glenn Miller dildo
"Look on the ring from that reflection"
I meet Larry Cox at the SUNDIAL!
RAYMOND BRUCE COX
jazz drumming brother of Larry
just talked with Larry Cox
from Mississippi
his brother went to BERKLEE
where my brother and I went to the 5 wk summer program together
he believes that JESUS
is his personal savior
he was wondering if
that makes him right
and everyone else wrong
I said "That makes you right
and everyone else right"
VEDIC OBSERVATORY
in fairfield iowa
him and his son
were both wondering
about the elevation
which i find now on the internet is
1135 feet
and I also found this poem
written in the Los Angeles Daily News
right after the observatory opened

I don't want to squint my eye
And look at planets in the sky
Or nebulea; I'd just as soon
Not see the craters in the moon;
Or Venus, Jupiter or Mars,
There is just one, of all the stars
The sight of which would bring
me joy--
I wanna see the Myrna Loy.

I said ABOVE SEA LEVEL
vision
visionary-canary

I recommended
THE SPELL OF THE SENSUOUS
by David Abram
a nature/philosophy book
recommended to me by one of my greatest and oldest friends
Ben Foster
I told him that it was his Bible.
Larry Cox loved nature
i could see it in his eyes
the way he talked about the stars
the way he was at the observatory
with his son an hour before it opened
he told me
"You can't tamper with nature.
You can tamper with what's written
but you can't tamper with nature"
I wanted to tell him I was doing detective work
for the second coming
Larry Cox and I talked for SIX minutes
according to the sundial
HAWK through
astronomers monument
walkie talkie fuzz from the security guard
by the ORBIT OF PLUTO
Larry Cox said
"When the creator
put the stars out there
and the mountains out there
you can't tamper with that."
drummer with tatoos
and a trekking backpack
shirtless with drumsticks
says "IT'S good practice"
when i ask him if he's a drummer.
SYNCHRONICITY CITY
I am in a constant state of synchronicity
12:48 the time I always see on the clock
adds up to SIX my sacred number
HOLY JESUS
"ANT" carved into a tree
Juan texts me about Sean and Duncan
DON JUAN QUIXOTE
ISADORA DUNCAN
SEAN JOHN
ROBERT FROST
serious hikers
with metal walking sticks
The Road Less Traveled By.

Swami Vivekananda on Lord Jesus Christ

.....So, we find Jesus of
Nazareth, in the first place,
the true son of the Orient,
intensely practical. He has
no faith in this evanescent
world and its various
belongings. We see, there-
fore, in the life of this great
Messenger of life, the first
watchword, "Not this life,
but something higher."

He was a soul! Nothing
but a soul, just working a
body, for the good of
humanity: and that was all
His relation to the body.
He was a disembodied, unfetter-
ed, unbound spirit. And not
only so, but He, with His
marvelous vision, had found
that every man and woman,
whether Jew or Gentile,
whether rich or poor, whe-
ther saint or sinner, was the
embodiment of the same
undying Spirit as Himself.
"Give up," He says, "these
superstitious dream that
you are low and that you
are poor." He declared,
"Know ye, the Kingdom of
heaven is within you." In
Him is embodied all that is
best and greatest in His own
race and He Himself is the
impetus for the future, not
only to His own, but also to
unnumbered other races of
the world.

If I, as an Oriental, am to
worship Jesus of Nazareth,
there is only one way left to
me, that is to worship Him
as God and nothing else.

CON SCI O US NESS

sometimes i type in the dark when the computer is off. It is a really good technique for saying what YOU REALLY FEEL without the pressure of documentation. Even as I write now there is a tangible anxiety that when I am done I will hit "POST"

I had the urge to delete previous paragraph. I just deleted the sentence that I wrote after the previous one. I just deleted the sentence that was going to be in the spot that I am writing now.

The speed and breath of writing is an entire lifetime. Writing freely and quickly, or thinking with deep ease between every word, every sentence, seeing if you can drill into the moment deeper than ever before, what is actually going on in your life RIGHT NOW.

I'm sitting on a couch in Hollywood, the air conditioner is blowing, my hawk ring is glowing silver by the light of the lap top screen, these are the actual events of my life, actual of course being highly ambiguous, and events being hard to pin down as well.

