8_dancing_fools

im lucid screaming
in unconscious waking dreams
i've been dragging my heart behind my car
sacraficing my art by ignoring the fuel of my feelings
i've been skipping stones along a river fucking my shoulder up with bad form
so how about i talk straight, if not for you then how about for me.
im numbing myself,
im dumbing my wealth,

"since feeling is first who care about the syntax of things"
while feeling is important,
being a feeling junkie can lead one to loose the importance of appreciating things in their natural order:
grief then gratification
pain then pleasure

its amazing how my lips can feel the memories of multiple people


im ignoring the fact that i've been snoring
i've been hitting snooze while lacing my shose
ive been following the morality of dreams in the day
shaping my spine out of clay
do i want this?
...or do i want that?
i've been choosing to let the choppy surface of my feelings reflect my actions rather than looking into the depths of what i will eventually dive into,
i havent been taking notice of the clearance my ego will need.

when will i finially wake up and take advantage of a whole day?
i need to take pride in my productivity
and begin to practice, sharpen and polish the skills i want to have for the rest of my life.

What keeps me from organizing my closet according to the clothes on the ground.
I’ve been .living in a pretty cluttered room, with bunched up shirts and wrinkled pants tossed with our care to one corner of my room. That one corner of my room that is framed with towering mirror slider doors. This carpeted patch before my closet full of garments that make me social is a unorganized heap of work pants, old black duffle bag of clothes I took to Oakland a couple moths ago. The duffle bag traveled from my closet to the cluttered alter patch of foot space before my jumbled row of button up shirts, folded work slacks, pea coat and another jacket or two.
By allowing for the rearranging of the coat hangers and clothes in my closet I can continue the positive inertia of a good habit into the task picking up my clothes at night and actually assign them destinations before my room.
If hypnosis actually works by inducing trance like states, the arrangement of consciousness between following a very relaxed and suggestive direction while being possessed by spontaneous sponge the hypnotist is squeezing as he relaxes your will into the forfeiture of your unconscious wakelife dreams with a drunken and fading ego.
If hypnosis works then I know that deciding to organize my closet according to coat hanger, from the big dressy one meant for heavy coats according to the smaller ones and maintaining sequences of categories for my clothes I will be possessed to hang my clothes up at night for every clutter has a clear destination in my room, beyond any drunken question I may have. If hypnosis engages a tribal, primal trance like state so very reminiscent of any aboriginal shaman than this here habit is a ritual that encompasses my social lifestyle.
If I were to slow down and actually appreciate my life. To be inspired by the complex beauty of my day to day, second to second, present life I live. I want to create a hypnotherapy session in which the patient is induced into being appreciative for every sensation he experiences is placed in a bathroom with running water. THE patient is in a swim suit and is placed in a shower. The hypnotist focuses on the first moments in which the hair and scalp of the person is drenched in water whose nerves were screaming pleasure.
This experience alone will be unconsciously suggested and associated with the need to be inspired by life.

If one takes the subtle time to be inspired by the pleasure, pain and beauty of the most common experiences throughout our day then changing ones habit and thus impressionistically ones future as a person would be a simple task of deciding.
I am deciding to meditate every morning at five thirty for 30 minutes.
Im going to enjoy this experience,
In fact look forward to it.
Why do I want to do this every morning,
Well it’s because if I give myself some alone time every day I know that my minds wealth of treasured tools will allow me to become a genuine man.
The man who has what he wants and is completely happy with everything.
E struggles and gets dirt caked on his hands
Whoever he can still travel in designer suits all the while helping people be inspired by their lives.

