Memoir of a Disappearing Man – tracking the masked dawn





Did you know there are holes in sound

That cave monks follow

Where they mystically receive

The voweled chants of influencing planets

The sound of unadorned beauty

In the hole of an elephant trunk

Would tell you more than you’d ever know

Having the ears of jaguar

Or the blanketing heart of snow

In the arctic circle circles of latitude

Is a hole circle of fullness for travel

You could float in the coracle of this round world

In celestial waves of its sonic texture

To alleviate your own suffering

To quicken you in the immortal ancient amphitheatre

Each time I speak in this atmospheric refraction

Concrete words would fall out

I have to be very careful of what I say

I am building worlds rapidly in a circle

There are fourteen syllables in silence

Each one encoded in secret pre-pagan law

If you spoke any of them

You’d turn eternally invisible and soundless

In other words you’d turn into silence

Silence is the presence of pre-manifestation

And presence of post manifestation

It is the begetting seed of any new or ancient manifestation

Emptiness is a invisible vessel without walls

Formal boundaries are for getting inside things

For taboo’s and for escape the birds wear invisible hoods

Only rain makes me go deeper inside than planned

The department of cloudy interior

States the reason for your feeling low pressure

Are the millions of pounds of rain clouds overhead

Not that this federal agency is an enemy of the sun

But why do they use spy satellites to scan our brain moods

Only the sun makes me step out of my body way ahead of myself

Only the fruit still on the tree makes me feel like summer

Suddenly the great distance disappears in your floating touch

The otherworld permeates our silence with serpents and a burning bush

Only the happy and serious dogs who pleasantly greet me

Make me walk off with a purposeful gait nowhere in particular

I wouldn’t mind the insects making plans without me

But there’s never enough time said time

An no one could retort not even the loose canon

There are a few things we need to discuss

Research scientists from the department of internal revenue

Have discovered blood cells inside of money

And starting immediately if not sooner

Sixty five year olds and younger

Will be obligated with mandatory transfusion

Blood money will completely revive our economy

And revise our textbooks on slavery

For oh how we wish to stay alive

Life is turning to brown spots on my hands

Yes don’t talk about the body

While the hair grows through this little island

I catch the summer breeze in my next life

War inside is war outside

A festering of self indulgent turpitudes’

