annoyedbythevoid-blog

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

ayahuasca, medicina sagrada viaje lejos, muéstranos quiénes somos ayahuasca, medicina sagrada viaja lejos, muéstranos que somos estrellas Que todos los seres encuentren la paz que la humanidad sea liberada del sufrimiento Que todos los seres encuentren coraje y compasión ayahuasca, medicina sagrada Enséñanos la lección del amor ayahuasca, medicina sagrada nos traes la paz tú nos traes la sabiduría muéstranos cómo sanar muéstranos cómo sanar nuestro mundo que todos los seres encuentren la paz

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Blooming Epilogue of  an Ancient Passage

I plucked the petals of nature’s prism And with each petal, turned between the questions Of what life was & why I decided to come back. Perhaps a choice can come from a painting of pure simplicity

And of this unplucking, I was human, released Into the deep puddle of unremembering. We are a rupture of interlinking strings of mind stream. Though, I still find myself caught on a branch against A current that deceives me into believing I’ll drown Until my grip releases and I sink into that aquatic eclipse. I swim in a series of countless conundrum In a rolling, enclosing ocean of ticking clocks & I hope that my feet are thrown To the surface by the lure of a captains knot. Except Life is a cluster of tangled knots That when unraveled go nowhere. What is this place? How can I exist in the fissure of an ether?

At times it feels like my heart hurts, That it’s asking to be saved, & That person who its asking is me & Each time it feels like I fall to my knees and Shout, “I don’t know!” I can’t fix it. I’m not the clockmaker, nor surgeon. I’m not the answer, but a U-turn to yet another question. I’m not finality for your truth, but the shapeshifting shadow Of my own, weaving relics in the dark chamber.

I’m an ellipsis that composes the tracks who lead Into a path aligned with flowers and bones Herding soil to soul. However, I’m no conquistador of these centuric corridors, Those ones who appear and get connected Like dots of a constellation drawn out by scientific children. I’m certain of no thing, but I think an accurate diagnosis for this heart calling out is a fear of becoming Nothing—swallowed into the cataclysm of void, Yet somehow, I’m not afraid For the womb is a well of holy water. I think that my mother and all mother-womb Is the start of a supernova, and that  every person you meet wears a patch of star tissue, for now, somehow misplaced in a pile of societal bar-codes.

I’m here A fragment of bones in a blender of time.

I’m here Cognizant and captivated, at times, a pile of agitated Flesh, yet liberated when I realize that Death is not something to be conquered.     The body is an hourglass temple that features this orchid of fear & beginning from the bosom this orchid bursts to the frame.   Fear is this flower that remembered to bow to the sun To validate That what makes your scared is really sacred If you rearrange the letters. Fear is a garden. I’m certain of this.

I keep dreaming of bearing a child One who I carry as a bouquet of roses But perhaps this child doesn’t have to exist In a capsule of hesitant flesh— I think that I have a bardo in my belly, An entrance, perhaps, the source of a kindled flame Where grief and death are grains offered into a serkyum.

What is sacred? A deer will tremble and shake Trauma from its body after each escape. What is sacred?

This body is a maze of turbulent element. Heart-fire pulse, breath wind whispering wonder, fed from volcanic soot, water is my consciousness What is sacred?

Mortality is a ring of turquoise that I keep on my finger. I walk in the rain knowing rain does not wish To become tears, nor does the ocean barter with blood. Will you, tideful abyss, make a melody with the moon?           Mortal eclipse, rattle mouth of cicada hymn Life is movement, copulating energy That traces the map of a question Of where we began and from The beginning you return to the end And the end returns unto itself— Planets unfolding, revolving.