The life of a saint has very little to do with biography.

If we all share one heart and one mind
not fragmented and divided
but if the COLLECTIVE HEART IS YOUR HEART
COLLECTIVE MIND IS YOUR MIND
COLLECTIVE SOUL IS YOUR SOUL
not divided but in its totality
then there is an inevitable reconciliation of identity
where not only do you become the universe
not only do you become the skeletal shrine of THE DEITY
but you also become THE DEITY
a consciousness SO POWERFUL you can't possibly hold
on to the events of your life as your life
because now when your eyes are open
God is seeing the world
when your heart is open
God is feeling the world
when your mouth opens
God is singing

the consciousness
that binds us all together
in the playful invention
of the creator
is the only biography
worth reading
and it has no words
it has not even Itself
and when you know that state
like the horizontal of water
you exist everywhere.

Henry Miller on Writing

Death is wonderful too-after life. Only one like myself who
has opened his mouth and spoken, only one who has said Yes,
Yes, Yes, and again Yes! can open wide his arms to death and
know no fear. Death as a reward, yes! But not death from
the roots, isolating men, making them bitter and fearful and
lonely, giving them fruitless energy, filling them with a will
which can only say No! The first word any man writes when
he has found himself, his own rhythm, which is the life rhythm,
is Yes! Everything he writes thereafter is Yes, Yes, Yes,-Yes in a
thousand million ways. No dynamo, no matter how huge-not
even a dynamo of a hundred million dead souls-can combat one
man saying Yes!

From Henry Miller on Writing

THE GOD OF THE WORD, MOUNTAIN

everything must go!
neighbourhoods,
mountains, suns
radiating the
sublime contentment
of entropy, and yet
how wrong I AM!
The word mountain
is indestructible and within
the dark curves and
hooks of script is the god
of the word mountain
chanting the definition
of mountain with ferocious devotion.

PHOTOGRAPHY OF THE VOID

Staying Warm By Neighbor's Fire
by Bryten Goss

Tooth gap
like a C sharp.

THE OBVIOUS PROGRESSION OF THINGS (written July of 07)

mouse shuffle
in the ceiling as mouse floor
smell of peach
zero standards=nectar of art
nectart
neck crack
SANTA CLAWS

chiropractical
Leonardo daVinci
Nature is the pinyata---------> Niagara
baseball----------->Babe Ruth
babies
Lorca----->forest----->no--------->Picasso!
there is no exclamation power enough
except - "A" -

James Brown
Brown University

cahoots
CIA
congress------>sex------->evolution

SEAFOOD
PLAGARISM
DIAGRAMMAR
Machinery of Knight

Plentitude
I'll take those words
and burn their histories
an unused language
like an underground field of carrots
on the moon.

Sled fun
Lewis & Clarke
The Jefferson Memorial, erotic tights, jargon memory
bejewel inner Jesus
grenade heart pin angel line dance
the sailor
home from sea
take out the machette
take out the crayons
sweet eons of rain
in the atmosphere
the deep deep rains
Bugs bunny meat
sled fun
organ at church
hard on in a suit
under the table
psychics in New York
psychics in Japan
aerobic instructors
high hells---------------------> John Caged
Peter Kelder
Dizzy Gillespie
Donald Trump
zoo=elephant panther
meditate on the eternal panther
eyelid tattoo-bowl function
come back to the panther
the shiny teeth of the gateway.

THE LEFTISTS ARE RIGHT (written July of 07)

The table reflects light.
I have a stomach.
There are guns.
What is a star?
It is dark in the living room
and light in the kitchen.
San Francisco is in transition.
Leftists are right.
Three peaches are out tonight.
The oven's door
is a rectangle
within a rectangle.
A fly swatter hangs
from the light switch.
I hear crickets
and air conditioning.
Exaltation of Light
by Homero Aridjis
is on the table
face down and open
between pages
108 and 109.
I see a street light
and a radio tower
out the window.
A mouse is
walking in the ceiling,
a god.

