Middle Age Weirds Ideas (working draft)

Knowing this space I occupy is one with All-Space,
means understanding the relevant essence between
and how All-Space ceases to exist without myspace,
for one. Though I can't see infinity, eternity is nearer.
Once sacred ideas, science is poised to eliminate them
as facts, and without relevance, truer reasons might
measure reality of universe again, with more heart
not less. Absolutes, transcending relevance, was faith
cheating by unscrupulous politics and oppression
as natural of its true influence on human society?

There doesn't yet exist a healthy structure for man
within any society, to contribute value he seeks
thus society remains a fabric of man qua man links
at best, and decisions that define boundaries beyond
our reach, our consciousness, as we believe in voting
in ballots with a majority always the final ruling
over rest, winners over losers, an ironic fact in that
the smallest number always speak for greatest
and without a better idea we hang on to this farce.

Just like religion and less and less science, is this;
that our relevant understanding is completely false
while fact and faith are true possibilities, ideals now;
our knowledge is not active or operational, just belief.
And, ALL belief is foreign, adopted, alien, inauthentic
while original thought has quite the difference in flavor.
So while we in fact vote, we don't vote our own, do we?
It's multiple choice, with arbitrary write-ins ignored.

So, democracy has failed, while founding ideas remain
somehow providing individuals more than belief, hence;
social activism has brought us face to face razing the fence.
And, despite contest of loser's opinions evolving some
the promise fulfilled is purely circumstantial, most miss.
Real evolution, substantial and profound, will require
as many who vote, to suddenly think for themselves
recognize and maybe rally around new idea of governance.

This call then is to all the Ayn Rands, Einsteins, Emersons
alive today, to begin their epic works, and finish, I hope.
I speak in the darkness, though so many have my heart.
Clearly, the numbers as I've presented them don't compute,
don't equate, yet what other route does mankind have left?
Clearly, democracy isn't up to preserving individual liberty
when it's corruptd by those in power and opposing beliefs -
Scarcity, supremacy, cultural isolation, closed mindedness.

But, if not democracy, no ballot to cast our vote, then what?
The answer lies in economic theory and thought, I believe.
Only because, unlike political ideology and governments,
it actually takes account of facts without intrinsic bias,
except those elegantly and simply proven scientifically.
Obviously, here is where this man and Faith separate.
For faith, what's important is recycling every day's events
back into a narrative which is apocalyptic and mythologic.
For me, evolving my being needs honest accounting, to start.

Start speaking, paying your debt, invest, or gamble
until the horizon's fog bank clears its all the same act.
I have no reconciled statement, though alot of red belief.
My beginning will be to integrate higher philosophy
into my economical and financial accounting method,
and explore, leaving everything in play, sitting not.
In short, liquidate, consolidate, and capitalize; be fit.

9/2008, rjd

~For 50 Years Now

Found the woman I've been dreaming of
still putting the pieces together from last one
she was a Timex, I smashed against a tile.
My idea of lickin' was more than mistaken,
a dangerous key, made some sexy debris.

Each day luggs a few pieces I've kept along.
Countless times, I tried and failed the re-fit.
My ritual for recovery of truth, the love lost
by meditation, left over dust is swept to bin
so dream-flame has to ignite and not shatter

my broken heart

A suffering illusion I find or don't, shot out 22
only to have myself picked, served, and trashed
her guilt this time must be framed in my insanity.
Nobody can be wrong so many times, so many ways
about anything, as I have about the ways of women.

to question eye to eye, why love was never enough
to stop her from the decision to abandon me
doesn't happen because so far she's not been honest enough
abandoned by dreamlove, I imagine my insanity growing.

This last time was easier on my physical being but
knowing exactly how little faith and trust her lies concealed
the lying, the contemplated options, just dumping midstream
what reason extends for all before the split aiming to ruin
my happiness?

brutality of betrayal

each bout of illness, love's fever
unhooks all the edges where I hemorrhage
landing me a target for next bus to force what is my
misfortune, so unlucky enough to drop too much
to quickly to roll over under tires near bus stop.
This ICU has brought me closer and closer
to finding that woman, the challenge of heart
so close I know she's hiding, in bit of acting
I saw my dreamflame's twin, scorched mystery
she vanishes in, and the intensity left behind.

There's no denying this debris was my princess
I dreamed and dedicated with faith in truest love.
my timex test
which has kept my romantic dream alive
pinned on a childish belief in Santa Claus.