Keep your mantra’s clear and centered

The dog barks while you’re trying to pay attention that’s its mantra

Now’s not the time to lose your ground of being on the eroding earth

Well there are other ways to make poetry while humanity implodes

I have tried them

All hold powerful sway over my weakness

I sacrificed my many selves

At the alters of mysterious creation

Most of my offerings turned into erroneous clay

But oh how beautiful the accidents

And now well now

I just can’t give my secrets away

But think caterpillars

Marching to the moon

Disciples of the far reaches

Testimony of a challenged slack jaw I know

But my thoughts are not always semi-automatic

With the safety on

Listen and I will get serious for the few of you

Who need it and want to get somewhere close

With un-guarded an inconspicuous prose

Long live and prosper with my words on loan

Here’s something to read to keep yourself sharp

Full of distant pain and sweet things a little too close

We will discuss the nature of reality the innards of its polarities

And the incessant paradox of how time talks to itself without answering back

Pre-genesis act one will conclude with the pros and cons before we get started

There are two pages written by twenty four sages on

Communing with the otherworld at the cost of waking up

And how to manage that babble speech once you do

Chapter two covers how to pretend your real

I don’t remember the other chapters by name

If you’re wondering about the natural disorder of this text

There’s no telling where these stories come from

Some unheard of market with no way to get there

But if you roll with it for the worth of its beauty

You’ll get an orbiting pleasure of small wild clunky Gods and Goddesses

Their hands are patron saints for your hands

Love is a process of assimilating a pantheon

If you think me pretentious I’m sorry

But translating cat dialogue

And weather out of season is my lot

Your vindictive projections will crumple at my lordly peasants gate and so on

Always remember the value of the mundane or you will fall out of reason

For each little holy thing is a seed you can grow from

Each little holy thing is a world unto itself

Interdependent with all other holy things

Which is mostly everything in nature

And a good portion of humans too seem to carry one or two

Which is why I bring these life engendering things up reader

In a word or a repeated phrase yearning for the spell binding

A holy emanating presence in uttering  our souls desire

Rise inside you to touch every little holy thing

So we would grow that much more

And share into the holy green fire of the earth

That so many can’t see

Animals dying right under their hearts

So we would love and protect her

Her arbitrary mood and distant but graceful nature

To the disdain of others

Who hunt each other for mounted heads

May this green holy seed live inside to teach us

Displace our shadowed lineage with goodness tender and strong

Now for a cautionary footnote down below

For you surreal wood elves with plastic spock ears

Going to Glastonbury workshops

I’m afraid you are forever banned from any new era

The earth will decide to have

The narcissistic splendor is all too contagious

Others may choose to go back to TV

What is meaningful right now is the unfurling

Possibility that we might survive our adolescent pleasure

Inside the earth where we keep digging our holes

All our ancestors are down there

Hundreds of thousands of years of flesh and bone

A mass migration of cellular leeching and seeping into our food

Vegetables and animals and water and fauna

And we consuming them or using them for fuel

Oh believe me it’s all down there

Why do you think it’s called the underworld

Watch where you reach and put your hands

There’s a lot of lonely ones still looking for a host

In a way it’s the horror of eating ourselves our DNA

But let me comfort you with a happy ending

More of us are into a make believe romantic idea of life

Creating domain names in instagrams of fame

Tumblr proof anointing  where you can pin your interests

For your whole world to see your Facebook kudos

With your face in a book in the face

Tweet of your blog burb while I excuse myself

But I digressed and compromised myself to manic media too

How else would you be reading this

But before I close I just want to say

That deep underground they say

There’s a list of ways to be dead

And you can be somebody else

When they eat you

A close distant cousin

I know that in near future times of scarcity

Sandwiches will start going on pilgrimages

So as not to be eaten

I know I sound absurd

Until you return in your next life

As a organic double decker

With freshly made condiments

No matter if you’re not paying close attention to what I’m saying

What you have read so far is entering your blood stream

If nothing else you’ll feel different when I’m done with you

You’ll feel the orbit of your planet more

As if the magnetic axis were inside you

You’ll gravitate to strange harmonic sounds

And fierce solar flares will vibrate you slightly

Your mind will be stretched thin

By the plenitudes and rigid schooling

Of all teacher deities murmuring in your ear

And so on and so on your exhaust

Will light the sky for forty billion years

Your probably feeling it right now

You might come back in your next life more humble

Not want to get involved or take on any responsibility

For what you know for what you’ve taken in

You’ll only be able to share it with your closest self

Trust no one when you transcend

This brings me to the last chapter about God

For those of you who have been paying attention

Here comes the crowning truth most personal

But before I get into it I will plainly say

I find the carbon dating of my thoughts

To be a little out of date and behind the times

Who am I in the earth strata

Mythic dream sequence

Pre-computer era post selfie apocalypse

Well what I am not is a drunk storyteller of nostalgia

Or a literary agent with grinds to pick out of his teeth

I’m not a tattoo parlor big on symbols without roots

I’m not lost in the subterfuge of platitudes

Of words rolling over themselves covering the deep

My kinship ties to the nocturnal animal

Foraging under the bright moon far from its den

Words cannot fully comprehend who we are

Unless they stem from the tree of life

