Raza, raza; singlit nabkuusa.
Raza, raza, sid glaufan. Singlit nabkuusa din. Uubba uubba nastrolli zandgrit zumma flr lickyya. Mmmm...gummi gummi leder sheathen. Zandof zarathustra; Zarathustra gn ridding up n owaay frm rth n mee nhall d'peeples' cuszn dey d'nna unnerstan. Singlit nabkuusa din. N aiy dnna ker iffn yall unnerstan ernat. M'eye iz iznt hallzo kleer. Eyez kn zee throo mie aiyzlidz 'n zee wharz Eye fron. An' deye onedr owlon git'll taeyck fermi tu unnerstan duh meenin ov daleddrs ondap age. Izzit 'mee horizit dawrld arroun dmee?
Eye mizz de kuhlness ovda autumnair. Eye mizz deastoun dings keyes ab ov. Eye mizz desown dov birdzin damorn. I mizz the tutch of mask ulines kin. I mizz the tutch ofs kin aginstkin. Eye mizz unnerstan ding wat utherz want frommee. Eye knead to bee kneaded. Eye knead to bee . . . thatzit . . . Iye knead to bethauh wone thatzees, tha tears, thatsays, "The words they speak mean things to them alone, and any effective communication between you and another is a total fluke. It's amazing that anything ever gets done."
Tuesday, April 30, 2002
Friday, April 26, 2002
malestrom
brrrrrrr....the breezy, drafty whispers coming from those dark and uncontrolable ideas that pop into the minds of innocent bystanders as they witness horrible deeds contemplated by celebrities and sinners...there is no hope of coming to terms with their evil ways. the illusion of power has constructed an even more fragile hallucination of corruption. if only they knew that it doesn't matter...that none of it matters...it's just an illusion.
problem is is that not only do people believe in the illusion of power and corruption, but they believe in the consequences, which are illusions as well. it is all fragile as I said. remove one leg that it stands on and it begins to teeter to one side and totter to the other and before you know it the entire construct becomes deconstructed and rains down on your head like a reign of illusion. it chases its own tail, over and over again. each time it picks up speed. a highly destructive constructed and deconstructed dream it has become and all because we are willing to believe in aphorisms, anecdotes and iambic pentameter. i find no such solace there, or here, or over there beyond the malestrom...only here...
in the off center
where the water turns white
before the water - drain cyclone sucks me down
brrrrrrr....the breezy, drafty whispers coming from those dark and uncontrolable ideas that pop into the minds of innocent bystanders as they witness horrible deeds contemplated by celebrities and sinners...there is no hope of coming to terms with their evil ways. the illusion of power has constructed an even more fragile hallucination of corruption. if only they knew that it doesn't matter...that none of it matters...it's just an illusion.
problem is is that not only do people believe in the illusion of power and corruption, but they believe in the consequences, which are illusions as well. it is all fragile as I said. remove one leg that it stands on and it begins to teeter to one side and totter to the other and before you know it the entire construct becomes deconstructed and rains down on your head like a reign of illusion. it chases its own tail, over and over again. each time it picks up speed. a highly destructive constructed and deconstructed dream it has become and all because we are willing to believe in aphorisms, anecdotes and iambic pentameter. i find no such solace there, or here, or over there beyond the malestrom...only here...
in the off center
where the water turns white
before the water - drain cyclone sucks me down
Monday, April 22, 2002
,
more goose-pimpled sounds, insipid pin-pricks of mental illumination shoot like darts from the outer sphere toward the surface where we stand. The coldness behind my eyeballs foretells the frosty vision of the winter-minded Way. Slippery, fresh, biting, mucus freezing as it drains out your nostrils onto your naked upper lip...I can see that you are unprepared for the topography of the seasons as they are sifted through the comb-teeth of our perceptions.
The sky, blue, the sun, yellow-white and without warmth, the snow, golden where the great star illuminates and where shadows rule, blue. The winter sky is astounding as it domes over the crystal covered branches and glass encrusted flowers, sprung from the ground too soon.
Is the air actually cleaner, or does it simply smell less darkened when the coldness dampens ones sense of smell?
From out of the gallery comes the maroon and saffron robed monk, the chill is pleasant on his darkened skin. It clings to and is transformed by the friendly smile and grinning eyes.
more goose-pimpled sounds, insipid pin-pricks of mental illumination shoot like darts from the outer sphere toward the surface where we stand. The coldness behind my eyeballs foretells the frosty vision of the winter-minded Way. Slippery, fresh, biting, mucus freezing as it drains out your nostrils onto your naked upper lip...I can see that you are unprepared for the topography of the seasons as they are sifted through the comb-teeth of our perceptions.
The sky, blue, the sun, yellow-white and without warmth, the snow, golden where the great star illuminates and where shadows rule, blue. The winter sky is astounding as it domes over the crystal covered branches and glass encrusted flowers, sprung from the ground too soon.
Is the air actually cleaner, or does it simply smell less darkened when the coldness dampens ones sense of smell?
From out of the gallery comes the maroon and saffron robed monk, the chill is pleasant on his darkened skin. It clings to and is transformed by the friendly smile and grinning eyes.
Om A Hung Vajra Guru Peme Siddhi Hung.
Om Mani Peme Hung
Om A Hum Vajra Guru Padme Siddhi Hum.
Om Mani Padme Hum
The smell of dhoop rises into the city sky. The sound of chanting mingles with the roar of noise obsessed animals. Compassion, compassion.
I retreat into that place where I can count the insipid pin-pricks of mental illumination like sheep, trying to send myself to sleep.
Tuesday, April 16, 2002
the seed, the source, the sanctuary
all rites and rituals reserved
copyright 2002 by Stuart Dummit
hush...esthers of cinnamon and burnt apple are crawling on their bellies toward the shuddering door. The Wind, strong armed and transparent, rattles and rages beyond the panels of wood, carrying crystalized puffs of breath in swirling ribbons, seeking chinks in the walls and halls and tall, tall towers where the shadowy tingles and goose pimples live. And all the while, instead of casting darkness like shadows against the candle lit walls, the odors of autumn project their timely tastes upon the boards of ash that line the flickering yellow lit room.
Weighted eyelids begin to crust over. A warm and sweetish spring begins to trickle tickle across the fleshy cheek and cling as it runs, in defiance of gravity, across and down upon crochet-covered shoulder. Struggle against the sleep, my dear, and enjoy the guilty nap. The candles burn low, the drafts wind around the table legs and sneek beneath the shawl and between the prayer clasped hands. Night time arrives unnoticed and sweet.
all rites and rituals reserved
copyright 2002 by Stuart Dummit
hush...esthers of cinnamon and burnt apple are crawling on their bellies toward the shuddering door. The Wind, strong armed and transparent, rattles and rages beyond the panels of wood, carrying crystalized puffs of breath in swirling ribbons, seeking chinks in the walls and halls and tall, tall towers where the shadowy tingles and goose pimples live. And all the while, instead of casting darkness like shadows against the candle lit walls, the odors of autumn project their timely tastes upon the boards of ash that line the flickering yellow lit room.
Weighted eyelids begin to crust over. A warm and sweetish spring begins to trickle tickle across the fleshy cheek and cling as it runs, in defiance of gravity, across and down upon crochet-covered shoulder. Struggle against the sleep, my dear, and enjoy the guilty nap. The candles burn low, the drafts wind around the table legs and sneek beneath the shawl and between the prayer clasped hands. Night time arrives unnoticed and sweet.
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