Pushing pile of rubble into a balled up wreck
as an homage to the dream girl I feel, thru
my illusion, the insanity, how she always runs
and for all 50 years now.

2008 summer on the pier

Love Math

Amid the points of permanence
our identity speaks for itself
a voice of essence, independence.

With a different voice was reason
built, a continuum in balance
and its polarity of transcendence.

Does this zero denominate a kiss
of two lovers we sacrafice, risk;
gain relation, seek infinite center.

The bizarre happens by illusion
when the voice has no listener
or speaks, insincerity believed.

But love, unbounded openness
in its honesty, heard in its song,
clears a space where two unite.

So many points go distant, by
what manner for love's desire
shall unity express itself nigh.

Battle Serious

Do you feel a mystery
as a rank recurring rhythm
that answers fail to question
what remains extant in time?

Does the pain building
felt in feeling, privately dreading
in the night shade coming
shake your slumber then?

This instinctive home sucks
and all and everything, mucks
by and large, by certain thought
when our own habits command.

Understanding it doesn't help
or I would feel no pain now.
Would somebody help correct
path to self, as battle, but serious?

rjd

Things I cannot touch

What touches anything, touches this.
Things I cannot touch, sung on a hilltop
one might find closer more than enough.
While our quick dalliances pique upbeats,
it's the clean self reflected so naturally,
where nature holds special places for us
we never knew, or could, to touch;
touching us, but not us, we touch.

Ask the touching fingers, better yet
what they cannot touch, for answers
we see in life of fish living underwater,
touching water in some greater way
isn't the truth in reverse, a paradox?
Most fish are oblivious and ignorant,
never touching what touches them all.

Where anything expands or contains
just beyond the last stop of mind
this measures in permanent fashion
everything untouchable somehow, not
the shock and awe parlay of our drama
that could just as well conceal pride,
narcissitic boneheading, and denial.
Just because one ignores willingly
doesn't mean never-ever is reality.

IBDubie/6/2008

You Who Never Arrived

Pre: Stumbled over a collection of Rilke tonight and found, You Who Never Arrived, speaking loud enough for me to resonate tonight's version...



There where you remain hidden unseen by me
Your arrival made a bed for my dreams, a fast.
My noon hour pause is one long look and beat
left behind when innocence chased hearts away
singing in patient adoration by window's edge.

A looking where nothing is recognized beyond
your immensity, a paradox that overwhelms.

this space I know, longing

but far-off, deeply-felt ground echoes in mind.
The space for your being is breath I so inhale
for promise, lost from the start, that eludes me.
As you still vanish behind dizzy gaze of corner.

6/2008, rjduberg

Today's Gift

I stopped late in life ...
to look at memories fading less
and gaining ground over the crest
laid on us all like the hand of time.

There's no horror equal or real
to finding what's been, turn back round
your lying, the intent, chasing you down
never letting up, cresting repentance.

Failing your humble understanding of this
how your very soul will haunt you 'til death
creates personal scrooges for some, and I.
I seek forgiving counsel from all I've done in.

And, you see, though the past fades
we can never pretend anything ends.
What I've dispatched, reasons aside,
took an injurious force, my lies a farce lid.

Save me enough time to right my wrongs
and count on me for everything else
you've come to know and trust me for.
... before growing wise was enough.

5/2008, rjduberg

Too Pop Too

How big a lie is our stake in this moment?
Our biggest is expressed possessively, mine.
Is stepping forward into hero's recognition
meeting a soul-mate, giving to the poor?
Life without a moment is beyond our sense.
Will anyone renew life's vital source or remains
by living well this time, free and loving?

When sincerity travels to humility, time ends.
Moments unify and life is only a bigger mystery.
Further on, the roll stops in an upward rise.
Our true stake is language, the tool of relation.
Nothing survives unless we keep all things equal.
Juggling words is a spiritual art for these fliers,
where used and discarded never slows down.

For those who spoke up for me when I forgot this
you live for this bollox and its bloody endlessness.
Recycling energy, and the silence of time, these
are warrants offered that lay waiting for what lies.
How dull today, how bloody awful and tired, what
can make this discrete two pop into one mind?

5/2008, rjd

Comment Graphics and Myspace Layouts at pYzam.com

~Light of Otherwise

I have committed acts, walked naked by choice
outside in the dark blanket of heavy snowfall.
That rosy path, with thorns of wrath, our nemesis...