Love could not exist if not for faith
We are all little bodies of light pairing off and holding hands
And true love are candles lit in a windless place
As our minds focus should be
Im annoyed at how unabridged my thoughts of the prose of love are
While my day to day behavior is so
How you say bridged over the cool gaps of my unconscious oblivion non-dual infinity abyss
Which leads me straight into the green stop sign and go on red city of civilization
Not to mention my restaurant job?
And my girlfriend
And me
In my and with my family relations
The people I love most.
And the little catholic Johnny cash alpha and omega spurs that I wear in our public desert.
(at this point I interrupt my prose for five minutes as I enter my house from the side yard from which I prayed for faith in the god within myself through smoky spires of double helix nature,
Proving itself to me within nature)
So you have to have faith to have a religion,
To have a rebellion,
Perhaps that leads to a revolution.
Like the civil war and the only advent, so far, of bloodshed from brother to brother, whole thousands of Americans dead in one meadow, or city.
It just occurred to me that if a revolution were to fully succeed within such a cheap shiny politically consumed country such as this, America of which im completely proud to live in for my heart knows only love of the land and the ability to write, draw, say and somehow routinely suffocated into becoming a near predictable human being.
Im sorry there has to be a damn period after that!
For one, I’m living in a spherically cosmic dream (emphasis accentuated on the inconceivably extended in space or time aspects of the word cosmic)
Within the infinite ocean of Brahman, the utmost reality of formless consciousness,
My great grand-pa called it Beyond Beyond, the strong and gentle fucker refused to give god a name.
And that’s why the, perhaps impending revolutions cannot have a name.
If you give god a name then you have a church,
Where is the power now?
(now I know churches empower, this is just a cynically slanted slur of a 20 year old pissed at how catholic guilt depowers the individual of a soul.)
If you give a revolution a name then you relegate the power to the blaring TV’s and cyclical mudslinging of squawking republicans and democrats and infrequently a Real Person steps before the camera and actually says something thought provoking to the point of changing ones behavior.
But that’s all so occasional.
Almost sad.
The words that I write,
The feelings that I scoop and plop into words,
Within the mystical silence of the present moment
Of my digital ritual,
Of typing my words.
Of Fingers sexing the keys
Warming them up for something good as the feelings bubble into spires of synthetic thoughts that I pick up beside me like sticks and branches, playing like the young boy I once was.
And so who am I becomes relevant to the conclusions
because my magically convoluted mind told me so.
Who am I,
What I want to tell you now is that I sell pies as a cashier at a decently popular American west coast pie bakery and restaurant called Marie Calendars.
I’m a cashier in Sacramento and as these words consumedly confine me within the power of your mind to make a definition of me
I want you to join me in a prayer at the register,
I’m serious!
As you stand before me at the addictively light up pie rotund glass case filled to the brim with golden brown baked pies, huge muffins dripping with the morning oven dew of crumbs, and to your left within the case are four racks filled with seven beautifully white whipped, cream pies, three cheese cakes, two Quiches and* one fuckin’ custard pie that’s totally worth the and*.
So you are here and I am here swiping your credit card,
You are one in a hundred people I see today asking for pie and I am one eccentrically spunky cashier who got you pie who you may not see for a year.
What if we talked in such a way in this moment at Marie Callandars, that I became light.
That we became light.
That I became the flame
That my heart knows
Affirmably,
beating in my chest.
And I must confess that I love my girlfriend for she gives me faith in myself,
It feels so good to even think of talking about her,
My fingers tingle and my mind stretches, elongating in ecstasy, somewhat bigger than before.
I am a candle and my light is holding hands with my panda bears flame however I have not found my windless place yet.
I have not learned to tame the restless winds of desire and distraction that diminish my minds eternal focus.
I have faith that meditation and a girl that loves and supports who you are has the potential to be a powerful vehicle that delivers one to the door of the portal to becoming,
through the vestiges of realization and comprehension of the expression of the cosmic god,
or beyond beyond
that we really are.

And somehow I feel exquisitely alone
Knowing that all my loved ones are asleep as I trudge on through into the night
I walk from town to town with the clinging of my own shackles to accompany the crickets
I remember how these streets used to be so full,
Now the streetlights, the preachers of illumination leak down light onto no one
Empty sidewalk crunch under my sandals with a jingling of chain
I nudge through memory and past nostalgia.
Im waiting to see the light that flies under the wings of understanding
This magnificent bird brings its perspective from above in a dart of steep decline and onto your shoulder with n.e.w.s. of north east south and west of an energy that ties all beings together, its like seeing the flower and it roots through soil as a bring light, you see trees exhaling life force and the stars are playing powerful giants of cosmic light. This light has lines that comes from our body’s, its kinda like manifesting intent, the difference of seeing as apposed to looking. When one looks all they see is the name and form in their focus. Nouns bitch (spoken in an old grandma’s voice).
With this non ordinary light one can do wonderfully powerful things, like ripping stop signs from the ground, concrete and all, like a whimsically flimsy middle school project cut out.
And then it all stops in the night, my feet stumble into into park and I know this is the place,
This is home, where I want to be
Where I can see god in every glance and worship my wife who worships me climbing into destiny
Or maybe I just wanted to rhyme,
I wish print could blush so the narrator could give himself up
I look up from some crazy industrial sidewalk alley stretch
And see my place in the stars where my atman will rest and hopefully meditate through the apocalypse.
Or god knows and the earth will be fine and my heart can rest easy.
I love you to.