TARGET PRACTICE (written July of 07)

It's 11:56PM.
The air conditioner is
offering it's white noise.
Insects with their contribution
are second, the the scratching
of the pen, and the sound
my hand makes against the paper
when I slide between words
then there is the continuous drone
of my nervous system
and my circulatory system
with the more subtle heart beat,
the squeaking of the foldout table against my elbow
the chewing on the end of the pen
and the visual of me in, the truly objective fact
in the dim lit kitchen
at exactly midnight now
completely naked
no jewelry
just a pen and a notebook
that cost me 10 cents
and now that the facts are straight
I can feel the intense vibrations
of my irrational dream reality
ready to submerge into blackness
the sinking zepplin
full of children
headed for the electrical socket
to unplug the red cord
to the mind.

APOCALYPSE

originally a word meaning
UP-RUSH of a new value

Nirvana (written 7/10/07)

"Do you need anything else" she said
"No that's it." I replied
and couldn't help but finish the sentence
in my mind.
"That's it, that is my final desire
this lifetime and after this pint
of mint chocolate chip ice cream
I will have burned off all the
karma of all my incarnations
and plan to spend the rest of
my days in the exalted
hot tub of the infused higher self
fully realized, the lotus blossom
of god at the holy intersections
of the opposites, the sweet dawn
of my enlightened life is
upon me, like the ocean
a vast sea of non-doing
a pile of wood to split
and a 5 gallon jug to carry
up from the minivan"

It even said on the paper bag

FOR THE TRIP HOME
this bag insures
firm, fresh flavor
for your ice cream
and Frozen Foods

His Divine Grace The Black Pope Dr. Zod Zuzillion.
one of the many great people I have met at the Redwood Bar & Grill

Poem written on a place mat in Beaver Utah

Waiting for my fuel pump to be replaced
I sit waiting for my three egg omelet
waiting to arrive in Colorado via coffee
burnt taste of life waving its antlers strong and dark
like coffee and I sit waiting in this heavenly purgatory
once again where mechanics and angels envy each other
and the U-haul transience of the morning
like dominoes the seconds stack up in the spiraling
black sip of death to the flesh so the phoenix
can roller coaster out of the burning desire to live
in a freedom of zero need where the avalanche
is contained in the whites of the eyes
that gigantic storm of the spirit, that CMT
in the auto service shop of the soul of the pole
of the scathing history of snow
in the snow globe in the snow globe
of Beaver, Utah.
Ultimate escapism into the endless swirl of problems
deliver us from the necessity of the tow truck
begin the horrible extrapolation of the void
that ultimate companion the escort like the
gorgeous gravity of the highway the black weight
the sunken temple of ground zero ecstasy
the erosion of total minimalism
a New York City loft with no walls, no ceiling
just the Jurassic yellow light
on the glorious hard wood floors
The Timberline Inn where the vortex of the heart
projectile gushes into the morning pool of disorientation
the guide built by the ignorance of birth
starts to decompose and weave through the dimensions
trying to stitch rip consciousness from its bearing
to bear fully onto itself
the gaping starlit shelf
a tsunami culmination of the inner conundrum
where the temple drums usher
the advance of the ash gray sand dune
the solitary tidal wave, unilateral demolition
sweet sweet personal apocalypse
silver crank arm of the typewriter
the glorious bell of a new line
on the avalanche damage of a new white page
what a remarkable gift of eternal renewal
ripping each page out of the book
to cast into the fire
so only the true text will glow
like a city
like the wet dream of a CIA decoder
the simple chant of the God of death
the burning bridge into the black hole
where no light can escape.
Check please.

Post-It IV

the crickets
are louder than
the coyotes

Post-It III

smelt chaos hex
of leaves weaving
the flaunt of
pseudo ubiquity
into phosphores
cent chlorophylactic
dream catcher

Post-It II

a hammock for
the soul, an ocean
audio ocean of
air for Seamus
to step off into
like Indian Jones

Post-It I

the paintbucket blue
of the silverless
slab of wind swollen
anti braille filled
with the chocolate
soul of the monkey
graille eatery

Banyan Tree?

once again listening to Ne-Ne by Soulive. This is my new blogging soundtrack. This is the fluff that gets me into the gall of it. Kind of like the safety lecture before the airplane takes off. I have to vocalize minor things like my immediate environment, point to all the possible exits and flotation devices, oxygen masks and then fucking plunge in like a panther into a swan neck..... if you know what I mean :)

