Post by Juan Castrocafe on Sept 8, 2006 16:52:49 GMT -6
METAPHORIC GOD.....
hard to break into your confines,
hard to hear the words you utter
in the unspeakable language of being
because it is first the insistance
of "how I feel"
feel, is this happiness, is this a lie
"how I feel" how must I feel?
what must I take in, allow, you know how I feel?
do I need you to know how I feel..
shout it, maybe it defines me..
this how I feel..
I can read how it felt..
it is all written down, follow the dots
look into the paths and do the same..
repeat, repeat , regurgitate is the game...
of insistance, that this must all be
somehow the universe can fit in my hand
the Sun on my tongue, all living people can
be reduced to words on a page..
that is all they are after all...
to a metaphoric GOD
feelings, how are you feeling...
what makes you feel, you feel don't you
don't you feel this way?
you really should, in fact, I feel sorry for you
because you don't...awww, it must be sad being you
I am glad I am not you...don't you feel it now?
don't you want to feel it..it is not that I am right
it is just that I know...I know how I feel,
because my metaphoric God, is the GOD that is real..
oh you will come to know it..it will bring you joy
it will keep you from harm...go ahead, cut off your arm
it is written, can't you feel these words..
it is written and it is rewritten and we all have
some part of the writing, that touches us...yes
there, you do see, don't you see,
don't you love OCD?
it is the blessing for you and me, from the one and true
metaphoric god,
that one in me, the same one in you..yes it is true...
what else can there be..how else could we feel
after all, so many people wrote so much stuff,
you know it all is real...every word of it...
every word and you can feel, and you can know
you have nothing, nothing to show for who you are,
not without the metaphor on your name, you have a name
you know your name don't you?
don't you like the name you have been given?
this is you isn't it, isn't it you aren't you ...you?
you are in there..in fact you are written in the stars
perhaps over there, under that little shiny one...
yeah, that far star, maybe that is the glint of an eye
looking back...how do you feel?
don't you feel the power..you can define in one minute
your life,
history in an hour, all because of the metaphoric god,
he already knew, she did too, whoever she is, well,
I know her and him...Bob and Jean...jellybean
they are all friends with Mr. Clean...and you do want to be clean, don't you...
don't you feel clean, oh how could you...
you are so ignorant, you didn't know
there is this kind of blood that cleans you so
wash in it and then you'll know...
hey, I am not judging all the others, they are just wrong,
and just like a song, the truth of a metaphor,
can extend itself long.......
maybe so long, so far and wide,
that it is not the truth at all....
maybe, it is a lie....
part ii
holding the stick firmly,
the best plans drawn on the sands of time
are not erased
in the code of what has always been
moving...
we have just refused to see it...
even our selves...
and when we do...
there is no duality in being...
there is...
tulpa slayers, the endpoint of a second's worth
of thought...
dancing with Kali, as if when our heads removed...
and we consider where all of our history has trod...
we give it all up..
for some metaphoric god...
never pausing for a good moment,
to embrace the inner child,
still untouched by this life...
waiting, to be realized....
the potential human might yield,
to that which is nexting...
continuance,
homeostasis,
reason fails these woods,
life is in the trees,
life is in the sea,
balanced and live and die...
and come again...
and again...
they all ask that someone has a word to speak
that speaking makes us know,
all the things
that are still not so...
waking the sleeper, only into sleep
and then the drifting boat oars down
the channels of history and time,
to be picked up later,
when for a brief moment,
someone saw it...
that is has no name...
needs no form...
no purpose...
and yet we all trod,
marking the paths, made in the belief
of some metaphoric god...
good,
evil,
cotton and bolle weevil...
gestures and dance,
words and attachment
to something in the form
of holding it...holding it down
obfuscating the view,
because of the billboard
of some eureka moment,
that turns out to be a lie
and another man or woman
with their particulars all showing out
and pants to the ankles
while the pervert
declares his clean-ness...
all this, this marvelous big piece of sod
and nothing, nothing is given understanding
only given credit to a metaphoric god...
a metaphoric story..
as if the retelling did not bore me
but became the coding
by which I measure the trees flowers and bees
and yet I never have considered,
any of these...just gave the names given,
just assumed the roles they're living...