There are so many pieces of me that sometimes its hard to not fall apart
Right now im in the grocery store of my philosophy
I don’t have a cart because I can only take what I can hold in my arms.
There comes a point in everyone’s life where all their dreams congeal in one big floating mass,
Floating above the ground, above your crooked head to see its form above you.
As your tongue moves into making incantations of language, or your thoughts fall into place like a key in a lock, as this floating form begins to look familiar even nameable
It begins to glow.
From within the center of this dream craft comes a spark which exponentially begins to glow bright and then there is the flash,
And the craft is consumed by an outward explosion and tongues flames.
The form of this dream mass begins to appear hallow as it is blown into two pieces falling to the ground.
It occurs to you that this is the Hindenburg; this is man’s dream.
One truth that gives me wonder about the world is that light will always sweep darkness to all corners of the room and even eradicate it if it is strong enough however darkness will never put out light or displace it.
I need to bring a candle into my dreams because, from the moment I go to bed I see darkness, I don’t see anything, I slip into the slippers of my unconsciousness and grope the walls of my house trying to find the light switch, I never do though and I wake up thinking of how I just went to bed.
I leave my house in the morning and think of how amazing and vivid of a dream being awake is. THE WORLD BEFORE MY OPEN EYES IS a dream except it has time.
I mean come on when was the last time you were bored in a dream?
When I dream my traveling is captured in leaps and bounds, when I walk to school in a dream it takes two steps as long as the purpose of the dream has more to do with school than the journey.
When my mother was a little girl she would have occasional dreams where she found money and in these dreams my mom would realize that this wasn’t her open-eyed reality so she would squeeze the quarters and bills hoping that her strength would bring them into reality and under her sheets.
Nothing is sadder to me than a life of ignorance, a life of ignoring spirituality and believing in the permanence of death.
I’m still a child and the reason being is because I believe that everything should be played with, I think time is something to play with and space is a jungle gym and a funny concept to roll around in ones palm with their thumb.
WHEN OUR DREAMS congeal and stare back at us, or when we are flat out able to even see our dreams as they are inside of our head and outside of reality they combust into light.
It’s hard to explain but light is truth.
And if we ever want to learn to navigate our craft, to fly in our dreams, to become the architect of our aspirations we must first realize that eyelids have nothing to do with whether we are dreaming or not.

I already polluted my mind by turning on the computer and having to direct my attention from the divine experience of living prose to clicking out of annoying programs that come back like weeds.
To get back to what I was thinking
It honestly was beyond time, the thought that is.
Its funny how our rooms become such a part of our lives that somehow I was surprise to find my social security card on my shelved dresser actually touching an image of Rama Krishna on my shine.
Comprising my dusty shine I have a Chinese sculpture of a hefty and joyous Buddha next to Ganesh

My Indian elephant deity who is the destroyer of obstacles.
All of these idols are on a circular wooden stand with a bunch of rocks, which I have collected from my childhood, sprinkled in a circle.
At the bottom of this stand lays my picture of Ramakrishna, swami Vivekananda and holy mother.
So basically my social number and physically manifested body tags of identification all wrapped up in one number on a card mingles with my spiritual philosophy all by change? Or by significant subjective meaning that when read into and interpreted will lead me to acknowledge my spiritual beliefs and actually practice them as I would socially exercise my identity, like taking my dog on a walk.
And with my mind thawing I begin to peel back truth like an orange,
A sphere of nectar, of citrus and of life
I was told today by my professor that man is inherently a fruit eater. He said “look our teeth are meant for grinding nuts and we are primally addicted to fruit however the sugar industry compensates for dietary sublimation. In fact we don’t even have canine teeth, we have incisors that are not nearly like a cat or dog mouth whose teeth are specifically designed to tear meat. Plus we are the only animal to chew its meat, observe your dog and how it inhales meat.
Either way im trying to set myself free on paper so I can be sane in the morning and hopefully remember my dreams.

