After doing prostrations, bending old body into the smoke-filled interior of the strange bedding, mind detaches from flowing world.

Ages pass into moments pass into chaos pass into stillness where all these perennial teachings push me to transgress, to overcome, to alleviate turbulent suffering regrets of disconnection, leaping despondent from alternating viewpoints, trading situations.

Tumbling backward to arrival naked of theme, neither engaged nor attaining to any real happenstance of accidenetal significance. Leather masking of bodies morphs the free visage elsewise than usual, binding my tongue from small talk, releasing the perversions of abysmal philosophizing.

Beautiful youths ready to play at flirtation, empty intentions of kink, twisted straight by expectation of commission, stretching into broken emptiness. Smooth flesh whipped with rough judgments: contiguity is not community but a contingency plan built upon the earlier breaths we have taken alone, conversations convincing us we are more than merely alongside some others.

Denying oneself is an indulgence of the dualistic separation between the singularity and the whole, a doubling drunk view of the nature of things. Engaging decisively what is happening, letting-go.  Letting-go, none-the-less, does not share essential similitude to letting-loose.

We see ourselves from our desire—empty of what we expect to touch, unfulfilled & longing for a pleasant encounter. Please, please, please.

Flipping through books that show intriguing positions, static captured ecstasy.

The eyes can perform two functions: closing & opening. Blind failure seeing what is happening by looking only at the surface. Keen success envisioning This Beautiful Order in the circumscribing glance that continues down, down, down… never hitting bottom but capturing every layer.

Food and wine and alcohol… connectives of shared identity… causal contiguity tying many alongside in mass visualization of companionship, friends in costume… grated-sprinkled-melted, gathering in fermented pool, giving birth to utterances in preparation for convincing experiences.

I had to perform prostrations to repent. I thought it was because I had a bad memory. I was having so much trouble memorizing the rituals. If I am everyday myself—immortal touch, indulgent denial—by far the worst infinite gifts come to me: reflection, separation, reduction, security.

I learned that the world and our minds are not separate yet there are limits in joy, mental suffering untreated, pain unrid, no anesthetic modality of disconnection via unrefrained judgment.

My little heart lost in my obstructions, whispering of wives & games & fevers & dildos, unreasonable functions, annihilation tomorrow in oblvions better than the other nothing in the world, the goal or purpose or jail of pleasantries.

Censors filling up the temple, bathing the grey creature, infusing the lower halls & chambers, binding the shit filled channels, backing up this energy at large as it flows in the universe… Only on these very small hands of mine, the small one fingered fila tickling the halls before the blood filled chambers, moving smoggy enlightenment through pumping digressions & cellular entanglements where only the old masters meditate in the self-other cinema looking at things in this world one last breath at a time.

Pain and struggle begin at birth and go on until we die, performing for each other, taking turns at loneliness—is the audience watching by chance or by design???—physical illness and psychic injury making wide the way in preparation for the last breath which begins immediately in unpervertable pretense.

Profiles of particular situations progress to nowhere & refrain from a path, some results yielded by our final breath, rooted in so much of contiguous conflict. See a doctor for physical illness and injury, see the Green Goddess for psychic struggle, and expand the hanging chambers, deep & full: her wisdom & veracity will only be as good as the breaths we take at the moment.

Standing around together, regressing through the before-time, still she pours the reality distinct from the act. The mind causes this nothing emptiness and then I turn to show who I am, these karmic obstructions arighted, allowing me fully to enter into the life atop the Kosmic Peaks & within the Quantum Valleys.

Training the eyes only to look is a shameful and unnecessary loss that wastes transgression, moving beyond the everyday into transitory way stations decorated with many attractions yet never up & away in to the always already unblemished universe, the Encompassing Ecstasy.

We recited sutras of appearance & accounting, and we practiced chanting charms of reduction & description.

Weirding moods effectively affixed outside themselves, furnished fantasies in every space, yet there is room to fill and to fill and to…