I know I've stumbled upon it so many times
it no longer shocks me to lose my mind.
Nobody is safe from the demons of sleep.

I've less strength than ever, to stay awake
for being eternal; that, and nothing less,
resolves the issue in a balanced polarity.

Victims like confusion with loss of function
which doesn't get noticed; while false engages
everyone with horror, blinders hasten the decline.

Excuses and complaints form this path to hell.
Our worst denigration, groggy sleep, its passage.
Logic suggests non-dualism stops bleeding, rose.

I endlessly search for such mental expedience,
for consolidating mountains of debt, past due;
without any promise my home is where I left it.

In the seizing of every moment to purely act,
never running from consequences, this creativity
describes being, a force and influence; learning.

Purity of truth defies all common sense attempts
in response to limiting hell, by not venturing back
across boundaries while keeping an eye on fence.

A fence separating our lives from being identified,
summarizing life's memory and its influence here
to choice, the act, and our escape from mechanical.

Evolution's Ghost walks the bloody rose lane to death.

As long as I do not go to sleep and observe opposition
taking my best shots at finding orbits' flat burn release.
When that opportunity comes, the choice will be made.

Keep teaching yourself to turn along with the world;
if persistent, one's roll will eventually preside inside
as grandest map possible, paid in thorn's pricking pain.

There's no simple way to say non-word of eternal light.
Neither word can be heard, nor shadow of light seen.
So it goes... words from elsewhere light the otherwise.

5/10/2008, rjd

~The Spiral

What could that possibly mean about writing for me
to say that finding freedom in rhetorical expression
is central and or at the core of my poetry's aesthetic?

When use of rhetorical style becomes a habit of pursuit
perhaps freedom is lost much like mileage to gas hike,
knowing freedom's purchase requires higher resources
relativity at work in the most basic sense, felt as free.

But not...

And to maintain freedom in one's life evolves a process
with another degree of will signaling an actual potential
and applying that will, effectively, gains a right to surreal.

Freedom is an interpretation about higher awareness
when focus finds chaos decreasing in rise of certainty
leveling odds create circumstance resonating harmony.

Oddly enough, it is precisely in this situation of freedom
where the only result can be reversal of such fortune.
and so it goes... with perfect ascension's formal spiral.

5/2008, rjd

Poems about my Love

Choking on It

Choking on what thought,
the chemistry of love on top,
those molecules and this chaos
they wrought, scat, in the backyard,
so used and thrashed.

A single's work cleaning the litter,
leveling the ground, in cooling endorphins,
and wafts of air stale with memory,
and tuneless whistling.

So what, you say; with your shadow in place
lifting instruments to play virtuosic riffs a bit,
in front of locked-down stores lining the street.
You have quit believing that there's more, but
still stirred, enough to stop, and wait, listening hard.

-Rewritten work of found poem by Kim Addonizio

And then by Andre Breton....

Always for the First Time

Always for the first time
Hardly do I know you by sight
You return at some hour of the night to a house at an angle to my window
A wholly imaginary house
It is there that from one second to the next
In the inviolate darkness
I anticipate once more the fascinating rift occurring
The one and only rift
In the facade and in my heart
The closer I come to you
In reality
The more the key sings at the door of the unknown room
Where you appear alone before me
At first you coalesce entirely with the brightness
The elusive angle of a curtain
It's a field of jasmine I gazed upon at dawn on a road in the vicinity of Grasse
With the diagonal slant of its girls picking
Behind them the dark falling wing of the plants stripped bare
Before them a T-square of dazzling light
The curtain invisibly raised
In a frenzy all the flowers swarm back in
It is you at grips with that too long hour never dim enough until sleep
You as though you could be
The same except that I shall perhaps never meet you
You pretend not to know I am watching you
Marvelously I am no longer sure you know
Your idleness brings tears to my eyes
A swarm of interpretations surrounds each of your gestures
It's a honeydew hunt
There are rocking chairs on a deck there are branches that may well scratch you in the forest
There are in a shop window in the rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette
Two lovely crossed legs caught in long stockings
Flaring out in the center of a great white clover
There is a silken ladder rolled out over the ivy
There is
By my leaning over the precipice
Of your presence and your absence in hopeless fusion
My finding the secret
Of loving you
Always for the first time

~Return From Summit

I heard said, reaching the summit,
when no summit I had ever seen,
left a wake descending complete.

This truth returns nay but why?
When the uncommon rides high
does a descent fulfill the stride?