we all dance in the circle of purpose
and somehow, the manufactured positon
lets us be part of the club of "us"
unless we have to ride the bus,
and watch the judges looking through the windows
looking out and never in...
and so many people still are all about the end..
that they never have a chance to begin..........
the slight return on another day...(part ii.ii)
have we risen over the course of time
to stand upright and know deeper what it means
to exist...
things in this universe are aged beyond our capacity
to appreciate the measure...
the names given this and that are as useful
as dog and cat,
but where there is light
there is a shadow,
but the shadow is a shadow
the light is light...
somewhere in between the space of then and now,
there is you, within you
who you are...
what you are,
what is within you looking out...
faith would explain it away,
attach to something made by the writings
of another man...
the reasoning is only that it flows
and it is safe because it is the same path
our forefathers tread...
but some forefathers, had a different idea
to leave the land as they found it
or better for them having been there...
profess to me with words, the powder of your intent
and with words, we only have words...
but take a moment to get down in the dirt
to lift up another, just once,
pass that on, the silent instructions of action
echo across time itself
and still, many cannot conceive what it means...
so they complicate it two fold, with more words
words are like bricks,
building a wall.
a great wall
of the imaginative mind,
trying to concretely make
all of theirs, what is mine...
and what is mine that I could implore,
is the essence of who I am
and the experience of self...
and yet, this is too complicated for most,
too much that they profess a creator,
perhaps the mathematics of creation
is cyclic, and this universe recycles
like they say energy is neither
created or lost...
it is merely transformed into something else...
so often, they never look at the butterfly
that is not genetically similar to its caterpillar,
that is past metamorphosis...past words,
it is an action and like the butterfly flying
is most best for the looking...
control is attachment,
attachment is no different that pity or sorrow
as if to say what is yours today
should be mine tomorrow...
so many people, injured unwhole and attaching to another
to make them whole,
when each person into themselves are whole
when wholly known...and then action,
altruistic action, makes something more notable
than the things a man can measure and name
and spend his life living as if there is a battle to win
and conquering is the game
like the need to proclaim "I am right"
makes someone else wrong...
but this darkness and this light
and this "magic" if you will,
is no more different than healing
and a prescription pill...
more or less the apothocary changed
and the method of delivery got more advanced
but it is the same game...
the external pointing, the drams and the blur...
the noted notability of a man
who likes clean shirts and to be called "sir"
I marvel at the humor in the peace, loving group
who professes the sword and battle
and pray that preyer is preying for the prayed for
are often the preyed on...
the truth is obfuscated by ego, the ego is attached
to faith, this faith is attached to repetitive teaching
and societal phoneme identity...
have you ever wondered who you were before your parents gave you a name?
magic...
logic...
judgement...
religion has preyed on all to control
dominate and bring into subjecation....
subjecation is a conditioning that remains
a relic of the conquering work
of an Empire...that has never fallen...
but shall rise, in the mystic marvelous
mystery, of a tapestry of lies...
(part iii simple response from the silence)
there is so much more to you
that you only can see, can be
and that you are you
is wonderful enough
for the one person, who matters most
and that is you...
when you are you,
the universe moves in unison
in harmony...
what can be will...
because, you are you...
wholly you...
and you are great..
(part iv)
But to step out of the circle of purpose,
to surface from the suffocating drowning dogma
making significant the past as if it is more tangible
than now, as if now is defined by then, when,
the end? befriend, pretend, contend, apprehend?
Walk out past the borders of the box they got you in,
past the paths so many others have insistently trod,
step into accepting the knowing of unknowance,
without a metaphoric god, without something
without some faith, without some belief, without all
the things that you feel is so absolutely true,
then there is but one thing left,
the whole, essential you…
how do you feel? Do you feel like this?
you might feel like that?
What do you feel? Do you feel anything at all?
Do you feel that there has to be some answer
to everything at all?
Have we stopped looking for the answers,
where our forefathers have trod, obeying the lies
of some Metaphoric God?
There is always someone who will tell you what you’ve seen,
someone to tell you what all this somehow means,
How do you feel? Do you feel me more or less now?
And without purpose am I any less now?
And without reason, am I still that I am?
