J.A.M.

Thiefist Full Of Driplets

 There’s a secret liquid which leaks out from the G-Head

It’s gained a lot of names but a’int no body in agreement

Some call it “Sacrament”

And some others say Itz. “Tree sap”

Maybe Vitality dripping from the Qi-tap

If you unfold the Stone it is the gold pulled from excrement

Me, I call it Sim-Jah’s semen

but I bet some think it’s sweat which condensates on pecks of He-Men®

i t’s whats in the cups of pups who play tea-party pretend.

Cosmic Colstruum from the Singulariteat’s end

The Nez calls it “The Scent”

It’s the ineffable essence of the Presence, if you speak Zen 

Try The wine of Dionysis if you’re Greek Men

and If your God is beer then it’s is the spirit of the “weekend”

A coherent super-string theorem for my geek-friends  

For Chester Cheeta it’s the Cheeziness that tweaks him

For P. K. Dick got hit wit    pink beam of cohesion 

and Dumbo got to know it as his feather when it leaves him

The breath of the creator when He’s breathing 

Its the last drop of the water in the lungs of a drowning seamen

It’s the glowing globe the alien probe leaves-in

For the heathen it’s whatever can be eaten

For Rasta it’s the chalace-dread that embeds him in the present

Smoke as spoken language of pure reason

A deathrow inmate’s last meal’s milkshake 

right before they take him to his bleak-end

The killer-whale’s exhale of micro-prisms

A fountain in the palace of His kingdom

The Trini-tea if She be properly steeped in

just like a cannonball into the deep-end

Orgone of Orgasm

Holy-Ghosts’ Ectoplasm

It’s the Metatone which echos OM through the void’s chasm

It’s my I and I’s tears.  Who has them?

Thifist full of triplet.

.

Thalia In The Fix Garden

The fix garden is quiet first thing in the morning

The last thing from night

The psyche of surrender suspended

.

Made a soil sphere, symmetrically sectioned by 36 great circles of high shrubbery

At each intersection of those shrub-circles appears a Bench, box-bed for blooming

 Vertexes of future unfolding

Waiting for a self-seed to take seat

.

The wind brings them in

Or they are shaken from a dog’s coat

Or sometimes a seed will simply seat itself

.

As the sun rises the seats fill

Until every bench is burdened with a soul

.

Beneath each bench there is soil 

Seed and soil sense each other potential

Roots cross the gap like a spark

.

Over and Over

Channels open like prayer

.

And so growing there

each Self-Seed dissolves

into a new internal formlessness

.

Slurry of seminal suppositions

Sustained by the surface of their skin

Like a drop of dew

.

Silent, still

Then suddenly surrounded by subtle syrup

A myst of violight condensates from without

Upon each exoderm

.

Learning begins from this

Permeating fluid of the Fix!

.

The self-seed’s empty essence aches

Jonsing for consumatory permiation

Jonsing for the Fix!

Lets Talk

Lets Talk.

Lets talk Emptiness

Lets talk pre Manifestation.

Lets talk the pure Consciousness of the Omnipotent Self.

Lets talk the clear light of total Presence.

Lets talk the attributless VOID

Lets talk non-Duality

Lets talk Omnidimentionality

Lets talk transtemporality

Lets talk the perfect symmetry of Metaspace which precedes the asymmetry of Becoming

Lets talk the prewomb of the Unborn Kosmos. 

Lets talk all of God’s knobs turned to zero.

Lets talk the pure potential of the zero-point energy singularity.

Lets talk the Alpha and the Omega.

Lets talk the undifferentiated Trinity.

Lets talk the Telos of Life itself.

Lets talk the primordial state of Being.

Lets talk the sublime stillness of pure Joy.

Lets talk immaculate Immaturity.

Lets talk the unknowable, ever-present REALITY of your Original Face.

Lets Talk.

I am the Switch

I am not the Light.

I am not the Darkness.

I am the Switch!

My skin is a pattern hitch.

I’m connectish.

Wish!

I can transceiver your itch for belief .

I can becleave you-ish into beat.

