**** ~~~~~ ****
Thank you heaven, for breathing life; thank you beautiful world, perspiring wonder.
Riding the comet of understanding, flying through the wonder field, we follow the River of Way out into reality, build a storehouse of merit, chi, search for wonder, and live as long as heaven and earth, live forever like silky roses in the all-day sunshine.
We order and stack the chi neatly all around us, leaving radiance in our wake, as we sleep through awareness; and we give up trying to concentrate, just swim across the little lakes of suffering, and bring kindness, smuggled from home - the smoothly exploding volcanic flow of the River of Way, always more perfect as it moves forward, through the colors and shapes slowly, not fighting away the pneuma. There's a mystical city all around us, typically we ignore it, and the moon is a central and glorious jewel in the hexagons of Mystery Metropolis.
The road to eternity starts somewhere in the belly,
and you gotta tune your hearing and listen for the "pop"
when it sends it on nameless down the endless corridor;
it's not just a pop, we're talking sunny wizard super pop,
moon pop on the california coastline,
the tiger comes to life and the capital takes offense;
I'm an immamentologist, watching the vapors rise from the crystal nation -
the structure of the mind is glorious like a beehive -
we sing new linen onto the territory of this soul,
and in a scene before its time, nuclear gratitude,
and the reconsecration of the apple,
to throw off the saddle of our division and the frost of disrepair,
end the circus of gametality.
You fill the world with junk and junk's gonna exist -
the parallel poisons of ingratitude and disaffection.
we're all gamma ray bursts, a shell that goes "pop" in the wind,
deep wizard pop, a zip zip display of monkey heaven ingenuity,
at diamond-rise on the mist covered chain - the lofty fog billowing
out of immortal bones on parade through the nothingness;
The dragon's coat is a mystery boat,
in the harsh wonderland of pagan snow.
it lures champions from their nests -
carps at night in the golden moon-stream.
The deer who turned into a fish:
he kept his spots,
he kept his fur,
he didn't drown.
he's gonna say a prayer for the world,
that they can feel the Dao.
###
[email protected] I'm a tiger who escaped from the circus - the circus of consensual reality, the circus of space time, but I got lonely and I came back, with the power, beaming from my shoulders, of having been gone. They say I'm insane and should be hospitalized long term, but I run free and unmedicated to speculate on unreality and interrupt the heavens of mankind - mankind, I like to tell them, went down the test tube of human knowledge, and they can do a few fancy tricks in there but there is a ton of truth in the universe that they will never get at down there in that tube like that, and I realized that and left mankind behind, climbed out of the tube and joined my brothers the spirits and the shamans and the schizophrenics and the trees and the two year olds and the tapirs at the zoo and the deer in the forest and the black holes in the sky and the sun and the moon, in the mystery and wonder, and I think someday mankind will grow up, put away their toys of "science" and "reason" in a toy box in the attic to be looked back at wistfully once in a while when relatives come by from outer space but in general, sit down and calm down as a species, and shut up. A diagnosed schizophrenic, I believe the instant cure for sz is the series of phrases - "language bad, allergic to thought, the great black schizophrenia is beyond all talking about". But I heat up the old Brocca's area anyway, believing in my heart that when you overheat the language center you open a portal between the worlds through which the gods can look down and the demons can crawl up, a scene of hierophany where the hierophant or mystagogue explains the mysteries of the universe and inadvertently opens a hole in the clouds to unreality, and auspicious light peaks through, well, two hours at the Asian museum yesterday and then two hours at the library in the Oxford English Dictionary, and by the end of the day I’m making up words and coining phrases, proposing to end the gametality of my species. I'm here to be magical; hey, I'm a scientist too, in my little pinky, on my left hand; the rest of me is a grand irrationalist, and I have implementanganical stuff for the alchemical quntessencing of heaven and earth. I'm Charlie 5, I run Channel 5, and I have a very special antenna. I'm Zong Bing, and this is my onderdonk rooster walk across the picnic table…
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