• Holding Together

    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.


    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
    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.


    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.

  • MUSE

    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."

  • TUG

    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.