My day dream and major fantasy happened in Pasadena the other day. I was walking down Del Lacey Avenue towards Colorado headed to Old Town Music where I bought a black Kima egg to use at Evangenitals practice tonight. It was a hot day and I saw a tree right there and it reminded me of Siddartha, how the Buddha attained enlightenment under the Banyan tree. And I thought well what if I just sink my teeth in and pick this tree. Sit down and refuse to move until the ultimate realization of internal, heatless, smokeless light of God descends into the heart and mind for good. It got me thinking that the tree is probably arbitrary and how satisfying it would be to pick an arbitrary tree. Oh Holy Del Lacey river of pavement that connects all the driveways of America!

Well the saying goes "before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water, after enlightenment, chop wood carry water." But I would like my personal enlightenment to be closely tied with downhill skiing. Some kind of explosion in fresh powder with some ambiguity as to my survival.

Always moving forward even after the ignorance of enlightenment still moving forward, hawk-thrown into some wind tunnel where the sun is the soundtrack for the soundtrack of the wind and the roaring waterfall of the heart. These are dark amazing times. Amen sister!

listening to Ne-Ne by Soulive. Well now I am blogging. I have decided for this entry not to use my traditional line breaks. So technically i think that means I am writing prose. This is exciting for me. My heart is sad, finitely. My mind is like the moon. I am sweating in my office. But i just turned off the lights and lit the Jesus Candle. and now my writing can take off leaving the catepillar in the dust now a butterfly, i am in love with the sizzle cymbal, you just touch it and the whole universe shimmers, it's a miracle. Truly it's a miracle, the dynamics you play with mirror your life exactly, your feelings, your ritual, your own trance, you can get inside your instrument, shamanic shape shifting you can become which is why i want hand made instruments of beauty, crafted with awareness and love and made straight from the earth. God outside, go outside and watch a tree and that is how to drum that is your ground zero, the sensual tremor of the void flickering like sunlight on the ocean, that is the ground zero of music, the shivering silence made of light, and then when you foray into forte the F zone where the violence of ecstasy happens you remember it because you are sitting in the shade of a tree and then the tree gets hit by lightning you feel it, you feel the f more when you are relaxed, you feel sex more when you're relaxed and breathing into your crotch, well music is breathing into your crotch publicly being like a tree naturally giving and gentle and unafraid of lightning, welcoming the storm of feelings welcoming the violence of God and Creation welcoming the rising waters, and drumset is it's own universe and the guitar with all of its primordial darkness is its own universe, and the bass with its Lochness invisibility is its own universe, and the voice, what a miracle God has created with the voice, the silken thread like a phone line right into the heart the dark tunnel of the throat like a birth into the light, into the tides of incarnation to sail to its own annihilation in an echo against the wall to give back to vibrate the the fundamental matrix itself sending its translucent waves like angels into the void, that black swimming pool of the new moon, god bless that ground zero deeper than the effortless gifts of the trees, this is something to sing and rejoice about, we are surrounded by light, surrounded by love, and our deepest, highest, most profound desires, are cherished and cultivated by the Great Spirit and all the animals and all the plants and trees and all the elements are perpetually working for the construction of a temple within the black heart that we all share, eternal surely, surely not, surely, surely not, yin yang, night day, upstroke downstroke, get up for the downstroke. Listening to Ne-Ne for the third time. feeling the divine grace of bass, the smash ash bone blossom of the snare drum, feeling the rose-nectared tongue of the saxophone, feeling the sinews extending from roaring river of the guitar, Jesus what a miracle that everyone stands in their dark corner offering notes and gaps between notes and concocting and entity that lives and breaths, it's like puppetry in the abstract, pointing to the hands, pointing to the mouth, pointing to the lips, and then walking down the street, dancing on the benches because the ecstasy cannot be contained, this is the gift of music, the transformation of the environment from draught to monsoon, from heat to cold, restoring the balance in the battle of opposites, a harmony, coexistence really is the vision of music, all races, all times, all religions, in their highest glorified potential, music is the model for an exalted society, and that is why I have devoted and will continue to devote my life to this absolute miracle, in awe of the power of nature and its ruthless sublime law I in deed believe we are all blessed with music, SING!

