Flow words.
Reach me
And stir
New ideas!

Help me
Be a part
Of helping
People help
The world.

World, the people help you
Because by helping
They hope to bring forth
Epochs of conceptual embrace
With you - an Harmony.
Words flow in a world
Where people help.
In helping, people
Live in epochs of ideas.
These ideas
Are capable
Of stirring worlds.


BIG IDEAS.


Let my ideas flow
Into the world
And help people
To help each other.
May my time
Be an epoch
Of great feelings
And ideas.
May my words
Stir minds
To transcendence.

For I to make Art everyday
I must be of a transcendent heart.
Everyday I will act as a channel
Of Energy and History.
These are the well-springs of my creativity.
It's a gritty thing this coursing of the Tao.

I've set my will to lightening
Hearts and Intelligences.
I've set my mind to adding
Everyday, another piece
Of the puzzle.
The territories of my intuition
Wait to be explored.
My thoughts and feelings
Are my conveyance.

I've developed some pretty unusual
Ideas.
I will try to convey them to you.
The texture of my ideas
begs dramatic enactment.
Mallarme's chance is never diminished.
But the cosmos 'packets' chance.
Devotion is the vehicle by which
Chance is nourished.
Devotion creates a 'charge'
That draws chance.

Devotion builds charges of energy.
These charges effect chance occurrence.
Every day learn to give.
Devotion is a bridge across the void.
The intuitions we have
In our lives
Are the core and mind of matter.


(C) Tobeimean Peter 2012

Let our drunken rituals

Remember all

Byzantine accuracies

In a detailed demotic

Derived from family battles

Where little understanding

Yields no common ground,

And all you get to sing about

Are Willow Trees...

Willow Trees...

Willow Trees...



As people pass

Illumining the pavement

With motor-scooter sparks

Saddled in unemployment,

Concretized to Lottery

Newspaper hats

That blow away when children

Dressed in Carnival approach

A cotton-candy lunch

Full of waiting age

Nestled in the shadows

Of Willow Trees...

Willow Trees...

Willow Trees...



These costumed children

Have singled out today

As a day of cap-guns and capes,

So grown-up work

Is best forgotten

As hope resides in musicboxes.

An old man grinds

The organ-box

Asking all the while: "Is this

The little death ?

"Does my hand drive the song.

Or do the airs reside

In Willow Trees...

Willow Trees...

Willow Trees...?

Chords reel and the mind reels,

and for all I know

The minds of the Gods reel as well --

For if the Gods have minds

They must be attuned to music and to harmony.

Harmony is but the pulse of Chaos

And to such pulsation

Even stones resound.

Why?

I'm not sure, but perhaps it is

Because the light and dark

Fly into space disguised as owls,

and beat their downy wings

Amidst the stars,

And beat a pulse of radiation

Until even our hearts resound.

Therein my Heart,

Breathes an inkling of Art.

Falcons ride aircurrents
Up from the train-tracks.
Our wonder rises with them
To hover above
A column of basalt.
Afternoon moonrise luminates
The blue grass.
We are transformed
By philters of light.
Panoramas and sorceries
Of wild Cascades
Course through us
While portals
Between worlds open.
Within the quiet spaces --
The spaces between things,
Are the places
Where the guardians live.
We are guarded by memory,
And the spirits of visible dreams.
The river glimmers mountain blue.

Hearts don’t line up
On grids of zeroes and ones.
Emulate the river,
And perception finds direction
Where it runs.
When love calls
Feelings flow
As more than sparking neurons.
Ecstasy chimes in the bell-tower
When watch of reason
Is distracted.
Things and events dissemble
And assemble
The significance
We give them.

All life-manifestations
In the world --
Even to the stones,
Are sentient.

The swift progress of linear time
To most is illusion.

Guardians and spirits
Look out for us.
We are tuning-forks to their pitches.

We are twilit harlequins
Spinning in gyroscopic circles
As the voice of Calliope rises.

We are in the city.
The streets are stuffed with sleepwalkers.