Years climbing in apparent futility
have I daily felt pinnacle's peak
only to stop when at the top.

Something I forgot surfaced today
nothing achieved is overcome
unless returned level with love.

We see what we find and forget
never returning endowed possibility
to place depth where surface lies.

4/2008, rjduberg

~Ode to Oxy

Pream: Confused and considering the strophe, antistrophe, epode idea, I penned this, but wish to stipulate to its vagueness. Perhaps, I shouldn't have shared/posted it.

~
The variance of your reply, the skew and difference
set upon the express summary by timed default
inspires just one impulse in my sea of madness.

I will never stop paddling around, despite the odds.
While fluidity has its own science and religiosity
the art requires a dimensional aesthetic, a break.

Look for good maps and remote locations
Stock up necessary resources and head there.
For nothing is remembered as well as being there.

4/2008, rjd

~Along with Less than That

On the face, there was suddenly a place
a spot on which my hand raced
turning the dials about.

Not like a bell, but twilight at dawn
this place grew strong
from inside.

When points in references reached
on latest maps detailing something odd perhaps
they do not steel my provicincy and commitment

The teardrop is something I have patience for
nobody else seems to find so disturbing, if I may know.

map includes horizons and plots for each other 3 shots
pictures of my internam, hard and soft target overviews or discussions are find be yond anyone's ability to make me here. If there is any link in to situation to speak with them. Not sure what that need is to be closer with my ability to access the car taking or emerging with a mean ready to go so I don't have to continue driving tonight.

Gonna start with laundry I guess ... Bye!!


and my hand points it there.

5/2008, rjd

Vignette about Family Estate Karma

I can imagine writing a scene in a novel or book about you and I and this life. We’re revisiting the Duberg estate, in the country made up of family estates, a kind of spiritual repository of karma which is so tightly knitted together for us in our relations to our families. We stroll through the gate, the grounds, the house, reminisce about everything left as recorded history in displays mounted on walls and other types of artifacts, and then making our way through garden and backyard in a far corner of the land we come to an old well, barely visible for never being maintained or used. We’re kids, leaning over the wall, peering into the blackness, and I ask (semi-rhetorically now), how far down does it go (posing with a rock in my hand, prepared to let it drop) and you grab my wrist with this look of utter horror on your face, and you say, “You don’t want to know!” The look just paralyzes me, but your consternation melts into a comforting whisp of a smile, reminding me of how much more you’ve suffered on this spot, and I realize such wisdom is priceless and never to be ignored. This doesn’t extinguish my natural curiosity so compounded by the fact of my karmic inheritance which is some sense being incarcerated and thus limited or constrained; by itself, undeserving and unjust.

You release your grip and I let my hand fall to my side, the rock I toss aside, and then turn and glance back at the blackness with only patience in mind. We shall see then, how this all plays out. We begin our hike back to the estate’s compound with you rambling on about how one day all this will be mowed under and landscaped with a fresh grove of trees, going over some list in your head, the pros and cons, and all I can think about and wonder is which one might be least conductive of the demonic. For who knows just what doorways exist in blackness so deep, through which the nightmares of babes might wake up the curse of this karmic unrest once again?

As we close in on the garden and our senses are awash in a phalanx of spring fragrant sprouting, we turn outward and receptive to the primeval beauty of love’s light. Nothing is forgotten, especially buried secrets which are still so black. ~

~But Wait

For the lithe, supple, breathing
a child at play, blends fantastic,
over the falls of words sacraficed...

But wait...

This current of words flows not
but is stopping, being held anon
here, a small pittance with love.

I'm starved instead by such joy,
but would have nothing anyway
but useless hollow flabiness.

3/2008, rjd

~What is HER Problem?

I'm now convinced it matters more
my discontinuous view of amore
not because losing to this flow
happened, but that it won't stop.

The profundity of loss is lost here.
Am I the only victim of this travesty?
Or, as she thought selfishly, suggesting?
Like asking why God kills the innocent!

Past this connumdrum, personal issues
and all... nothing changes this process
where love for me was once continous
stopped, and became solidly discontinuous.

OK, maybe for you it's different,
self-improvement as narrative focus
still remains as gravity for most of us
and yet, what is HER problem?

3/2008, rjd

PS: Unless I offend please understand that what I'm closing here with is a very sketchy (to give perspective to plain I guess) way of expressing feminine dominance as a central and coalescing influence which any story about what would improve being alive necessarily focuses on.