Improvisation

a man walks by in a brown plaid shirt
he is more real now
that the visions of last night
a clear monolith full of coffee beans
an aerial spin of a frog
a swollen clitoris
even more real than Bruce Willis
in Live Free or Die Hard
when he launches off a spinning out of control
F35 fighter jet like it were a skateboard
and shoots a bullet through his own rotator cuff
to kill the main bad guy strangling him from behind.
There is a certain passion
and madness being programmed into the collective
now a woman with a green shirt walks by
and a woman with a pink shirt walks by
a white car drives by
a brown car drives by
the piano on the satellite radio
even in the 1 sqaure foot of tile
that my right foot is resting on
is enough detail to occupy a life
trying to harness the moment
rides the line of terror and ecstasy
as all great improvisations do
but steering your improvisations
to resonate with something much deeper
than your own needs
shooting yourself in the rotator cuff
letting your improvisations out of your own control
and into the control of a greater force
where forests are burned and planted
at the same time
an apocalypse of genitals
where the golden thread is glimpsed
like an animal or a river of lava
striking some kind of mutualism
or parasitism with God
where you affix your barnacle diorama
to the will power of the whale
and then your barnacle has temple status
that is what Coltrane does
his breath like water
in the whale
that is the terror
breathing underwater
living in spite of death
making music
even if it means nothing
seeing the world
exactly as it is
without the desire to change it
the matrix
the white room
where you can ask for a library full of guns
and then you are surrounded
by darkness.

WET GOD

blogging in the dark
there is new self consciousness now
because i am going to hit post eventually
i have not arrived at the end of my post
so there is a distance that i must travel
and it is surely finite
and that takes away from the infinite mode of composition
where you get lost for hours in a few moments
there is some internal shift that takes place
when one has shed the weight of expectation
and there is a lift off
like a plane off the runway
into a field where everything is a metaphor
for everything else
and at that point one wonders if there is any point
to continue
it's a euphoria of the moment
and it's liberation
aren't we all just flutes
for Krishna
we are all just flutes
and that makes me think
that we are some kind of forest
collectively vibrating
full of holes and music
with no shade
just a masterful amount of sunshine
and rising sea levels
you see the shift that i was talking about
i was alone in my hole in the wall office
and i started off talking about blogging
and all of sudden I am in a forest of flutes
what is the transubstantiation
from the immediate environment
into the cosmic playground of the soul
word alchemy
world alchemy
some kind of powerful shift
from the physical laws
to the dream laws
where the creator
lives in innocence
and flying is the common modality of transportation
having said that I bought a Honda tonight
and there's definitely something to be said for that
which brings me to the interweaving
of autobiography
and the spell of the written word
like what Beckett wrote,
"Then I went back into the house and wrote, It is midnight. The rain is beating on the windows. It was not midnight. It was not raining."
It was raining today in Los Angeles.
It was cold and it felt really good.
I'm very happy right now.
I had a veggie burrito tonight.
I believe in what doesn't move.
I believe in the power of movement.
Dance is the paradox of the mystery
like the birth of a mountain
snowstorm
now i'm off listening to jazz
anything is massively important
anything at all leads directly to God
or as Timothy would say Wet God
i like that
everything leads directly to Wet God
i love you
delivery
developmental
distinguish
sometimes the joy of the word
alone outweighs and purpose of the meaning.
the sheer snapneck power of the organ
i love it
i love jazz
i am grateful for this life of music
Dog Bless
Bless You
feel it everyday
breath into your crotch
as if all of humanity were at stake
numbers
wow
endless miracles
like semi automatic bubble guns!!!