Before the storm pulverized our stones -- the Past intimated no faulty stars for our dishes. Pulsing amoebas searched for refashion in shiny telecommunications and graceful arcs catapulted us. Despite this never was, there would never be a way out. There was only that fool of a leader with his deceptions. We stopped going to the seashore that Summer. We forgot and rolled downhill. We became isolated from one another. We envisioned ourselves as shriveled dreamers gulping down.


We catapulted the storm into our projections like a police drama that stressed what we pretended. We turned and our country was gone. We tried to stay at our jobs. We stooped to moonrise at odd times. We stooped to spying on one another through sockets. We became welded to pulsing amoebas. We lapsed about our most vital aspects. Every lock broke, and sledgehammer winds came another and another.


Soon clouds raced in spades past screaming ancestors. The wind crossed out the Sun. Wind charged arcs catapulted memory away. We cherished our lives, but every lock broke. We loved our media, but it became brittle and snapped.


Above was obscured. The wind shredded our kites. We tried to abandon our arrogance and shrivel, but the empire grew mountains, and we chewed pulsing amoebas. We were appalled to find that our country went awry. Sirens damned us to dances full of beatings. We were prey to chaos. It was very loud. We tried to reassert our love of murder. We scratched our television heads over the logic behind the leader’s edicts, but we did not fail to notice that the tempest swirled in increasing violence.

The maelstrom shriveled on. It whistled. It grew steadily severe as thunder tore the tops off of the mountains, hurling a barrage of splintered rock down on us. We in frenzy sought our nation-the last accurately remembered anything. Every lock was hammered. We had no fulcrum. The electrical plugs our television sets were connected with became welded to our walls. We had erred. It was too late.

We were convinced it was going to again be like before the storm -- a destiny we in our arrogance labeled, “Evolution”, but who could redevise those feathery tails wriggling time? We stopped eating fondue, and struggled in dense clouds to see. Tortured steel girders tattered our lives to wheels which went awry in their own turning. We were ripped, and spun like keys through keyholes. We played demented games of peek-a-boo. The rats ate the last of our sustainance. Our automobile engines ran aground. Our situation went beyond absurd.

Our bones hammered -- we fled to watch a ballgame, but the ballgames were no longer cast, and so was culled from us any memory. We had no fulcrum moon to weld with pulsing amoebas. The law ran away. Pulsing amoebas ran away -- worsening our muddle of faulty until our ears blew off.

In our conscious universe of Time --
That is the epoch of time
We individually and collectively
Know as Experience --
There is raw potential
for magical force.
Through combining Time and Space
We determine almost arbitrary directions,
And with these can navigate.
What do we navigate upon?
There is a magnetic field
Stretching through everything
Upon which we and other creatures "home."

Let’s be the surface of these waves.
Let’s be the luminance we’ve pushed
Through the prism of this day.
We are of an old sea-folk.
When we turn
The world turns.
Our ancient homes
Have long imprinted the islands
Of these maria.

Let’s transcend this separation.
We’re the bow on which
Mysteries are strung --
So let’s share
Every meeting as a first.
Let the politics of the City
Be piloted
By we who heed the Earth.
Let’s plan a garden together
And begin.

The world’s comprised of puzzles
To which pieces are added everyday.
In this piece your long white hair
Streams out in the night, and
In that piece your intuition guides you.
The overall scene of dark Mother
Is a choppy sea of eyes
Formed in the wake
Of your heart’s restless probing.
You’ve known her tug
Since birth.

Do you agree
with anything that is
in another form?

Consciousness makes frieze dreamscapes
Of soft rocks.
You feel the ghost of landscape,
And your memory twinges
A response.
There is no solid reference.
This moment is equal to any before it.
It is equal to any to come.
Slowly, the odd moon rises
And our emotions find
A new alignment.


Desire and its absence
Are inseparable,
As are error and success --
Each is a step toward understanding
Our reflection in the world.
We walk our lives
Flooded with memories,
Looking forward to a future,
And embracing this delicious moment
As all the clocks chime One.


We’ re a big mystery --
Here awed in this potential
Of moonlight,
Embroidered in a fabric.
We are gaining stride
With each obstacle surmounted,
And are growing in awareness
And grace.