Please don't limit your notion of feminine dominance to some kind of socio-sexual stereotype to avoid the offense. Clearly, this is my assertion about the ISSUE or subject which I'm referring to innocuously yet at the same time saying is singular and continuous among all categorically similar narratives per se, negative or positive.

I wish my thesis wasn't so weakly put, but its a start I think for now .

~Sparse Frivolity

Notes to oneself, to the other, are endless with (k)nots.
Hum of the drum, beats us all down, even now.
And then, comes Rumi's white miracle of round,
when just like a beautiful spring day, new is found.

There's one sure promise here in so many miles
paved with broken hearts, love's recompense.
Long riders learn how to bite their tongues
for risk of missing opportunity to exit (here)with.

Longer and farther one treads, rot settles in.
Close to the start, is where to find surest bow.
There, knarly pain controls mind spasm totality
just as before - God created Universe - this time.

We're simple and sparse in any grand comparison.
Tragic misfortunates, suffering the mystery unseen.
Our stories are all, little more than Potter's Daubie,
sure fire failures forsooth as profit rushes to defend.

Truth is not narrative, while narrative claims what is.
We claim narratives our own, and then stop asking.
Our erudite moral thinkers persuade how valuable
the story told must be, identity's fashionable package.

Nice and tidy they say, providing continuity with past,
a frivolity which defines our spirituality, our essence.
I bite my tongue, and choose to close in on the start.
It hurts most when I forget how really meaningless...

But at times like this, burning intent at my ready,
the challenge to untell is at once all I perceive.
So far as that maintains the inquiry, will I return.
Straight lines and circles, my digital age narration.

2/28/08, rjduberg

~def Challenge II

Of 3 positions, none offered
your life rests there, each moment
Beginning, Inbewteen, and Endding.

Why no one remembers dynamic
denies many rights and genius.
This past, genius, for endding?

This little set is our beginning
and this middle plays healing
on the start of a mystery ending.

Mystery, Inbetween, Endding.
Could it be a verse of Karma?
Better yet, final recurrence?

Well, simplicity must act now.
Beginning, swings a middle process
to middle that ends to roll of end.

rj 2/2008

~Where You Is

Before you went
to inhaling insist
was effervescent

OK some roost
around a nest,
some scoot scatter
fly founder fume.
Everything poops
their own place.

Why your poop
left me so sad?
My little mask
is now offhanded.

I know better (the)
where you go
is the miracle (of)
where you are.

Rose Peddles/sun

Why do roses suffer the liquid of our being
so much we've grown yet so little sown
regarding nature's story of pain.

And the beauty of the thorn seen in water
is made by the sight of its crown in blood.
The color is a match, hook, and tackle.

My liquid rose over the lips and was free
what I don't drink runs down my face
this better be where you find solace
after you stop deifying words peddled.

rjd, 2/2008

~words of wisdom

The reason anything gets done begins and ends...

The other side becomes general in their answer
just as the sunset with its beauty draws down.
Remember there’s power when adversity nears.
Knowing the positive still prevails, brings benefit.

What is to gain by standing out in the open may...
Beyond a change of season, they’re all the same.
There’s another idea being focused on, I’m saying
that -- of what’s beyond recycling, just because...

Agreeing the present is bad risk management;
In truth, only pure stupid egomania cuts it.
You figure, converting to solar, solves everything;
And why the hell haven’t we began to live that?

The reason is once again about management...

~She Was

Longing built on the greatest loss
fading, I can barely name names
for the one I regret, cannot forget.

Falling so hard like that
defies belief and explanation -
even the story is ridiculous.

And yet, that first lover persists
as a gift to which I was blessed
and have longed for ever since.

2/2008, rjduberg

~Shock of my Family

Keeping track of numerosity, the defiance of chaos
meticulous and precise, it comes with a price.
Make a list, and notice somewhere fog disappear.
Include a mistake as a shockwave, like tsunami
against your thatchy, unrooted, shallow, indwelling.

The mistake we find is the mistake we project
the error our true self freely enjoys to a fault,
and forgeting origin, doom makes misc a lie,
returning chaos to the side of our enemies.
Hail the man with a reverence for such shock.

His humility and true incompetence laid bare
while his reverence is a design to embrace.
Most don't conceive the value of awakening
as victims and slaves, they protect their sleeps
with illusions of purpose, quite felonious skits.