I already polluted my mind by turning on the computer and having to direct my attention from the divine experience of living prose to clicking out of annoying programs that come back like weeds.
To get back to what I was thinking
It honestly was beyond time, the thought that is.
Its funny how our rooms become such a part of our lives that somehow I was surprise to find my social security card on my shelved dresser actually touching an image of Rama Krishna on my shine.
Comprising my dusty shine I have a Chinese sculpture of a hefty and joyous Buddha next to Ganesh

My Indian elephant deity who is the destroyer of obstacles.
All of these idols are on a circular wooden stand with a bunch of rocks, which I have collected from my childhood, sprinkled in a circle.
At the bottom of this stand lays my picture of Ramakrishna, swami Vivekananda and holy mother.
So basically my social number and physically manifested body tags of identification all wrapped up in one number on a card mingles with my spiritual philosophy all by change? Or by significant subjective meaning that when read into and interpreted will lead me to acknowledge my spiritual beliefs and actually practice them as I would socially exercise my identity, like taking my dog on a walk.
And with my mind thawing I begin to peel back truth like an orange,
A sphere of nectar, of citrus and of life
I was told today by my professor that man is inherently a fruit eater. He said “look our teeth are meant for grinding nuts and we are primally addicted to fruit however the sugar industry compensates for dietary sublimation. In fact we don’t even have canine teeth, we have incisors that are not nearly like a cat or dog mouth whose teeth are specifically designed to tear meat. Plus we are the only animal to chew its meat, observe your dog and how it inhales meat.
Either way im trying to set myself free on paper so I can be sane in the morning and hopefully remember my dreams.

In the reflection pool of my life,
In the middleclass above ground pool in my backyard
The wind ripples jewels of understandings
And permutations
And untold nightly mumbled incantations; an exchange between the darkness and the genetic spirits of our unconscious mind.
I can hear old wise and gentle hands spinning the loom of my loosely woven and watersmooth understanding, (to barrow a word from ee cumming.)
I wish I could plop down my commas and implement my grammar like speed bumps in the parking lots of my prose.
But try and tell that to a dyslexic or Faulkner.
So far as I know the wind on this sunny day playfully sweeps up wisps of my thoughts broadcasting through my hair.
I dig myself so deep into these windy prose roads of personal association that its hard to collect my theme in time and make out with it in one concise conclusion.
I want to play with the idea of things never ending.
What if everything you experienced from birth to here on out, every delicate sequence of memory like a pearl in a necklace of your life was never ending.
Every bed time story and bedside conversation before sleep as a child never ended because it is compiling and accumulating into you as you are now.
We are all infinite reels of cyclical time and it take spiritual practice to realize this.
My best intentions and the strength of greatness in our being is being sucked into and towards the black holes of dark illusions, and of the shadow play in Plato’s Cave.
We can fight the bending of our light by aligning our spines and standing erect and not hunched over like college students on their computers.
March into the forest, the street or the meadows of meditation and ask “if my true nature is not the body then what am I”
-culd you even begin to understand yourself if you weren’t your reflection in the bathroom mirror, if you weren’t the muscles that tug and pull a smile across your face, just the same as every other human.
What if in order to first begin to understand what we are I would suffice it to say that we begin with a subtle energy, this energy is what can be called life force, it is the energy which tells the cells to grow. It is a beautiful swirling cloud of not atomic particles but atmic particles*.
I think I know not how to do but please try to prove me wrong
With a long stare and a gaze that can pick at your face like chopsticks
Im astounded that astronaut abortion isn’t a mainstream issue yet.
Is this humor or is this a tumor?
I like to laugh my way into the feverish comfort of cynicism, breath in deep and smell the sour tobacco smoke of a full bar.
But then I realized that as I wrote this I have the freedom to break free of this dream, and fight to the surface of this phantasmagorical lake of prose
To the time in which I conceive the beginning of the never ending.
I was staring into my backyard pool
At the reflections and ripples in the glinting sun.
So where do we go from here?
I just realized how funny it is to think of these fuckers: ? translating into inflection and tone shifting in conversations during “real” life.
I think its time to fasten my spurs, hop on my horse and skedaddle out o’ dis bitch.
• (atmic particle refrence, atman is Sanskrit for soul which is deduced to be of pure consciousness) Conscious Particles, Fields and Waves
"In some strange way an electron or a photon [or any other elementary particle] seems to 'know' about changes in the environment and appears to respond accordingly," says physicist Danah Zohar. A group at the Weizmann Institute in Israel has done a variation of the famous "double-slit" experiment. They used electrons, instead of photons, and observed how the resultant interference pattern (which indicates wave-like properties of the particle) dissipated the longer you watched the electrons go through the slits. As a wave the electron passes through both slits simultaneously but if, according to E Buks, it "senses" that it is being watched, the electron (as a particle) goes through only one path, diminishing the interference pattern. Elementary particles (such as photons and electrons) appear to possess a certain degree of "intelligence" and awareness of the environment. Renowned plasma and particle physicist, David Bohm, says "In some sense a rudimentary mind-like quality is present even at the level of particle physics. As we go to subtler levels this mind-like quality becomes stronger and more developed."
Consciousness appears to be as fundamental a property to elementary particles as properties that make it "matter" or a "physical force" (for example, mass, spin and charge). And just as mass, spin and charge differ from one particle to another; it is probable that different particles have different degrees of consciousness. (thanks, http://www.dapla.org)