I want to consume the grapes of these thoughts, These minutes and their moments, this metamorphosis. I will consume the ashes from which I have risen.            Mortal eclipse, you are a static synapse wailing, wailing My body is a season, my body is a season The soul within, rests in its cocoon Within the flesh of these holy petals. I think that the mystery we believe in Was but a thorn of Eden scrying on a weeping rose that saw a human. & on this day was birthed a reason-- . A dragonfly died on my porch yesterday. Today the wind blew her away. Today rain came. Today a sparrow sang. Today I am here again, again.

Creed, myth, mystery Boundless self, brother brahman Final cause for all existence and their exits Consciousness, Concordance,Communion,  Compassion is a sword wrapped in silk That diamond coated core Come built from a gardens silt And those guardians rest in those gardens With the cricket pulse breath beating lessons Reverbing from every pew in nature’s auditorium.

Oh, how many flowers I’ve met and remembered? Oh, how many flowers have wilted and another risen? Every soul is either facing or fighting their internal surface erosion, wearing away the days and their faces By water, wind, and imaginative sin.

Mirth, flame, chasm Boundless self, sister sutra Mother metaphor, father causation body beneath The miracle of the angel inside itself These bones are a percussion. Instead of seeking answers, I could rest in them and compose a nest. Deep profound darkness, you are a dagger on this alter.

I be water. I be ice I be lyrics of tender syllable I be temperature of tongue lover I be ivy mocking vein.                                                                                              I is numerical for one. I am one with what is infinite. One with the other and the eyes of another. One and I, the numerical chapter awoken when opened And a stream of sand fell from that book. Show me the sacred language that the sea paints on the shore These masters have browsed those pages. What I am not is yet What I am and what I am Just might be a thought.

Or perhaps a wink of God. The planets meditate in space— Make portals for nascent breath and every death. I find that every stranger is no stranger But a reflection in a still and freckleless water. What are we if we cannot see each me in another?            The vagrant man who shuffles beneath the bridge is painting a world in his corner.            The carpenter wants to make himself            The poet wants to witness            A seamstress strings each second with restless fabric            Truth wants to tame the tongue for every tale            A shepherd leads with the solitude of sheep            Thunder pines            The void wants to be noticed and not known, Show me a mirror so that I can see everyone. Show me truth come from patient encyclopedias. Show me fingerprint scripture of self Show me hummingbird nursing golden nectar Show me birchriddle sage tree How many rings shall I have if you cut me open? Those rings have wrapped themselves into a bow, Those rings have wrapped themselves like the angle Of every path I shall take.

I peeled open the universe and saw a spider in the stamen. Every spider that I see is my surrender to this journey’s decay. I hope that one day a black widow should crawl away Sparing her hourglass venom So that this hourglass of mine Does not fall from the table and shatter.

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Hey guys! If you would like to read more poetry by me here is my new book! :) 

All profits are dearly appreciated and will be going in my fund that’s moving me to Seattle in August or September. If the shipping is too ridiculous, PM me and we’ll work something out via paypal and postal service. Thank you!!!

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

A silly photo my Mom took when I THOUGHT she was doing yoga with me. Anyways, my dog is kind of the best,

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

:)