Into the mirror, into the mirror
which mirror is the one you are wiping,
or throwing a rock through or sometimes swiping,
and then there is that even more interesting question,
is there really a mirror there, metaphorically or at all?
fear is your only god..
john moseley
hard to break into your confines,
hard to hear the words you utter
in the unspeakable language of being
because it is first the insistance
of "how I feel"
feel, is this happiness, is this a lie
"how I feel" how must I feel?
what must I take in, allow, you know how I feel?
do I need you to know how I feel..
shout it, maybe it defines me..
this how I feel..
I can read how it felt..
it is all written down, follow the dots
look into the paths and do the same..
repeat, repeat , regurgitate is the game...
of insistance, that this must all be
somehow the universe can fit in my hand
the Sun on my tongue, all living people can
be reduced to words on a page..
that is all they are after all...
to a metaphoric GOD
feelings, how are you feeling...
what makes you feel, you feel don't you
don't you feel this way?
you really should, in fact, I feel sorry for you
because you don't...awww, it must be sad being you
I am glad I am not you...don't you feel it now?
don't you want to feel it..it is not that I am right
it is just that I know...I know how I feel,
because my metaphoric God, is the GOD that is real..
oh you will come to know it..it will bring you joy
it will keep you from harm...go ahead, cut off your arm
it is written, can't you feel these words..
it is written and it is rewritten and we all have
some part of the writing, that touches us...yes
there, you do see, don't you see,
don't you love OCD?
it is the blessing for you and me, from the one and true
metaphoric god,
that one in me, the same one in you..yes it is true...
what else can there be..how else could we feel
after all, so many people wrote so much stuff,
you know it all is real...every word of it...
every word and you can feel, and you can know
you have nothing, nothing to show for who you are,
not without the metaphor on your name, you have a name
you know your name don't you?
don't you like the name you have been given?
this is you isn't it, isn't it you aren't you ...you?
you are in there..in fact you are written in the stars
perhaps over there, under that little shiny one...
yeah, that far star, maybe that is the glint of an eye
looking back...how do you feel?
don't you feel the power..you can define in one minute
your life,
history in an hour, all because of the metaphoric god,
he already knew, she did too, whoever she is, well,
I know her and him...Bob and Jean...jellybean
they are all friends with Mr. Clean...and you do want to be clean, don't you...
don't you feel clean, oh how could you...
you are so ignorant, you didn't know
there is this kind of blood that cleans you so
wash in it and then you'll know...
hey, I am not judging all the others, they are just wrong,
and just like a song, the truth of a metaphor,
can extend itself long.......
maybe so long, so far and wide,
that it is not the truth at all....
maybe, it is a lie....
part ii
holding the stick firmly,
the best plans drawn on the sands of time
are not erased
in the code of what has always been
moving...
we have just refused to see it...
even our selves...
and when we do...
there is no duality in being...
there is...
tulpa slayers, the endpoint of a second's worth
of thought...
dancing with Kali, as if when our heads removed...
and we consider where all of our history has trod...
we give it all up..
for some metaphoric god...
never pausing for a good moment,
to embrace the inner child,
still untouched by this life...
waiting, to be realized....
the potential human might yield,
to that which is nexting...
continuance,
homeostasis,
reason fails these woods,
life is in the trees,
life is in the sea,
balanced and live and die...
and come again...
and again...
they all ask that someone has a word to speak
that speaking makes us know,
all the things
that are still not so...
waking the sleeper, only into sleep
and then the drifting boat oars down
the channels of history and time,
to be picked up later,
when for a brief moment,
someone saw it...
that is has no name...
needs no form...
no purpose...
and yet we all trod,
marking the paths, made in the belief
of some metaphoric god...
good,
evil,
cotton and bolle weevil...
gestures and dance,
words and attachment
to something in the form
of holding it...holding it down
obfuscating the view,
because of the billboard
of some eureka moment,
that turns out to be a lie
and another man or woman
with their particulars all showing out
and pants to the ankles
while the pervert
declares his clean-ness...
all this, this marvelous big piece of sod
and nothing, nothing is given understanding
only given credit to a metaphoric god...
a metaphoric story..
as if the retelling did not bore me
but became the coding
by which I measure the trees flowers and bees
and yet I never have considered,
any of these...just gave the names given,
just assumed the roles they're living...
we all dance in the circle of purpose
and somehow, the manufactured positon
lets us be part of the club of "us"
unless we have to ride the bus,
and watch the judges looking through the windows
looking out and never in...