I started hearing the green words

When I started listening to myself

Gathering even quieter things

Between each silence

Two ears and one mouth it’s always been said

Anyways I started making my life into a prayer

Or more like a fetal bundle of silence

Listening to the roots of trees

Body bent inside the falling leaves

Of a hollow log on fire with eyes ablaze

With  spirit vision is how I received my god story

I’ve been trying to tell you about it and I’ll get there

Don’t forget what I said about holes and circles earlier

It testifies to this oracular god encounter

And could be useful for your own search

Remember too each little holy thing

For instance I know something the coyote knows

And the rest is just endless pages of footnotes

No one pays attention to

Endless words saying the same thing

I’ll tell you a few things that work for me though

I sing songs into the overly domesticated bent candle holders

I never allow myself flippant antidotes

That would sail me head long into no tomorrow

I dismiss any reoccurring symptoms of sadness for this world

Until they come back again

You probably wish to be inspired most people do

Well this is how we get to god after all convoluted searching

Like I said I hope something in here works for you

Personally I never found much use for regurgitated knowledge

As a way to insight and wisdom

But a living story that takes on a life of its own

Is the unfolding mystery inspiriting the quest

God went missing

He disappeared

Last seen in a Jewish hospital in Brooklyn

Named after the desert fathers

And a twelve year old rebellious girl named Mary

He was birthed there precocious for sure

But no one claimed him

He was left by the emergency doors

For the world to see the light again

Through the sliding glass doors

No no there weren’t any exit signs

But there he was wrapped in white linen

And seaweed and hemlock

Little pink face speaking in babble speech

Some say black or yellow others brown or red

Depends on who you talk to

But with semi automatic gestures

Index finger raised pointing to the moon

To explain to the nurse something she quickly forgot

God just disappeared vanished

Without a government social security card

A drivers license or a gambling debt

Nothing ordinary to show he was mundane

But much more powerful than the rest of us

Twenty one years after this urban legend was told

And still holds some ground in the odd graphic novels

People forgot how to pray

Wrapped in dysfunctional swaddle

Of modern societal cultural misfit

Rote celebrations of vacuous holidays

That once had spiritual prowess

Now well now they all prattle on about

The weather and taxes terrorism global warming

Gender issues species decimation the goddess

And new age platitudes ad infinitum

All valid reasonable yes yes but the cure

The sacred medicine was not here and it wasn’t

Praying to BMW’s and spiderman the next president

Selfie icons or game of thrones wonder

Folks step outside in nature these days

And it’s like another planet

But then Mary showed up thank god

No not the Christian one your thinking about

But some pagan like Cailleach like old bizarre herb smelling lexicon

Old fruit that wouldn’t bruise die or change color

She just pointed at the moon

And people started getting it

They started feeling different

Watching the light sphere with its blue shadows

Surrounded by stars clouds passed across their vision

They tried swiping them away like flies

There transfixion was an osmosis of embodied sentience

Their hearts felt lifted and torn by the long absence of moon

Now returned moon was the feminine side of God

The light of God’s love eye reflected

And god was a child but not a man

God was a goddess urchin who was hungry

For real prayer real purpose real earnest and honest commitment

To commune or she would not play

She’d just run off wander away maybe show again

In say a stable or a supermarket on the keyboards of a computer even

Or just lay there on the moon waiting for us to get our shit together

Make life holy again at least start making it respectable

And have some reverence for the earth her cousin

And certainly have care and reflect on what moves in out of your circle

And dam it love and respect the animals and trees and waters and all elements

And I told this story to children gods age and they saw the truth in it

Why can’t we

God is an old woman now most people don’t recognize

But she came back into town with a circus for what was to be the last show

Everyone knows how kids like a circus and most begrudging adults too

She set the three big tops up overnight by herself under the waning moon

When the show started she ran in its three rings on fire and got everyone laughing

She told the lions to challenge the adult ticket buyers a little fear to find their courage

She had the seals throw the haughty popcorn throwers out

And let the penniless urchins sneak in

She kept to the big tent at night alone when everyone went home

She used the  tent pole as an axis mundi the white blank canvass as a sail through the stars

Many dreamed of her that night cackling like a witch through the solar system

Creating new worlds in her wake until the modern world chopped down her mast the next day

You couldn’t hear anything but a raging storm after that for the rest of your life

And here we are at the end of the story but there’s still hope

Because of how she used that sail at night when most were sleeping

She had collected all those big hearted thoughts and gestures of ours in a grocery bag

Poked pin holes in it for us to breathe freely as she hung it on the top branches

Of the green holy tree a living gift shining through all points in the world

Leaving footnotes for slow learners and cradling the young in secret tongues


*FOOTNOTE – the text below can begin or end the story for more clarity


Only the sovereignty of poetry and its sentience

Only the spirit navigating this shamanic art

Forms between here and there awaken

Resurrecting presences illuminating our indigenous soul

Far seeing communion with nature and other otherworld

between here and there is our inner message

Flow that was already delivered and just beginning

The nature of roundness and circle portals to infinity



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