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Liberation Through Hearing

Face of chatoyant spirit wears the mask of the monoliths Reality is just a dream that we wake up from.   The unweighted greatness of nature, immortal in its wise perfection Knows that the spirit is boundless. Hitherto, stone beings cling to matter.            I’m in a tesseract of            delusion calibrated in            detached spiritual celibacy. Dimensional portals hang on the mouth of your volition—chew on complex infinity— All consciousness wears an axis, while bodies wearing a thousand todays cling to eternal reverence. I want to be free   from the color of Ego. I swim in the prominent void— dark red, burnt green machine. This plasma makes bread out of plagues. There is no plague without a form. Life is a paradox. I thread the needle Into every question, implore its source from divine intuition. The molasses of thought is tossed out by death’s receptionist.   I digress, clinging to the relic of flesh.   Empyrean kingdom disguises as rot Surrendering to the soft decay of the lockjaw lotus: We wear the cyclic birth as a ribbon of exaltation—such false refuge— You cannot catch your breath if you’re looking at your carbon.   Quartz disguises as corpse, consumes the closed eye vista.     These feet are roots. Branches of time. I’ve been taking a spade to my own limbs pleading for the key. Mother, have you found me? Liana of soul serpant keeper shakes The globe, peers curiously beyond the glass Writing rubrics on the semester of my own reflection.   I sacrifice the sediment of auric residue, the orenda Climbs into the Rorschach of fluttering vomit.   Horror and awe claim the same name. If I say my name out loud three times I might appear and rise like smoke from this yawning mouth, fall down to the ground like a scorched church over the night gaping in its star-charmed expanse. Electrons burst inside the serpent attached to my spine.  Devoured by all space and its color I                                                                                    release into Sacred Atonement!                                                      The gatekeeper has delivered the seraphim. Sacred Atonement!                                                      Icaros echo the dissolution of illusion. Mortal Eclipse!            Fear paints the self into an obsidian oblivion Mortal Eclipse!                                                 Flesh recoils from the palace of its own cocoon—                                                I boil in the samsaric sea. Sacred Atonement!                                                      Centipedes consume inches                                    Humans consume the precipice of every hour                        Energy consumes the infinite, measured by the breath of an aeon Mortal Eclipse!            The ego is carnivore and consumes itself Sacred Atonement!            The soul is a peach wearing pearls Mortal Eclipse!            The body is a sacred vessel wearing its quiet expiration.   The carnal mind bows into broken wishbone, yielding its buttery marrow.   Sacred Atonement!            I absorb into the disintegration of a seeds constellation. Time fulfills its perfect circumference. I’m a mouse in a solar maze chewing chimerical wax. The soul is the silvering flame.  Atoms-eating-body navigate the labyrinthine vein of bough becoming estuary. The light of a candle shines deific through a burning lyre, calling from the dimensional void:            “Mirror, mirror before the fall            shows the projection beyond your eyeballs.” I peel the bark from my face and touch the Earth’s mantle, Shake the leaves into the exposed heart-sun core.   Nothingness as canvas.   I feel like an infant— A fresh fetus of fruit nursing the tender breast of bardo medicine.                        Void. Your nucleus is a throne for the universe.                        Void. Become the soul without the self.                        Void. The body is a toy in a parlor of fire. There is no hell, only empty sky.                        Void I am the sun seeking the source   Synthesizing terror and curiosity. She planted seeds.                        Void. Unavoidable atlas.   Do not resist. Do not be afraid. Wander serenely in riddles of caves. The ruins begin to look like cathedrals.   The Tree of Life climaxes during the second death. What did you think she would sound like?            The ecstasy of release, hysteric revelry                        Mirthful catharsis becomes laments; twines the vine of itself            Along the spine of the trunk. Death is The metamorphosis of existence. You are The God having a human experience. Laughter is The fingerprint of the celestial self.   Incarnation does not grow linear.   My pomegranate womb plugs its roots into The veins of the Earth;   Wraps itself in life’s warm testament. She takes a hammer to the stone illusion Breaking it apart into floating cubes Disappearing into space. Reality is funny isn’t it? The certainty within the hour has expired, The last second has gone back into itself, Inside the mouth of reality’s coiling serpent. Time consumes itself and recycles Into the fertile soil of pristine cognition.   Fear is the germination of every karmic lecture. If all is one, then I am the Ether’s sister. I want to look into the eye of forever and confess my admiration. For Love is how the soul evolves. Be pleased yet once again to observe Your shifting flesh form into a newly fragile film of spectral matter. Is there really any difference between that of intuition and the angels?

Instead of cowering under the web of death’s riddle, I look onward, fascinated, at the tree before me weeping the golden harvest of its sappy denouement-- Retiring back into the capsule of the circadian season.   

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Let life happen

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

I downright love this flashy eyed guy.