and so many people still are all about the end..
that they never have a chance to begin..........
the slight return on another day...(part ii.ii)
have we risen over the course of time
to stand upright and know deeper what it means
to exist...
things in this universe are aged beyond our capacity
to appreciate the measure...
the names given this and that are as useful
as dog and cat,
but where there is light
there is a shadow,
but the shadow is a shadow
the light is light...
somewhere in between the space of then and now,
there is you, within you
who you are...
what you are,
what is within you looking out...
faith would explain it away,
attach to something made by the writings
of another man...
the reasoning is only that it flows
and it is safe because it is the same path
our forefathers tread...
but some forefathers, had a different idea
to leave the land as they found it
or better for them having been there...
profess to me with words, the powder of your intent
and with words, we only have words...
but take a moment to get down in the dirt
to lift up another, just once,
pass that on, the silent instructions of action
echo across time itself
and still, many cannot conceive what it means...
so they complicate it two fold, with more words
words are like bricks,
building a wall.
a great wall
of the imaginative mind,
trying to concretely make
all of theirs, what is mine...
and what is mine that I could implore,
is the essence of who I am
and the experience of self...
and yet, this is too complicated for most,
too much that they profess a creator,
perhaps the mathematics of creation
is cyclic, and this universe recycles
like they say energy is neither
created or lost...
it is merely transformed into something else...
so often, they never look at the butterfly
that is not genetically similar to its caterpillar,
that is past metamorphosis...past words,
it is an action and like the butterfly flying
is most best for the looking...
control is attachment,
attachment is no different that pity or sorrow
as if to say what is yours today
should be mine tomorrow...
so many people, injured unwhole and attaching to another
to make them whole,
when each person into themselves are whole
when wholly known...and then action,
altruistic action, makes something more notable
than the things a man can measure and name
and spend his life living as if there is a battle to win
and conquering is the game
like the need to proclaim "I am right"
makes someone else wrong...
but this darkness and this light
and this "magic" if you will,
is no more different than healing
and a prescription pill...
more or less the apothocary changed
and the method of delivery got more advanced
but it is the same game...
the external pointing, the drams and the blur...
the noted notability of a man
who likes clean shirts and to be called "sir"
I marvel at the humor in the peace, loving group
who professes the sword and battle
and pray that preyer is preying for the prayed for
are often the preyed on...
the truth is obfuscated by ego, the ego is attached
to faith, this faith is attached to repetitive teaching
and societal phoneme identity...
have you ever wondered who you were before your parents gave you a name?
magic...
logic...
judgement...
religion has preyed on all to control
dominate and bring into subjecation....
subjecation is a conditioning that remains
a relic of the conquering work
of an Empire...that has never fallen...
but shall rise, in the mystic marvelous
mystery, of a tapestry of lies...
(part iii simple response from the silence)
there is so much more to you
that you only can see, can be
and that you are you
is wonderful enough
for the one person, who matters most
and that is you...
when you are you,
the universe moves in unison
in harmony...
what can be will...
because, you are you...
wholly you...
and you are great..
(part iv)
But to step out of the circle of purpose,
to surface from the suffocating drowning dogma
making significant the past as if it is more tangible
than now, as if now is defined by then, when,
the end? befriend, pretend, contend, apprehend?
Walk out past the borders of the box they got you in,
past the paths so many others have insistently trod,
step into accepting the knowing of unknowance,
without a metaphoric god, without something
without some faith, without some belief, without all
the things that you feel is so absolutely true,
then there is but one thing left,
the whole, essential you…
how do you feel? Do you feel like this?
you might feel like that?
What do you feel? Do you feel anything at all?
Do you feel that there has to be some answer
to everything at all?
Have we stopped looking for the answers,
where our forefathers have trod, obeying the lies
of some Metaphoric God?
There is always someone who will tell you what you’ve seen,
someone to tell you what all this somehow means,
How do you feel? Do you feel me more or less now?
And without purpose am I any less now?
And without reason, am I still that I am?
Into the mirror, into the mirror
which mirror is the one you are wiping,
or throwing a rock through or sometimes swiping,
and then there is that even more interesting question,
is there really a mirror there, metaphorically or at all?
fear is your only god..
john moseley
