These Spiritual Flows

I got these Flows, you know?
These beats inside that unseat deeply held beliefs. They cycle around in my mind, finding a space beyond time to query the metanarrational ideals representative of close encounters of the spiritual kind. So I conduct these drills, you know, diving deep into still waters to find the current rushing below. Again, I got that flow, you know?
But how best to express it in a way that doesn’t dress it in pretentious bullshit that shuts down understanding, that feels like someone prancing in ideological fields, flowering philosophies divorced from iconographies of force, pounding people into coarse miasmas of etheric plasma, divorced from the real, the material ordeal that binds hearts and minds in time and space, to a place of essential grace? But that might be way too abstract. Not enough facts, revealing a lack of grounding in the necessity of communicating with tact.
Words stack. One upon the next, phrases coalescing in stages building meaning, streaming intention through gleaming shards of light, information blasting edifices built upon blight, the detritus of institutions not quite visible as such, appearing instead as solutions to problems long sought, build here, not there, upon this rock. I’ve got the flow. I know.
More bullshit. More words, designed to placate the herd. To create hypnotic illusions of complacency, in lieu of a fundamental alignment to conceptions of decency. Perception creates more opportunity for deception. Misalignment with truth, logically bound arguments that demand external proof when the real answer is under your own roof. That’s a metaphor, for your head. Where your attention should be, instead of out among the walking dead, shambling zombies sporting Abercrombie and Fitch, complacent in their privilege, thinking their life plan is coming off without a hitch.
Ain’t that a bitch. Ask a witch, or Wiccan, to be politically correct, if language use is more important than context? If understanding is gained by using words laced with pain? Does it hit deeper? Does it find the flow? Awaken the sleeper from the dream, elicit anger and indignant steam? Are some conversations best held in the highest tones, strident accusations embracing convictions held to the bone? Call and response rhythms bracing emotional blows that shake bodies to the core, while the demands of belief ask for more and still more? What, still, is in store?
What is coming next? Can you see it? Feel it? Like a storm gathering on the horizon, rent by lightning and thunder, still faint in the distance as the sharks and squid plunder the depths of our collective despair. You can smell the ozone in the air. Feel the electricity tingling in your hair as it stands on end. That’s the thing. You can’t pretend. Angels with broken wings still feel the sting of God’s abandonment. The loss of that Flow.
That timeless coursing of love that comes from both above and below. That sense of being a part of something integral and eternal, infinite and both maternal and paternal. The yin-yang dichotomy of opposition where polarities unite and you realize that the fight itself is the illusion, the contusions mere bruises to ego and unfounded fear.
Silence is birthed in the place of an ever-present wall of sound and fury. The storm arrives with lurid intensity and raindrops begin to fall, tasting of sorrowful waste, tracing paths of contentment down my face. My heartbeat stretches into eternity, spiking reverberations looming imponderable and tall. From those dizzying heights, I then fall. Beyond all calls to internalize the need for redemption and false guilt. Pretention fails. Internal dissension is quelled. And I sail, outwards into skies of light, and into the Flow.
You know?
You know?


Drama ensues.

The blues catch souls afoul of contusions
ephemeral illusions conceal goals of powerful
delusions that mislead the masses, sky-bound
impasses of glassed passages, flashes of brilliance
rippling across optical mazes, panopticon dreams,
phases of cognitive challenge, the balance pierced
by pinpointed lasers, managed by the anointed
sycophants of sin, intoning mantras of disjointed
harmonies, before the entire cycle begins again.

5 ages of Humanity.


No man knows the day or the hour, the power
concentrated in towers of babylonic intensity,
showers of blood flood the megalopoli of men,
once again the story blends into cyclic tales open
to various interpretations, truth determined by the
proof of subjective knowledge, the soothsayers
amassed upon a ridge overlooking the people,
their fingers clasped in steeples, the foundation of
the church everlasting as dying souls lay gasping
upon the shoals of an ephemeral sea, while celestial
horns ring, beckoning you and me.

Silence deepens.

A ripple across the creative void, information masked
as light, the first flight of fancy, a current in the dream
of divinity, a stream in the river of the holy trinity, beyond
the creative intent of the limited capacities of men, friends
seeking the farthest ends, the farthest shores contemplated,
invisible doors revealed to the designated purveyors of
prophetic intent, it is all meant for common knowledge.