The reason for the Free’s in, is “compre’ “

The dialogophy.

Reneedy.

Please return remains to me.

J.A.shley.M

8166451293

Yeti’s Vices

turn 1/4 turn of the vice

poke a lil’ spike in the vein

cut a network of lines

get broken like a smoke-ring chain

take just one sip from that cup

get going up against the grains

belligerence bubbling up

wet fermentration pains

let the pills start popping you

wind up serotone deaf

can’t make out who is taking who

Wonder “Is there any right stuff left?” 

Turn on, Tune in, Drop Out

Watch DMT.V.

Every channel has it’s Doubt

nothing is commercial free

Ember S

There is some fascination which I bear. 

It is all for one thing…

A tiny ember.

The ember sits, interred in a sarcophagus of compressed ash.

A shimmer of pure Subject. 

A viral discerner.

As light, it is of singular location and value, On or Off.

As process, it is a discern-full scalpel, scarificating it’s ashen host in jestational Kosmosis.

It severs all collaborations of non-vitality.  

Declumping the burnt, 

Thus liberating micro-granules into a fine cloud of ash-as-mist.

Each grey grain self-polishes into an incomprehensibly small mirrored sphere.

Such is the nature of spin.

And in the midst of these purifications, each sphere reflects the ember’s presence.

The subsequent refractions begin again the eternal bouncing.

And, in the vast non-location of this moment, 

Total interconnectivity is remembered as the fundamental reality.

The light ceases to disclose and clear integer.

And true value is regained in the hazy asymmetries.

Evolove Equaliberates.

I Gno No Things

I GNO ALMOST NO THINGS, EXCEPT….

I AM HERE TO GROW SOMETHING WITH YOU.

AND SINCE WE HAVE OBVIOUSLY SUSTAINED A COMMON WOUNDING

IT SEEMS FIT TO ACTIVATE OUR EMPATHY AND UTILIZE OUR COLLECTIVE RESOURCES TO MAKE THE THING WHICH WE GROW; SCAB-LIKE.

AND…….NOW IS THE TIME, SO LET’S HAVE A “LOOK’ AT THIS,

OH, IT’S JUST A LITTLE CUT THAT WE’VE RECEIVED, SELF INFLICTED ACTUALLY

FOR WE EACH WEILDED THE INHERITED SCALPAL OF PERCEPTION AND HABITUALLY SEPERATED SELF FROM OTHER.

FROM THIS PRIMORDIAL WOUND BLEEDS ALL EXPERIENCE

ALL FORMS OF PAINS EMERGE FROM THE UNSATISFIED DESIRE TO RECONSILE THE DUALITY OF OUR SELF-MANAFESTATIONAL WOUNDING.

AND SO WE CAN GROW OUR SCAB BY CLOTTING THE FLOW OF PERCEIVED EXPERIENCE UNTILL ALL ATTRIBUTES ARE NEGATED.

THAT!! SHOULD HEAL THE WOUND AND SATIATE THE  PAIN!

BUT, FYI, THE ONTOLOGICAL CONDITIONS WHICH WILL RESULT FROM THIS FORM OF HEALING 

ARE SO UTTERLY MUNDANE THAT ALMOST EVERY ONE OF US WILL RETREAT

BACK INTO SELF-MUTILATION, JUST TO FIND RELEIF FROM THE OMNIPRESENT MEDIOCRITY OF TRANSDUALITY.

SO PERHAPS I’M JUST LOOKING OUT FOR OUR COMMON INTEREST AS I SHORT CIRCUT THE SUGGESTED RITUAL OF RECONSILIATION AND INSTEAD CO-OPT  THE COLLECTIVE ATTENTION, UTILIZING IT TO SUMMON A GREY MIRRORED SYNONYMPH, BY WHICH BY WHICH WE CAN PERPETUATE OUR SELF-DENIAL, INDULGING IN A PASSIVE CONSUPTION THE SPECTACULAR  OTHER, THUS MAINTAINING OUR IMPRISONMENT IN THE REALM OF DIMENTIONALITY