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Photosynthesis

When finally summer bleeds, I careen   Through those sidewalk tongues and notice the dandelions between.             These weeds climb through those cracked chasms, standing stoic, funny, as if they had been synthesized from the pollen of an angel’s feather. I collect these dandelion dreams to burn them, scorch their extending seeds with a soft match and observe how they detonate,             how they consume their own nucleus,                         how they expose                                     their eyelids                             ,now with blisters and black wilt. Where do wishes go if you breathe fire?              I watch these embers expire into nothingness and think that this must be how children teach themselves empathy. That Life is a laboratory. That meaning derives itself from complex overestimation or That emotions are breathing tesseracts in simple rotation or That experimenting is watching a plea of rain fall from a petal into your palm containing some type of divine birth. If there is truth, our blood already knows it. Inside you is an ocean of errant secrets kept inside the prism of this body, diving through us always, beckoning us to set fire to all structures founded upon counterfeit tropes that lie and proclaim that dandelions really can answer prayers if you blow hard enough. So, I mosey on and step through this agglutination containing collected vows  of cement stamen waiting for dissection. I turn them into particles of worlds and words exploding: There is order in chaos, but balance must be proven. This is the paradigm of God, that beautiful bitch, this is its planetary turn in hexing fleshes into stone before given the offer to pinch themselves. I have the void written on the palm of my hand Just to remind me that it is there, like a psalm engraved in the sun. The shadows projected on the opposite end decode themselves and decide that to be glorified is to suffer.

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

On Writing Poetry

The one who sleeps now awakens with a new sensation of hunger. I wake up, from anonymous dreams to lend you my blouse brimming with ink.   Afterwards, I look inside, My ribcage is an exploding chasm—I fumble, hypnotic and take out a pile of twisted, writhing roses. I implore the lips of these thoughts to speak,   I’d like to comb the foam from the tongue like a fat monk and consume its scaly green. Instead, the saliva in these cells seeps through rusty fingers. Calm and innocent in your sacred sleep; where do you fall in that retired void? Do you drown in that dream of lexical jargon?   I am a tired creature. What shall I do? Dismiss you as a polluted decision Or a bleeding part of myself demanding attention? I misplaced the intimacy of metaphor.   There are too many words fighting like sperm to             implant Themselves     onto the            uterus of a single,            lecturing           synapse… All of these words                     fighting to know breath   Your room is a waiting room for dictionary purgatory— A catharsis without reprieve—I rock you from your cradle As you coo at the halo of glorified sheep, caught in their incandescent circularity in a moony eden, meditated.   Inspiration is a mass that I can’t keep up with.     The wrinkly groove between your eyes twitches in an unfettered innocence, As you advanced,   sunset-colored once more in sleep. Shall I rouse you As a crowned cluster of singing Shivas? Or as a succubus, sucking the gothic clove? They touch fingers across a populous vastness.   You’ve gotta zoom in to            Dissect reality If one feels compelled to write—            To be inspired by: Pen scratched interlude, waving to a dream inside a howling star over a baptized sea,            Who looked up gayly at them in thought, in a poetic fever,            blinking words into an                          internal forever.            I want to beat time like a nail            into this house made of glass to see how its reflection collapses            Into            An exposed partition; ghosts grabbing dollhouse realities while the living            Zombies slink, sharping social mediotic mediatations; unyielding,                        To demands that pound at the eyes door, furiously wailing like childish negation for being pulled from that high star into the belly of vexing, careless riddles. Language cannot neglect itself, the brain neglects itself. That waist-deep, blank, prism-paged abyss reflects like A possessed doves breast, refracting deliciously in its desire to be saturated, Thrown into the mystery of that space—eons consuming iotas   Of those suns caught in ceremonial                                    Crescendo with the                        cyclic seasons on the same conveyor…            It slid from that moon-shadow around the window, played acrobat from The fishhook of question mark.   My fingers are snakes with tailor’s shears shedding skin that I release back into the untamed darkness. Everything in life is your own creation. I am a survivor of patient destruction. I chant songs of the sleeping war, while, strung            in calligraphied filament.   Sometimes, I wonder if life is rigged, or that horror is really Imaginary; perhaps, disguised behind the song of A butterfly’s ripping wings—or that love is a lesson that holds The reflection of yourself—or that the self is a fabrication   lionbearded with strength undiscovered Until the next metrical verse; whether prose or bucolic rebirth Or flesh-footed sacrifices of I-ambs. Wake up now, get up   with this moment of temporal sweetness. For now, satisfied, You’re no longer hungry.