Sugar Ray Leonard v. Wilfred Benitez

in the Hyatt Regency
watching the SRL Benitez fight
on Starz. My dad is reading Shogun
in the bed next to me
watching the dancing orbs of the gloves
four red balls
something cosmological
fire planet
the planet of work
the planet of trial and the welterweight of gravity
pulling your skin off your bones
even as I am brainwashed
at the NEVER WORK AGAIN seminar
by T. Harv Eker
time is running out
1:20 min left in round 13
and the dance still goes on without me
and I am the voyeur of violence
of black silken sweat
hooks into the body
red leather shining like mirrors
the whole crowd is high on the anticipation of release
the orgasm
the apocalypse
the flight of the mouthpiece
in a meteor shower of spit
against the black
round 14 starts
live from Caesars Palace
in Las Vegas, Nevada
and now I am participating
in real time ekphrasis
1:20 left in the 14
the red white and blue
ring ropes
like a Mondrian without Yellow
this boxing is a very intimate thing
sometimes the fighters look
like lovers
as they gasp in the exhaustion
hugging and bleeding
like lovers
sweating and breathing heavy
like lovers
weak in the knees and spinning
like lovers
round 15 starts
Benitez with a gaping wound on his third eye
and the crowd is yelling
Benitez with a series of lefts
gloves flying magnetic
last round adrenaline
in a chaos
legs buckle for Benitez
bleeding like a sadhu
from the third eye
Sugar Ray Leonard WINS
as the ref stops the fight with nine seconds left
at the end of the 15th
and the audience breathes
and divides its collective mood
and now Benitez and Leonard
are hugging and emotional
and i feel empty inside
sitting cross legged
reflected in a huge circular mirror
next to the TV
and the same way Malibu burns
i am burning
i am burning
towards freedom
the city of Los Angeles
seething in smoke
and the minds of billions
like billions of televisions
in the altars
of the dark church
of the body

ARNOLD PALMER

I have a confession.
at the Redwood Bar and Grill where I work
I make myself Arnold Palmers
in the server room.
I just learned what this drink is.
It's a mixture of 1/2 ice T and 1/2 lemonade.
It's named after the golfing legend Arnold Palmer.
I've been bussing and waiting tables for about six months now
and I know the kind of people that order Arnold Palmers.
They are usually very corporate
always wearing a collared shirt
and even the drink name itself
speaks of the status of the person educated enough
to know who and what Arnold Palmer is.
It certainly is an elite drink.
Even though there is a dark undercurrent to an Arnold Palmer.
The ingredients are perhaps a metaphor.
Below is the bitter caffeinated reservoir, the shadow side sometimes overpowering.
On top is the citrus mind set, the solar radiance of success and happiness in the world.
But the catch is that the person who orders the Arnold Palmer
is going for the badge of success and power and confidence
often neglecting the shadow side
its going water skiing in the ocean
in the blood of shark victims
there is a certain menace and imprisonment
to the Arnold Palmer
the suburbian repression of chaos and annihilation
a fickle projection of a love for life and yet
there remains an undiscovered and unfounded fear of death
which is the reason for the caffeine
murder for money painted with a smile
if you know what I mean
it's almost as if what they really want is Lemonade
or a laxative
fresh squeezed pure sunlight
the smell of fresh laundry
maybe even the raspberry jelly of an erotic sandwich
and yet the self sabotaging mechanism
cannot allow unfiltered happiness
you know the apple in the garden of eden
the apple is lemonade
and the violent bite is ICE-T
and now we are headed toward the tiny ontological crux
where awareness becomes aware of itself
and thus creates duality
the perpetually changing non change
and the perpetually non-changing field of change
together in an inseparable unified field.
So really the impulse to order an Arnold Palmer
if it is free from spiritual egotism
is a noble one
the impulse to submerge completely
into the mystery
not to analyze and destroy
but to bring to fruition
at the level of the visceral experience
a taste of reality in its totality
not just a superficial happiness picnic
and not just a nihilistic blanket of infinite inertia
but a true integration
of the dark side and the light side
into a complete Vesuvian being
the Holy Eye
circumscribed by the lip of a water glass
a halo
a planet
a beverage.