The akashic records abolished,

The open sky the guide to a better life, astride astral rides
we fly, hearts wide open we soar, the floor dropping away,
eternity revealing her face, beyond space, beyond
the rat race, beyond the face of everything we thought
we knew, we blew past dogma, met her mother destiny,
looking forward to truly being free, traveling across
the eternal sea, far beyond, singing our own personal songs,
blending in perfect harmony, strongly, right or wrongly,
we are here to be.

Perfection. Peace.

A Referential Awakening of Mind

Awakening to the time I find myself in line. I look and see an infinite number ahead of me, a cue twisting through blue horizons of cloud banked doubt, stout and slender souls intertwined, shuffling forward, gray shades of mediocrity played by life’s strife.

I look behind, to find nobody behind me. Last in line I am, last in time I stand with all of history stretched out before, a panorama of blood, sweat tears and gore. Of joy and laughter, happiness and peace, the entire human drama displayed, my mind awake, my eternal thirst for knowledge, remaining unslaked.

In the halls of the infinite the eternal is unbound, the chorus of the heavens resounds, the music of the spheres reverberates, pools of dripping tears instigate a referential awakening of mind, sublime chatter of altered voices whisper doubts, from the mouth of innocent babes, pouting recriminations slide out.

Shattered by realization, I look about to find myself upon a cliff, the cue of tortured souls still wending forward, yet I hesitate, and light up a spliff. I inhale, felling quite swell and as the smoke twirls round my ethereal shade I think I’ve got it made, apart from the crowd, loud with banal proclamations proud of petty achievements and institutional documentations they crow, bray, low and stay mired in the minor victories of repressed miseries made manifest.

The test continues and I choose to stand still. Watch the other souls shuffle up an ethereal hill, rounding a corner they disappear and I find myself alone at last, with my tears. Joy rises from center as the infinite beckons me, welcomes me, the blue void deepens to purple tones, construed landscapes sharpen to reveal the massive bones of dragon gods and alien goddesses, the landscape becomes holy, crimped with pagodas, churches and temples, dilettante sycophants groan dirges that surge, quite visible as urges never acted upon, unimaginative desires that refused to release that inner fire, regrets about failed tests, sorrows about non-existent tomorrows.

I blink. Look around again to find myself still at the end of the line. But you know what? It’s fine. The first shall be the last and I am content to let the wind determine my intent, blown by fate and chance, I arrive here at the last dance. My stance, determined, joyous and boisterous, violet flames arising, blue glades of pain dissipating, deconstructing, dying…

No longer bound, I’m flying…

The Game of Coins

Who knows what it’s like to be poor?

To open the fridge to find nothing but old condiments
and dried-out fruit, to realize that homelessness may soon
come knocking, standing right there,on the other side
of the door?

To pay Peter and rob Paul, juggling phone calls from Creditors
from Hell, who are just one missed payment from sending
the Sheriffs to ring your bell?

To look at your children and feel the pain deep in your gut,
knowing you can’t provide them what they need, and you
don’t know how to get out of this rut?

To laugh with your friends when they’re talking about
new movies and cable TV shows, faking the funk
like you’ve seen them too, knowing with every chuckle
that you ain’t got the dough?

To try on your old clothes only to realize that the
po’ folks diet has gotten you bigger than ever, you thought
you were getting over by paying less for more, just sure
you were being clever?

Being broke ain’t nothin’ nice.

Watching TV hurts, with all the shows and commercials that
entice us to spend more, buy more, get more, cause that’s
what life’s for, of course.

To own. To possess. To have.

To go to all the beautiful places, to experience all of
the wondrous spaces that exist in this world.

That’s why po’ folk are angry.

To know what you’re being denied and to have to deal with that
every day inside, to watch the Richie Riches livin’ it up,
while you’re struggling to fill a cup, with something besides
water, which is swilled with chemicals anyway, just like
the food, poisoning us with every swallow as we rage inside
and wallow in despair.

At least air is still free. For now.

It makes you wonder about who is doing this and how, and why
everybody is so unquestioning about the way things are, is
this the way it has to be or do people live in other ways, on
other planets, circling distant stars?

How long are we going to accept 1% of the the people owning
everything, including the churches and their steeples?
How long are we, the 99%, going to give them the luxury of
our compliance, when all of the science is here now?

We can have solar power, we can have wind turbines, we can have
geothermal showers, we can have wave combines, churning away
and creating energy, half the things we pay for should still
be free.