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Their Keys

The leaves in their careless descension are beginning                to turn into seconds. I accompanied an old friend in euthanizing his dog at 8:15 this evening—   An evening that carries itself on with the magnetic wind,                                Lingers on the skin, as if to chant the unknown secrets                Of a new year taunting its untamed mortality                Pulled tight like a ribbon, ready to unwind on this breath                Of proof blowing frost into the sleepy November night.   Poke. That was the name he wore woven in                An old white dog of a body                                  With a big head that blew bubbles                And a droopy mouth, Always staring off into                                                     forever.                You couldn’t tell the difference between Him being            a genius               or just                    a little dumb.   I want death bruised with the black song of routine—                                With time as the accomplice, anything with a heartbeat or                Matter must bow to an expiration, Like Poke did.                    How he smelled like the breath of a stale reaper                Musty with its reverse womb scent As if to make room for itself inside the soft chamber, preparing the soul to recycle. He looked peaceful, as any old dog should be.   Autumn is a beautiful death—                The cold zephyr is the accomplice                                At the gymnastic yellow-hued surrender                Orchestrating an exposed cocoon that releases brown snap under boots like popping bubble wrap.                                And a bird falls through a sky of little white keys,                                Innocent and naïve in their notes that bloom only to dissolve:                The fate of all living—Swung in a carriage of young yet perfected breath,                 human prophets protecting their manuscripts of days, compacted tight                In worm-soil, blades of grass urging to break free,                stitched through the partnership of ant-solider— All beings are warriors if alive,                  Surviving softly, knowing, that living is beauty and death is a flower— And a cassia wrung from the stars dropped the seed, And soon an old dog merged with the infinite,                                Forgetting his name with the eternal slumber                With Master as the accomplice wearing the bones of God-knowing -what’s-best for expiring machinery beating softly as a bat flies quiet in cavern void.                We spend our entire lives learning how to die and tame death like a raging forest fire or                                sacrifice the ossuary, hoping an IOU will suffice.                  Steady bird song stretches wind on a back-lit black night;                                the world waltzes as it always had before: She, the mad womb, buxom mother reaper and creator, Sun-splicing gravure who plants the                Moon beans. They strung seed earrings, wheel their flower gears—keep composed the music like a hush in wind, dark and clear.   I say to God, “What?” I lay down the white light.     We crawl on all fours looking for a key that we might have swallowed, I retire, smell the flowers on a sidewalk in Winter,                relearn what it means to surrender while seeking repose also from the same cycle, as donations of compost are collected.  