Mooring sounds clink sailboatmasts at harbor.
Their “tinks” comprise an aural glow
Expanding gulfs of song
Inside of us.
These boats are full of details.
Space and Time pass with Memory,
But the singularity of Life --
Unconscious Life --
Dreams and distills trillions
Of imprints and intuitive events.

Repetition and change
Are the stasis and flow of being,
Each at the other’s core
Through roles and circles,
Through trauma and musing,
Through births, flowerings, and declines.

When we trust and are generous --
We sustain one another,
But it's alone we each must always breathe.
All of us are holy,
And each is more than a sum
Of functions.
We live in macrospheres
And microcosms
That are possessed of infinity.
We are life-pulses that join and rejoin
A Flow.

We transcend tone and matter,
And all subdivisions of Space and Time.

Your mind cannot construct
An image that will last forever.
Drop your mask.
When you embrace everything
With the courage of a lover,
Torrents of flame
Pour forth from your heart’s core.
There is no residual ash.

When you are calm & creative
You will remember dreams,
And remembering them
You can then magically project.

Interactions with others of like spirit
Expand outward in concentric spheres.

Life was born in the ocean,
And since then has had
Many points-of-view.
You can become aware
Of more than a few of these.

She senses her eyes’ involuntary vascillation.
They are jogged back & forth
By tiny jolts in her synapses.
They brush against her eyelids.
They comprise her being.
They interact with everything other than herself.
She thinks, “My being is always so elusive.”
As far as she can determine,
Her being is mutable.
She can be many different things.
Perhaps now she is a cat,
Or she might be a fly.
She could be anyone or anything.
The harder she presses
Toward defining a place
Where she and the world intersect,
The more distant any grasp of it recedes.

Her eyes are closed.
She imagines herself amidst drifting shapes
That surge with a slow, even motion.
The shapes are amorphous,
And emanate a strange light.
The light resembles the eerie glow
Of an ultra-violet light,
But seems to be of a higher frequency.
The shapes are flat & the field
Upon which they drift
Is as two-dimensional
As the surface of a blackboard.

She feels her eyeballs
Swivel like cannon on their chassis of tissue
Within their bony emplacements.
Tiny red vessels irrigate them.
She feels the apertures of her pupils
Expand & contract.
She feels sensation hovering out
On the fringes of what is tactile.
The space around her eyelids feels large.

A lance of pain pierces her.
She’s losing balance.
She’s falling.
She loses her sense of up & down.
Her eyes remain closed.
She can feel the press of her eyelids.
They are thin, compacting ledges.
The soft fibrils of her eyelashes
Brush against each other.
She can’t determine a line of separation
Between herself and that which hovers
Out upon the fringes of feeling.
The space in front of her eyelids
Feels out of proportion.

She considers
The cats-cradle of her eyelashes
As she would reflect upon
A suspension-bridge,
Or the girderwork of a building.
She feels the motion of her turning
Get slower & slower, until
She comes to slowly drift in a circle
Amidst the ultra-violet galleons
On their black range.
She feels like she is a mere point circling.

Suddenly another fierce pain burns her.
The pain originates
From a region below her field of vision.
She turns her full attention to it.
It is glaring from her chest.
The ultra-violet shapes become stabbed
With crackling flails & twists
Of orange lightning.
The lightning begins to link up in a web.
The web soon defines an electric orange sphere
Which is her agony.
She begins to spin again
In a slow rotation.
She feels freezing panic start,
And struggles to keep it contained.

She opens her eyes and recoils --
Suddenly discovering herself to be actual.
She finds she now is able
To pinpoint separation
Between herself and the world.
The ultra-violet shapes blossom out
Becoming forms.
The black field expands back
To encompass infinite volume.
She hears a tiny voice call far away:
“ She’s alive! Call in med-evac. Call in med-evac ...”

You are here with me
In twilight, my heart.

How we kiss
In it's blue fingers.

Nautilean spirals
Course through us,
As our ghost-flesh buzzes.