The Game of Coins is real, and it’s rigged against you and me.

We’re kept on the sidelines, we cannot pass Go, we can’t collect
$200 dollars and we’re denied a part of the flow of capital
as it goes from production to pocket, like electricity runs
through sockets, directly from the raw materials to the rich,
while we look on, kicked into the ditches running beside their
Superhighways of Greed, if we’re lucky, we get to walk on
the Goat Path of Endless Need.

The pattern is clear. The cost is dear. It’s our lives, those
of our children, too. Placing them in categorical poverty that
they’ll spend their lives trying to get out of, unless they
win the lottery.

It’s the Hunger Games indeed. Check the Reality Shows, this is
what they’re trying to seed into our minds, implant into our
thoughts, selling our souls for riches, or just enough to get by,
that’s all we’re worth, or so we’re taught.

So if you know what it’s like to be poor, don’t be ashamed.

This is part and parcel of your individual and eternal fame.
Somebody said that the meek shall inherit the earth, and I can
see that happening, once this planet’s experienced a rebirth.

Cause something’s got to change right now.

Somebody’s gonna have to eat that Sacred Cow.

The Tenets of Their Intent

The time we spend upending our common humanity is one of the surest signs of our shared, global insanity. A song of wrong-minded intensity, a procession of notes leading directly to lower density. It is the purpose of the Elite to keep us divided, each group suborned and constantly incited to riot against each other. In our in-group conversations we rail against the Other, never mind the fact that he is our brother, that she is our sister, that humanity is the family bond. All the while, they abscond with Gaia’s wealth, relegate the masses to poverty by trickery and stealth.

We divide ourselves by choice. We speak individually, but it adds up to a collective voice. The thoughts we entertain that highlight difference are insane, determining a person’s worth by how they look, an inane response to initiatives passed down by genocidal scoundrels intent upon eugenics and death. These folks wear crowns and generally have the best houses and cars in town. They own the media and write the encyclopedias, they set the standards and create the jobs, they lay down the mandates and then direct the mobs.

By agreeing to the Tenets of Their Intent, we subscribe to their beliefs and goals, no matter what you thought you meant. Such systems are designed to keep the sheeple in line, to facilitate states of mind that go directly against the divine. It is the natural state of humanity to seek diversity, yes, there is comfort in sharing space with those who share your tastes, and those who may look like you, whether you are purple or green or blue.

On the really real? It’s all just a distraction, keeping people from realizing the deal while they continue to rob and steal. It’s all a form of control, meant to keep us in-fighting and not realizing what it was that they stole. It’s all a game, an illusion, created to cause mass confusion. By buying into the system of superiority you’re buying into a system of inferiority, attempting to gain seniority among those who are the real minority, the soulless minions of doom, currying favor in the opinion of the scions of gloom, forgoing your relation with the highest authority.

This has been said so many times and so many different ways. It doesn’t pay to hate. If you’re gonna enter the fray, be sure to do it on the side of the right. Choose the light. Not the darkness of separation, the false pride implicit in belonging to a certain nation. It’s a trap for the soul. It’s a map directly toward the lowest of goals and destinations. It’s fine to have pride and feel good inside because you love who you are, know that you are descended from stars. But to hate without cause to insinuate without pause is to inculcate a terrible fate and to be blinded and small-minded.

It’s time to end the insanity. To realize we’re all one rainbow tribe. Like the Hopi said, if we don’t realize it we’re all dead. And it starts with each of us. Change can’t happen if we don’t get on the bus. Trust, too many prophets have said the same thing. It’s time to take flight, to find our wings. To cultivate higher sight, and find greater songs to sing.