In catching what lies we find how hot the steam,
the pressure which friction will invariably release.
We get good at stepping over it all for sleep,
preferring an unfocused, non-intended state;
to the work, designed to put shock in our way.

Biggest shock for me is change in my women.
I chase the projection, because love was great.
I suffer an imagination scorched by the friction
of a time producing zenith in all my attachments.
Attachment fuels illumination, shock ignites it.

I do not know what women think or feel, thou.
Not for lack of effort to discover and correct
mistakes, to restore the intimate renewing,
which characterizes my fading impression.
Interpretations abound, some keep shaking.

They could not own me, nor bitch their way in.
I have my mom, beyond bitchy, who I so love
to thank on this particular catastrophic fault.
In fact, I believe my entire family plays a role
through their mass exodous to far off fringes.

Not hard to see how little stock I'd have, to put,
after the primary carriers of that experience
ostracized, abandoned, rejected, left, forgot
me; each and every one. Aha my family is
no worse than women, that stand left empty.

Not women but brothers and in laws, mom.
Those who've passed before setting it right.
Mostly, the turning away and leaving behind.
Thus I live this core felt relation to women
they always bring recognition back to missing.

In the beginning, before the cruelty, there was
such frivolous distraction, and love. Still love,
today quite mature however, compassionate.
Not their fault, I see that, can't change this,
but only focus on source in all of this, family.

Egads, and there's the rub, I'm quite sure
I lack any standing, nor have any favor to call.
Oh well, such are the facts, and I can't believe
there aren't others who've passed beyond this.
The bleak blanket sleep brings, is a monster.

(c) rjduberg, 2008, Jan

~The Good Chase

Forget about any thoughts, I might have
for those who might know or imagine
how this poem found words and context
to begin with what surely started, parted.

And this has nothing to do with talented
beautiful voices, singing harmony, love.
Though chasing those performances may,
shouldn't they? Say the closer the better!

How exciting when you can almost touch
what you've been striving so hard to reach.
Yet can anyone answer why that touch
brings such sorrow over our hearts, won?

Even understanding this horrible truth
and passing on instead of chasing one
is not satisfaction, by simply refusing
to engage success, a turning paradox.

The good chase catches a path upwards
opens opportunities and possibilities
never before known or imagined, real.
This mystery of paradox of finding more

is perhaps the ultimate convolution.
Time spent chasing a true mystery
caught revealing wealth of unknown
preserving mystery in well's depth.

If the chase was good from the start
preserving those stakes is stalwart
a pure result from one's actions
an outcome due to forgetting self.

A vision of mystery, chasing eternity.

© 2008, rjduberg

~Liquid Rose

As the liquid rose
the brim of surprise
enjoyed full release,

stuck up so high
what came around
never dove in
nor took flight
but hung a-round
at a distance,

for what in passing
is hard choked
in its stream,
its proximity
distorts,

no retort,
just a hard surface,
a real bore
of hollow end
to open.

© rjduberg, 1/2008

~Next to Next

The hairs on my neck stood up
with the breath a world stirred up
no tweet to meet, or sets' full lull
yet desire wants to breathe in fear.

All this time spent working nights
to find nothing but an elderly pace
to create whatever fades as mine

*
The rewrite calmed a fluttering utterance
the edition, a first this time
in an info age filling in
what once stayed stained
under weight of addendums
is the same but new today
at the speed of digital light.

The influence of art is a beautiful thing
where one can indicate briefly a thing
letting imagination form its substance
in turn, an immeasurably finer appearance.

What ills can now be corrected
properly so, beautiful that way
happened just now as virtual reality,
more ocean than place for waves traced,
revises in ripples having a human face.

As revisions are next, next to next
is a new definition of what's final.


RJDuberg, 12/2007

~Back to Back

When thinking about Shelley, this popped out tonight. No doubt it will read as rubbish to most, and I can appreciate that. Explaining it would be shameful, so my understanding must remain left behind for the moment.

Back to Back

Were that you were there,
where here was its future,
I would read you, not you, I.

That not that, was that that
has found yet, that this that
not, that at all, still is, that.

The expansion of a moment
in our being empty to it
is the substance of paradox.

You brought me to this.
I risk my life to write it,
inbetween, life and death.

© rjduberg, 2007

~Nadir or Zenith?

A singular annual period
of the bourgeois parade
is here again
pulling the new year,
hiding befuddled
behind it.