The sun is perpetually rising people.
go outside in your underwear!
life is the miracle
the swelling inside like the yellow organ fountain
what a beautiful impulse to love
to love outwardly and inwardly
and completely and to devour the marrow
of life to suck on the pain like the bone of heaven
what a sweet miracle this relentless music
the sweeping silence of the ocean
the aching beauty of water
of people in their transcendental ambulation
through the cities of the world
the cities of the mind
what a magic power we have to perceive
tragedy as comedy
to see comedy as divine
to hear the drums crack in your chest
like a breaking heart
a broken heart
opening to include more than capacity
to whole electric ocean of music
that unbuttoned chasm of gratitude
sweeping through the islands
sweet sweet music
the pussy cat warrior growl of the organ
like the fucking orgasm of god
FUCK divine fuck church of fucking bliss
sweet sweet sweet sweet fuck
like the mouth of the deer
touching the stream
can you proclaim that the universe is not
truly miraculous of a beauty
so stunning the mind shatters
into a broken windshield of stars
what a fucking mess
what death and destruction
and blood and symphonies of dramas
integrating unwinding
what a conductor
leaving the heart trembling
like the pregnant silence
right before the organ
blows wind up your spine
all the windows down
the dark highway
river of sweet blood of christ
black and blue and gold
pumping through the tender
infrastructure
like a bassline
carrying the whole thing
a blue whale
a blooming star gazer lily
this effortless orchestration
this handless applause
God you deserve a standing ovation
and look at the trees
they are all applauding the sun
they are applauding the wind
they are applauding the mother
they are applauding
for the opportunity to breath
for the opportunity to awake
to stand
just to sit is the greatest gift
sitting
like a mountain
covered in flowers and snow
for nightskiing
the violins pull the trip wires of the heart
the drums rip the marrow
the guitars
ohhhh the guitars are levitating
above the yellow street
ohh the guitars
the guitars
the ride cymbal
truly the ocean
the golden ocean reflecting
the golden sun
what a deep celebration
in every moment
i radiate outwards
and inwards
one love
immaculate chiropractic
fantastic life charging
worship to all beings
you are all sacred
and part of my permanent
internal temple
and with all humility
i let go.

BUILDING TEMPLES

yesterday i had a thousand poems in me
the hose bleeding in the grass
like some kind of noah's arc reinactment
but right now i sit in the dark
unshaven and raw like a thousand year old tree
growing outwards silently
i have forgotten all the revelations of yesterday
all the tears and paradoxes
that parting of the sea of biography
for a moment of primal truth
and yet even as I stab into the light
trying the make butter
i have the impending notion
that all paths lead to the exact same nucleus
everything converges on one thought
like the north star
shockingly grounded in a circling universe
there is a dark depth
we can and must tether to
the sadhus who worship Shiva in India
when they are initiated into their sect of worship
they are pronounced dead
and they cover their bodies in ash
this death is the true foundation
for the divine architecture of a life worth living
established in death
in the medicine of death
smeared in the permanence of impermanence
life and death are the reverse of the atomic bomb
a split atom exploding back together inwards
into a tiny silence that is God
today as I was walking home from work
i saw myself in a window on the street
and i smiled and the smile that I saw
is the smile that is in everyone
the mischief and vitality in my eyes
is the electric thread that strings together
the skulls of unavoidable mortality
around the neck of a being
free from erosion
and in the same way water
will ALWAYS find horizontal
even if it takes the life of the universe
and it does so with zero effort
the hearts of all
the minds of all
the souls of all
one collective heart
one collective mind
one collective soul
inseparable
in that same way
the collective consciousness
will always be rooted
in the source
which birthed it
empty of all things
so empty
that the radiance of fullness
shines like
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golden retrievers
a light so bright and so empty
and so completely full
that music is the only government
a harmony so fantastic
the angels have goosebumps
the plants speak a common tongue
and the humans and animals
live and work side by side
building temples in the wind.

Studying the River

blogging is a new verb for me.
and the percussion that goes with it is sensual for sure.
The sound of one hand typing.

I am going insane trying to finish my book
Pilgrimage and Power.
I am a professional indexer.
Now this is where I start to get confused.

In Journaling I address no one
its just the sound of the pen
and the open window blah blah blah

but blogging
is like the hybrid of emailing and journaling.
an email to no one that everyone reads.

My blog is big in Japan baby.

So who am I addressing
I think blogging has hit upon the very crux of Zen

it's holding the beach ball underwater for the rest of time

you know because you are fully isolated
and yet there is more self consciousness in blogging
because it is a browseable virtual artifact.