The Perfection of Peace

The perfection of the process of living is so sublime we’re constantly in danger of underestimating its nature. We go through our trials the best we can and put off our analysis till later. But that time never comes, because we’re beset by everything under the sun and our minds are constantly in play regretting the past and ignoring the day. If we’re not thinking about then, we’re thinking about tomorrow, if we don’t embrace Zen, we choose to embrace sorrow. The Buddha said that suffering is guaranteed when desire becomes need and the scions of sin are freed to wreak havoc indeed. We’re not even clear enough to plead with ourselves, to delve beneath the momentary thoughts, to seek the Truth beneath the things that we’ve sought. And continue to seek, thus the course of our lives becomes more and more bleak. We continue to turn the other cheek tweaking aspects of self till our egos then swell and the illusion becomes complete. Jesus was in tune with Eastern runes, his words of wisdom were hewn from the edifice attuned to the ultimate Divinity. He was one expression of the spiritual Trinity encompassing the expanse of the All presented to sinners in thrall to what in effect amounts to the rejection of Sects, the various Cults that misappropriate vital energy creating synergy that siphons the Soul that diverts our true goals that energetically feeds Monsters and Vampires and Ghosts, doses of Christmas’s future, the remedy a spiritual suture that closes the wound bringing emotions in tune silencing minds that won’t still allowing space for good will. It all comes down to taking the time to silence the mind. That’s it in a nutshell, the Bells of Clarity can only ring if we can hear them. The Heavenly Chorus can only sing if we listen. Glistening Pearls of Wisdom glint in the gloaming, bubbling like froth foaming and bursting on the shores of the sea, each droplet a Worldling, each atom within hurdling through infinite voids, each potentiality employed in the manifestation of the All. Sadly to say, we make the choice to stall. We make the choice to fall. And that is all as it should be. Becoming more aware of the moment we notice the magic, we notice the tragic often leads to more blessings, the depressing and distressing expressing our progression. Mind becomes clear as compression becomes dear as mental control leads to peace recognizable as cheer. It’s not, really, it’s no state of Being it is being in between when your slate’s become clear. Peace becomes the norm and you no longer react to every storm, you realize thunder and lightning are good now that the storm within is understood. And, eventually, you begin to notice the moments again. Like we did when we were kids. The beauty of breath. The good will that kindness foments. The inevitability of death. The Perfection of Peace and the onset of emotional and spiritual surcease. This is the goal that was ours from the start. We paid the heavy price of life so that wisdom might impart itself unto us in the meantime. This is the whole reason we left the Divine. Not so sublime, once you remember what to do. The question then becomes, can you?

The Zombies Beehive

I can’t tell the difference sometimes between a nightmare and the things I see. Things like reality TV for instance, dramas instantly created for Prime Time, prana dissipated in anger and hate, the state of the common mentality a brutality of directed fate. Courses chosen along the trajectory of pain, the stains of lame choices coloring future’s stilled voices. There’s nothing that’s sacred anymore, acres of desolate landscapes, the paucity of true amour. It’s all for the ratings and the dollars, home-girls in Atlanta hollering while housewives of Beverly Hills style the most recent outfits from Rodeo Drive, it’s a Zombie’s Beehive, the drones zoning out while the sky’s falling beyond a doubt, the Queens bloviate and bombast as their subjects deviate from the true path.

Everything is relative, nothing is absolute, good is expressed in shades of grey while everyone jumps without parachutes, the ground far below, safety a myth, giving their all for the show, then afterwards pleading the fifth. Wasn’t me becomes the refrain, I wasn’t there, what are y’all staring at, whassup, you got beef? The inevitable gasps of disbelief, the thieves of souls grasping ignorance’s scrolls, the goal seeming to be the whole nine yards of success, as defined by the quote unquote best, those who’ve passed the mandatory psychopathic test.

Don’t get kicked off the island, lie and scheme to by, the hardest heart gets the fastest start, gets the best parts, gets the highest scores on the charts. Don’t be the biggest loser, the Bachelor is the best chooser, doesn’t matter the marriages don’t last and the weight comes back fast. Class is so past generations, the veneration of knowledge not even for those who go to college and wisdom? That’s for old folks and those New Age freaks, steeped in weirdo lore and bleak outlooks of doom and gloom. The lies that they tell on TV are all people really need, because everybody lives in fantasy worlds anyway, their stays a choice, the myriad ways to escape reality the voice of disengagement, a rejoicing in perceptive banality and cultural minutia.

Voting in absentia the masses speak, the peak of consciousness raised, but minus the will to seek higher and even further afield, to spark their own inner fire, daring the void until their souls are truly healed. The Queen Bee revealed, the last honeycombs of wisdom unsealed. Perhaps it’s really going to take a total end to this world, to finally see the ripples of Divinity’s flag unfurled. An Armageddon event, a Zombie Apocalypse of pent-up need spent in an orgiastic conflagration of energy, an adiabatic catalytic of pyroclastics, fiery and chthonic, Iku’s fell tonic a breath ectoplastic. More simply imparted, hell on Earth, hell, it’s already started. Just check out the TV and take what is seen to heart.