Category: Contemplation

Sometimes late at night
Or very early in the morning
In that twilight between sleep and waking
I hear the faintest little signals —
Transmissions from some place close,
Yet I can never trace their origin.
It doesn’t happen very often:
There’s usually too much noise.

If I could shut up the world, I would —
I’m tired of hearing our words.
Years of yapping have yielded nothing
But spectacle and heartache.
It’s time to close our nasty mouths
And seek shelter in quietness;
To commune in solace,
And listen to the wisdom of silence.

What a weird time for Kundalini–

Not that it ever occurs in an appropriate moment.

The first time it happened, I was on the train to Decatur:

Out of nowhere, that fiery ball of energy rose from beneath my cock and pulsed through my body in waves.

The sensation was so overwhelming that I started giggling, desperately trying to muffle the sound.

I squirmed fitfully as it tickled and tingled for what felt like an hour, although it was probably only a minute or two––

Time sorta dissipates when it hits.

The waves make it hard to keep my body erect,

And I usually end up writhing on the floor.

A full-body orgasm that lasts for minutes isn’t as pleasurable as it sounds––

It takes a surprising amount of stamina to receive it.

The exact nature of Kundalini is a mystery to me,

But it’s a force that is visceral and real:

Primal, healing, creative, and boldly erotic.

My relationship to sex has always been weird;

Kundalini makes it stranger. 

I can’t say I mind it.

“He is loved. He will be greatly missed.”

Or so his obituary said from not that long ago.

He may have been loved, but they sold his books awfully quick — I picked this one up on eBay a few years back.

He was an engineer and traveled the world, apparently.

Reading between the lines of the obituary and judging by this book, I’d say he was gay, too:

“Deeply loved by his nieces and nephews,” appreciated art, split his time between two cities, etc.

We’re not stupid.

He neatly wrote his name on the inside cover of the book.

It has to be the same guy — the spelling is too unique.

I’m throwing the book away now, ripping it into shreds after I scan the pictures.

Into the earth the pages will go,

As the previous owner already has,

And as I will one day, too.

Why bother leaving my name?

You may not yet recognize it,

But the world of the human is rapidly dissolving.

A fragile and subpar species entirely too pleased with itself,

Which long ago declared itself the apex of creation,

Has become so consumed with delusions of superiority

That it has descended into the depths of madness.

The foolish human mind, believing itself so intelligent,

Has convinced itself that self-annihilation is wisdom,

Enslaving itself to its lowest, most depraved demons,

Allowing chaos and insanity to reign.

The timing of this madness is no accident —

It has been appointed by forces far greater than our pissant imagination.

What we do now is the only question:

Will we learn, or will we die?

Those seeking external salvation will not find it —

No god from above or visitors from afar will rescue us.

Instead, our help is from those who already roam the earth,

Whom we have willfully suppressed and ignored:

The most humble and invisible among us,

Whom we arrogantly dismissed as lower than ourselves;

Those to whom we long ago became blind.

In their unfathomable grace and generosity,

Of which humanity is so lacking,

They are ripping the scrim we once placed between us,

Offering quiet support to the few who will accept it.

We are violent and murderous creatures,

And the danger to the helpers is real.

Yet we must come to accept that we are but one of many

In a world and universe that was not made for us.

We must acknowledge our insignificance,

Or collapse beneath our croaky illusion.

Who is this man of mystery —

This stranger from worlds afar?

He escapes my frame of reference,

And fails to fit my templates.

Unmoored, he traverses where he wishes,

Steadfast to a singular objective.

His manner is coarse yet cultured.

His speech is rough; his ideas refined.

Rash in moments but wholly devoted,

He breaks the rules with utter tenderness.

He stirs the old feeling of protection in me,

And in meditation, I ponder:

Will we sail to distant shores together,

Or will he vanish like those before him?

My instinct tells me the latter,

As our vantages are quite different:

While I seek harbor in contemplation

He finds solace in distraction.

I shelter inside my castle,

While he chases airships in the sky.

“I was going to come scold you but then I saw your profile. mmmm mmmm.”

She was a militant vegan and avowed feminist who took offense at some remark I made.

It meant nothing to me — I just like being a smartass.

Apparently, I ruffled her deeply-held beliefs, and she felt the need to set me right,

Naughty boy that I am.

She probably had no idea how creepy she seemed, though —

Just as lecherous and predatory as the men she railed against in her comments.

I blocked her without saying a word,

But briefly considered the truth that

We really are each other’s mirrors.

You are not special.

You are not unique.

You are consequential, but you aren’t important — learn the fucking difference.

Your beliefs mean nothing.

Your story is boring.

Your pain is no worse than anyone else’s.

Your wounds are no deeper either.

No one cares how fucked-up your childhood was,

No one wants to hear your whining,

No one needs to know your opinion.

There isn’t anyone coming to rescue you —

Swim to shore on your own.

The world doesn’t revolve around you or any of us,

And humanity is the pinnacle of nothing:

We are all specks of dust in the universe.

All cocks look the same after a while,

All tits eventually sag,

So pull your head out of your very uninteresting asshole.

Grow up, get over yourself, and get into the flow of life.

Do what you were sent here to do,

Stop surrendering your power to demons,

And get a little gratitude for the invisible grace that sustains you.

Share love if the opportunity presents itself,

But stop searching for it like a pathetic nutjob.

We’re all avatars riding on the same train;

So shut up, complete your tasks, and attend to your soul.

If you have the time or capacity,

Extend a little support to your neighbors.

And if that’s too much for you to deal with,

Then please get the fuck out.

I had a dream last night that I was the sole passenger on a train —
A train that ran on no track.
I only realized it when we passed through a place I wasn’t expecting.
“This isn’t on the route”, I thought.
I then noticed the train was free-falling down a steep slope.
I was petrified.
To my amazement, the unseen engineer skillfully navigated a sharp right turn onto an old trolley track,
And we descended a curving road paved with Belgian block.
The ride down was rough, but as we reached the bottom, we slid comfortably onto level ground.
Then I watched with disbelief as the train coasted through a forbidding gate —
The guard standing sentinel smiled and waved us through as if we were expected.
I finally understood that this chaotic journey had been carefully orchestrated:
The route without a track was exactly how I was supposed to reach my destination.

It’s true that the mercurial twists and turns of my life have often scared and perplexed me.
I learned long ago to work with whatever tools are available to me in the moment, without attachment,
Trusting that, somehow, it will lead me to my next step.
When the tool inevitably breaks and the moment ends,
I’ve never hesitated to take the next turn, the next bend, the next exit —
To my mind, I’ve never had a choice.
To those outside my train, it must look confusing and erratic.
I’ve become used to the looks of bewilderment, the remarks of scorn and ridicule.
What people have yet to comprehend is that this is the future planned for all of us:
The tracks that were long ago laid are being actively dismantled and destroyed.
No longer will we have the luxury of following a prescribed route in comfort —
We must now learn to trust the wisdom of irrational guidance.
Buckle up.