story

please don’t lie to me

 

Echoes from Emptiness: Please don't lie to me....

 

please

don’t tell me you don’t know
exactly WHAT you are

(that you ARE the peace and sweet release
you seek)

. . .

I know you’ve looked;
you’ve seen, you’ve conceded
that
– nothing you know
–  nothing you think
–  nothing you feel
– nothing you remember
– nothing you experience
can be what you are

since

– all these phenomena
–  all these perceptions
– all these peculiarities

come and go

yet

your bright alive Knowingness remains

. . .

Beloved – even your pain
your suffering, your grief,
rise and fall –
you’ve seen how they wither
(along with your hubris)
when you drop out of your story
and into mind-fucking
immeasurable
timelessness
that never changes

don’t tell me you haven’t yet fallen
back/forward/down/across/into
THIS
that can’t be known
or experienced

don’t lie to me, Beloved

I don’t believe you

. . .

 

don’t look for me in my story

86

I have (re) turned to face the faceless
and find myself

absorbed

I can write letters from home
but cannot again

depart

don’t look for me in my story
I am not there

nameless

is my unspeakable name
and all stories

happen

in this that I is

~

(Previously posted at http://thisunlitlight.wordpress.com)

on a summer’s evening in Alicante

14

the adorables known as my parents celebrate 67 years of marriage today!

she who identified with the idea of ‘daughter’ can no longer find herself in the idea
but nevertheless, daughter-ing happens

~

later, an image of the old ‘me’ arises, just like in a dream:
a vacuum cleaner, sucking greedily, insatiably
sucking experiences and teachings and philosophies and beliefs into a bursting bag

me, me, mine!

the bag began emptying on a summer’s evening in Alicante,
(full moon rising, magenta bougainvillea against palest indigo sky
the Lover known as Death silently keeping company)
and once underway, reversal was impossible

with the departure of the last dust-balls,
the bag and the vacuum cleaner disappeared

Lover never left

~

a huge human hoodwink

03

fictional self hangs on its tailor-made cross

first, self swallowed its own story,
and then it dreamed up the ‘cross’ concept
to hang its guilty suffering self upon
then, of course  it needed to invent
ways out

best way out?

invent a hereafter, with exclusive admission rights
this keeps self in business – selling sure salvation

but this is what I have seen with savage clarity:
the whole ‘solid-state self’ story is a fake,
a huge human hoodwink

no self : no doership
no doership : no suffering
no suffering : no salvation