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?

Surcease

Carry on a conversation with your mind,
attempt to divine the truth of your situation,
the proof of the station in life
you’ve chosen to occupy.

Remove the sties from your eyes,
bear witness to your own weakness,
minimize your strengths to find balance,
become the prince or princess of the realm,
partaking of the sacred chalice.

Find balance in denial,
the power of self-control
announcing your arrival
at the alter of spirit’s revival
as body colludes with mind
and space conspires with time.

Destiny calls us all
and we grovel before the fall
yet and still we rise
despite the challenges
despite our cries
despite our insistence upon
believe the lies
we tell ourselves.

Continuing that conversation
we are overcome by revelation.

The voices in your mind, slowly cease.

Instead, you are filled with peace.

Surcease.

Karmic Tender

Waste not the day,
the Way pays it forward,
karmic tender proffered
demoralized prophets buffered
by angelic hordes,
deplorable desecrations of nations
the evolution of civilization.

The Tao initiates bows
by the uninitated to those they deem
supreme,
genuflecting subjecting the Enlightened
to the worship of the unredeemed.

Seize moments in time,
life can never rewind,
reminding us of past moments sublime
sepia-toned remembrances
of street lights and picket fences,
innocent youth spent in unconscious exploration,
the commemoration of moments
the payoff of karmic debt foments.

Living in the Now frees
tortured souls to be despite the limitations
of their stations,
the documentation of genetic relations
the endless recycling of
instantaneous creation.

Time continues its remorseless dance
the days whirl, twirl, dip then prance
across the stage of spatial manifestation,
our honored relations observing
from beyond
as the Angels chime in with
heavenly song.

Distant Rumblings

Distant rumbling beckons awareness
solar storms awaken the earth.

Gaia’s skin shifts, tectonic forces remorseless
absorbing the love of Sol, fierce and true.

Electromagnetic emanations bath the world,
emotional currents flow through.

Terran humanity oblivious to the ramifications
as the planet below does sing.

Her heart and soul scintillating brightly
her dance so pure and filled with grace.

Civilizations fall as the world heats quickly
Oceanic consciousness prepared for change.

The Way (Tao)

Knowing the Path
Isn’t the same as living the Path,
We walk on glass, fast,
Stumbling and falling,
Bumbling and calling
Out to God to save the Day,
Show us the Way,
The Tao says compassion stays
In vogue, moderation in all things.
Rogue outlooks bring karma into
play, as we enter into the fray.

Spouting beatitudes and parroting
The wisdom of Sages,
Pages of obscure text we intone,
Projected outwards into the void,
The wages of sin deployed,
In service to Ego
We lose our joy.

Innocence lost,
We are tossed into life
Unprepared, to carry the battle
Between the wheat and the tares
To the next level
In search of love,
We petition God above,
The fruition of heartache and pain
Denied, we cry as we
Die inside.

Only surrender can bring us forth,
No longer pretenders we look
To the North,
The wisdom star to guide us on,
The heavens above attendant
To our fateful song.

Yet the South ever calls,
The rumbling jungles,
The crashing falls,
The high plateau ranges
That reach the sky,
The virgin savannas
That greet the eye.

The West, the land of Destiny
The Way gathers souls,
From every corner of the earth,
To witness bold forays into
The unknown world,
Pearls of wisdom gather,
While fools would rather waste lifetimes
Pursuing banalities,
Human frailties the wages
Of the maelstrom.

Strumming emotions,
Playing others with potions
Of devotion,
Misusing trust, ancient forests
Of the East believe,
Sentient trees lean ponderously
Their leaves bent toward the seas,
While Sages gather beneath
Their eaves.

Each moment a gift,
We wish upon a moon,
Soon to bloom we croon,
Singing melodies of eternity,
The fraternity of our eternal
Paternity, a matriarchial rhythm,
The bosom of the Great Mother
So warm, her charms ward off
The storms that threaten the norm.

And thusly, we are reborn.

Contemplation

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.

When?

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.