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Resting Place

Sometimes when my thoughts are tense I rest below those blazing bridges             And listen at this life, Humanity—     These mortals, lovers that’ve orgasmed death Dragonflies, drivebys, passerbys —from every inch which they exist, their blood pulse, large crimson hunger, life        taking the shape of shifting matter of fact Tesseract of highways,       Moonrise over interstate serpents Sunset up through this city where                            I named myself & forests where I trained thunder Those earlier memories of sidewalk conversation The later navigation Through fading, immortal youth                             Distance— Portals intersecting with the movement of strangers          Their mystery contained, my curiosities                    And detachment for society --moon shining upon all that I know With one handshake to eternity                In the final conculsion—                       Reality is an hourglass   Anxiety,      I rise up and I claim you, shrugging            And stagger along the space, pondering all Human matter,            Nothing matters: Neuroscience, geology, Searching for meaning, reciting alphabetic sleep,            Waiting quiet in soft solitude, People pacing to and from flesh avenues              Surging fast, in moments, gone…   Now to leave here and fold laundry and watch            That moon musing beyond the window                        Everything always continues--   And it pulses in a shadow casted from Time     And it lingers like mothballs in the chasm From a pocket of God Or        something like   Innocence seeping into the garden   My toes trudging Life’s wormsoil body, My thoughts plastered into the function            of a scarecrow gazing on some horizon—in morning—                        When I must seek renewal— For better flowers—or to become the            Spade or seed                        Destroying or creating—   Flinched at the dream before            me, I pack up remains of mental cargo Astonished at this strange dream,            People stagger on through sidewalk fibers With libation, conversation            devotions, charcoal splints,                        Onward to redemption Life, people asking for all answers      Boxcars lingering with            Tired nostalgia and belching with freight And none of those machines carry      On them any nourishment, blazing, serpentine,            Through Earth’s garden        Raped by railroad or consumed by corporate donation While oceans seek repose Reprieving emptiness and humanity                        Thus mending its refrain            these bones, these minds            Covered by flesh or costume            transposing into that complex botanical waiting to retire.

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

No sleep Friday the 13th

I could hear the restlessness from the dogs and feel it in myself as I awoke, just shy a coin toss of the witching hour. I brewed tea in the hopes of bringing myself back into the soft realm of sleep. There is an empty desk--a polished, unknown forest throne waiting for God, with a mouth full of pens.            At what point does this Tazo Zen kick in?   This sanctuary of Solitude (at times too long, at times too brief)— This introspective mattress pad cliff where I find relief This tesseract of my own mortal dimension-- This space that I have combed and made a nest of— Although, inside, is but a room of mirrors that I alone hung, refusing to look in. Each wall weaves a lesson while wearing the color of morning. What prism to peer in? I look beyond my left shoulder, ‘YOU ARE NOT ALONE.” Below are the memoirs of old photographs, some now nameless The books whisper amongst themselves like attic mice Their spines forthright, sifting through their internal catalogue of Chapters, words, context, connotation Diction, tone, allegoric creation., Language I wish not to betray, Vocabulary misplaced in a thorn of daydream, Italics, hypotheses, parentheses, comma splice Rhetoric devices, myths, plights   I’m going mad with these unplucked thoughts clustering I’m going mad with these atoms dispersing and shifting     Wait. Its Friday the 13th. I’ve never been one to believe in ghosts. Can you tell that I’m lying? Looking upon my ceiling?   Even a ghost couldn’t see them self in a room of mirrors.   So, I swallow incantations to steep myself in something warm: Damiana, Ashwaganga, Pranayama, Herbal extraction into the tincture soul from Karma-- We all create our own, I suppose. I interchange coffee mugs.   There is no difference between god or Self in Solitude.            The granule within or omniscience            The masterpiece and the prosecutor I condemn myself for my own white sin. Wait as a fossil in a jar of paint.   All that’s left to be marked is internal. This room is a castle woven with labyrinth This holy vortex This tesseract of self refracting against the other in This room of mirrors. I encase myself with blue blankets and blank stares most of the time writing my name on the condensation of reflection.

[annoyedbythevoid-blog]

Flenner

The body is composed of memory, smooth Vessel, flesh of estuary, spit womb-fire that Saunters through time to fossil, silent, To be noticed and not known.   Immortality of youth not to be Collected dust on universe’s hour But a lingering essence forgiven, returned To be noticed and not known.   Spider! I see you thread your web-metaphor Spider! Consume your morsel-nympth As if you are a black sun behind eclipse only To be noticed and not known.   The poet details circles on the wall, Possessed. The pen with ether ink is the Void creating itself with an unplumbed murmur To be noticed and not known.