Thoughts feed feelings.
It cannot tell the difference
between a real snake
and an imagined snake.

Fear stifles its breathing
accelerates its heartbeat
and makes it sweat.

The pretty girl
in your imagination
or pornographic video
produce the same reaction
as the pretty girl in real-time sunshine
stretched out on the park bench.

The body prepares itself for action
for the real snake and the imagined snake,
for the video girl and the park bench girl.
It cannot tell the difference
between the imagined and the real.

All demagogues (and advertisers) know this.
They pump you up with your imaginations
through your thoughts via your ears and eyes.
These take over your body
and send it out to fulfill
its artificially created desires
to riot or lynch or rape
(or empty your credit
in the shopping malls).

Books, music, viral gossip, propaganda, TV,
which do you use to feed your thinking mind?

Gnome says:
When you stop thinking
all your problems disappear.

Who can aspire
to this ultimate wisdom?


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Cut into the human wood
chop; pare;
to find what is already there.
Will the knife reveal
what we have outgrown?
Or does the sculptor feel
along the veins and in the bone
the shape already in the stone
and gently, where the stone is brittle,
cut only not too much and not too little?

Or there again,
you might be just the wall,
my favourite picture on its hook;
behind (if I should ever look),
nothing at all.

Like sea
with sky reflected
deceiving me,
by birds rejected.


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Super-talented children
play on the eternal beach,
building castles and cities
and civilisations and worlds,
anything, everything they want;
and try to keep all and each
out of everyone else’s reach.
Dancing around hand in hand,
they themselves are powdered sand.
The sun shines down
burning them brown.
The sea rolls in
ironing everything
smooth and flat and thin.


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Leaves from the Tree of Life;
brown and withered,
dried with growing old,
dislodged by the touch of Time;
or green,
with veins still swelling
with rising sap,
torn free by an untimely wind.

What are they,
these dancing treasures?

The more the tree creates,
pushing and budding
out of reaching, branching fingers,
the more they spiral down
and spin and congregate
like giant midges
in every gust and eddy.

What are they,
these dancing treasures
from the Tree of Life?
Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts.

Each contains in its form
the whole tree.
Each contains in its form
the denuded tree
cannot do without.

Spiralling, spinning,
they clog drains
and streams
and waterways;
make paths treacherous.
Good for nothing
but rotting down
and feeding
the insatiable hunger,
the thousand breathing mouths
of the sangsāra!


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If the Head leads,
it breeds a web
in which the ego lurks
to catch its prey.

And the Heart pales away.

If the Heart rules,
the sticky web
transforms into a safety net
through which the Ego
shrivels into the Void.


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Crumpled heap
upon the floor.
Stifled murmur/whisper,
“Please!  Some more.”

Ceiling Out
is when you use Exit Door
as base
instead of Escape Route.



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God sees with the same eye
you see with, says Meister Eckhart.

Do you live your life,
or does Life live through you?

Do you breathe
to stay alive,
Or does the Life-breath
breathe you?

Life lives and blossoms
through Nature
and thus Nature can heal itself.

Man tries to live his life
and opens wounds
that even Nature
struggles to heal.

Who lives man’s life
and is it any more than
what we have come to call the Ego?

Is Ego any more than a bundle
of thoughts and feelings
spawned by an insatiable quest for more?

A pinpoint of Desire,
smaller than a globule of blood,
that has flooded into an ocean
of craving and passion,
which parches the tongues
of those who drink from it.

When you say “my life”,
who is I and what is this life?
Is “I and my life” any more
than an intruder
that slipped in between the sheets?
A tapeworm fitting snugly
between your food and you?

When I ask you how you are,
your tapeworm answers,

He has been answering on your behalf
for so long that you take him for
your true abiding Self.

See him for the interloper that he is.
Let him slide out
as long ago
his proglottid of eggs slid in,
unnoticed and unremarked.

The ego slides in
between your divine eye and what you see
like the rose-tinted lens
between your fleshy eye
and your world.


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