I find myself here too often with a spliff in my mouth and this need to capitalize on my high with some words.
Is it oxymoronic to smoke everyday and at the same time try and figure out just who I want to become and how im going to make a career out of it
It is a bit of a juggling act, that is typing and smoking
My spit evaporates so fast on my Sacramento backyard pavement
The music hisses and rings these wind chimes and the hum of modern rap
Sometimes I feel like my younger brother is older than me, and I’m Chris, the oldest child
It feels weird sometimes to even have a name but my name Chris sounds kind of cheese to me.
The name is a tall order
And I do feel like I am in the process of becoming a real person.
A real person in the anthropological sense, When one studies tribal peoples, especially those tribes that have narrowly escaped the effects of capitalism. These people are spiritual beings, at least more so than socially insecure of their personalities or bodies.
They are real people, unbridled by a scrutinizing sense of being looked at in mainstream capitol cultures, whereas these tribesmen learn to see things for what they are in so many linguistically elaborate ways, like for the Cashinahua tribe in the amazons their word for cup is the same for womb and fertility and in some sense these words become stronger than metaphor it becomes a feeling, like being alive.
Now I need to study business law so I can sell my art, and market myself, approaching new business’ like dentist offices, and deli’s, walking in and saying “howdy! Let me show you some inexpensive and original art that can feng shui the fuck out of this joint!”

Smoking a spliff in this exact moment
We need more prayers at night than sirens
Rocking in the windless suburb darkness to household air conditioner fans
They’re off static signing in the a.m.
Stoned I just thought of my heart saying olm
I feel light
Im always talking about how when high so many people are just putting masks on
Acting from the head outward, removed
My senses speak
In the monologue that im trying to share into a dialogue through love with you,
Eventually one, one love
For all and every drunk with wonderment I grin onto the stage of my job and professional life
When I write it’s all a web of associations that so softly associate,
Frictionless I know a girl may say
I knew a social guru and she is perfectly like most except we will never know how infinitely unique the phenomena of being a human and spiritual entity we all are trying to understand why he can be such a dick
Im indecisively a dick
Brick by brick
Like the Lego’s I constantly pieced into many forms
Always asking my parents what to call my constructions
I don’t remember too much but if only you could understand the intimately detailed childhood experience that make me and foremost all 0f us
I feel like when im at a dinner and see old gentle couples helping each other into seats and enjoying a meal that if I stare I will slip into time and out in their end where I am already what I will become.
I need to meditate more and I’m always saying I need to do more beneficial things
Like trying to make this reach you
And maybe be able to subsist off the understanding that this moment made through a little thought out of your day will uplift you to hopefully be a more everything that you want to be
Especially inquisitively enlightened.
It is 1:50am and I need to wake up at 5 to cashier at a homie restaurant that sells amazing pies.
Im 20 and am trying to figure out what I want to do with my future while making minimum wage and at community college.
My dad tells me that work hard and you will get whatever you want
And sometime I feel so average that I cant change my life on the whim of greatness that I innately have
I feel like im building and bottling up, mounting my future
Not quite sure how to ride yet
Saddle to a horse while my hands on the throttle
Native Americans were once amazed and terrified how we could have a machine with 200 horsepower
Now they are just disappointed and laughing.
What if all this is just a knot,
All of my fleetingly poetic association webs tied into a knot that I had to make sure was strong and sturdy to support the food pack from bears while backpacking. I was stubbly and grizzly with my brothers and friends in the California mountains fending our sent from scaredy-cat black bears.
A simple knot that we all use to tie together the social situations that make up our lives.
A knot is our response to living in this mechanized and plastic age.
So enjoy making knots but at sleep don’t forget to meditate and undo your knots so you can learn and make them stronger, maybe even undo the knot around the tree supporting our food pack from bears in the morning and nicely pack it up tight so you can come home back into civilization.