Jouraling is primal and raw
and you burn through to the truth
where the panther spelunks your empty rib cage
looking for anything consumbable

whereas blogging is more like travel writing
a nice formal distance from you and your audience

Hi I'm David Hurlin
wow the Sistine Chapel is so much more vivid in real life.

so really is the gap between journaling and blogging
self created

is it dishonest to have different aesthetics
or should we let the panther into the playground.

Quee Queg is on my mind.
falling into the sea like an astronaut
like cupid

i feel like i'm writing poetry
on a talk show
that is the blogging life.

it's implied reality TV.
it's shouting into a cave
and having the echoes come back with their own personality

it's exciting to have a forum
for this public privacy.

I like this.
World I love you.
Yes this public privacy
is the voice of my silent optimism
in a world of shocking variance
from the electric universe
in a single drop of water
to the mind numbing actions of the angry mob of collective consciousness
there has to be a harmony that is accessible to everyone.
a note that everyone can hum
even the deaf
with the image of a whole note
like a planet
revolving in the silence of its own revolution
emitting a frequency
that can open hearts and elevate life
from suffering into exaltation

Cling not to the boundaries of your religion
rather let God exist everywhere
in the indestructible temple of the ubiquitous NOW
study the way a river moves
perpetually falling toward horizontal
and your mind will be at ease my lovely friends.

I have decided to take the pressure off of blogging for myself.
in fact blogging is a similar to the sensation one feels when looking up at the stars. It is just breathing in an awkward position
feeling relatively unimportant but deeply inspired at the same time.

For example I am eating a fake sausage right now.
Last night I learned the word autochthonous which means found in the place it was made.

I also learned about Quee Queg's journey into the head of the whale.
Or was it the heart?

Drumming is a like creating an avalanche through divine mischief and then skiing down your own annihilation.

I am very excited about working with Artichoke and the Evangenitals.

www.artichoketheband.com
www.evangenitals.com

lots of goods things aren't happening!

ODE TO THE REMOTE CONTROL HELICOPTER SALESMAN AT THE CENTURY CITY MALL

His burden
weightless.
Futurist hawk master
in a revelation
of toy aviation,
the sensationless ascension
into the Uncreated Flame,
like a cinematic reverse
of the Titanic.

Leonardo DeCaprio
swimming toward the lens
to kiss you on the lips
while you shiver on a floating door
flying back now
to its naked hinge
in the bedroom.

A dandilion
or an orange butterfly
blooming out the eye hole
of a skull.

A wedding dress
hitting the bed while
the Brancusi
it has fallen from melts
into the diamond tomb
of a lion-claw tub.

Fifty billion golden
retrievers retrieving
the same stick.

Robbie Madison
jumping over a football field
on his dirt bike.

Umbrella of dynamited roses
from the dunk crux
of the John
Mccracken launch pad
into the illuminated darkness
of the unknown!

Those tiny lights
the bejeweled pharaoh
of physics,
in the camouflage
of stars, off
to save lives.

ASSASSINATION ECSTASY

Assassination ecstasy
built into the blinding green
of the leaves.
The elements,
psychotic melt
of subjective and objective
double helixing through skeletons
in some impossible erotic chess feat.
The hanging lights of the ceiling
erect, coming out of the floor
like snakes with light bulb heads.
How are we supposed to hunt and dance
if there is no common ground?
True ground zero is the postburning
programmed into all of us,
the terrorists, the children,
the Christmas carolers
with their red mittens
their machine guns
like water
our karmic-adrenal fight
with our indisputable collective purpose
to flood into the lowest field
our bodies 99% water
always searching
for their own ocean annihilation.
The ascension of the carrot
pulled electric
from the orange
heart of the earth.
We are born into this world
to be incinerated
and that incineration,
that infinite power of the destroyer
even the sun cannot escape...
Perpetual action
of ubiquitous erosion,
black reflection of the void
so deep you can't tell
if you are drinking or being drunken,
drunk before the throne beyond
the bones-to-dust explosion
of incarnation
this is the floorless anti-temple
in which we all pray, alone.
This is where the glass anchor drops
and shatters at the toeless feet
of a consciousness
so brutal
only It can survive.