Nadir or Zenith?
The nativity scene, its logo.
I have no interest in the melee,
not a profiteer;
I sigh over the slime
faithful suffer.

(c) 2007, RJDuberg

~About This

The time is taken only about this
when conflict allies with its fate
the time taken to determine that
allows one's being such impasse.

Or is waiting for the next halting
no way to be, where not proceed?
Surely, we suffer what's ongoing
needing severe shocks for stopping.

The injustice from squinty eyes
clad and righteous, dogma hard
reminds no better, of how blind
ironic pretense, masks what's soft.

Without the support of the person
any and all criticism lacks a core
like media platitudes, a pablum
attractive only as a degradation.

Sure to annoy, this false alarm.

12/2007 RJD

~In The Land of Sigh

How a little of anything can matter
takes more of it than we can handle
and in between nothing we sigh
a sign the rough landing done.

One screw loose is a blessing,
still the mission is to hide
what people can't grasp,
the reverse expectation.

Same effort, just less of it
sighs when twist is out,
yet all our expectations
fit on the tight turn's end.

For freedom I grew less
and hiding expectation
looking goofy and some,
made my sighs an address.

One piece of candy
for the eye who spies,
who sees mystery unraveling
as I address the inconceivable sky.

Beggars here are mistaken.
They want the zoo of forgotten,
the void of unconscious,
the illusion of order inside.

Here inside is a twistless
flame kept alive, on purpose,
the friction, a pain of heat
what less known grows

in this land of sigh.

12/08 RJDuberg

Eventuality, a call for response

What if some relationships were free
sources of what is beyond the events
the horizons of relativity
makers of eventuality
the hum of the ho
the twist we'll always tell
has no reach but this question.

Science and religion are caught
but is art? The perception begs us
as that which cannot be thought.
Intuition and spirituality are spots
like pink elephants, flying anywhere.

Where is there? If it cannot be heard?
What comes of this transcedentalness
or any mystery eventually? Certainly,
what can make claims on it take aim
and are eventually sent along in force.

This mystery defies the entropic event
demands philosophical resolution
if not spiritual evolution or renewal.
And, all truth, is owing to this
which turns but itself is unturned.

Necessary, not eventual, can this much be said?
Is there any more to the puzzle of one's being?
Let this call be heard for all to submit theirs
Come give precision to this question, I ask.

Give us an empowering answer on eventuality, sir!?

~Once is Enough

When doing the dance again,
have your sole on the planet
in time to begin now instead.
Where you step to spin
illusion is but a friend
easing an imprisoned mind.

Harmony is the feeling
when we begin dancing
and find it’s always been
this dance never stopping.
Music that sings like Niagra
some mistake for the roar,
while the power whisks
like nothing else before.

And all that noise, all that sound
All those places to be found
Birds there, fly at the speed of sound
To show how it all began
they come from underground.

Isn’t the next natural disaster
just as likely a matter formed
not from a pesky butterfly
but from a move in behind
a noise at the speed of sound?

Around every corner
another chance there
not to the status quo
but to puzzle the mind.

Who knows what we’ll find
how much of our world
do we miss in the hiss
of our ignorant minds?

You’ll never get there from here,
if turning that corner
becomes a habit you like.
Right or wrong, logic sticks
like a ball and chain of prison.

Letting go must persist
if we are to be fully aware
of everything out there
in the perfect harmony.

To show how it all began
Birds came flying from underground
If you could see it then you’d understand
Oh, when you see it then you’ll understand.

2007, RJDuberg

There is some very close language in this to Coldplay's song, The Speed of Sound, which I wish to acknowledge. In fact, I wrote this poem with the purpose of it harmonizing with the lyrics of that song.

The Turn

Real heroism found in a consumer's package
is turned consumable by friction's heat
perfectly designed to hold its spin in balance.

What we eat, passes...
standards insuring health and taste
so the turn takes us from what degrades
leaving purity of the essence, a theory.

Spin will purposefully conceal the negative
in order to accentuate the positive.
So like racing into a fire is justice
when the child of innocence is there.

Those stories like the fastest vehicles
don't come without dangerous potentials
capable of putting one directly in harms way.
When justice cheats, anything is possible.

Unlike the flow of ordinary social life
the turns of justice are paradoxical challenges
under the radar of most understandings'
looking to validate judgement as righteous.

For the true heroes, how could their actions,
without doubt, awesome for being just,
ever be understood by interpretive mind?
Citations of precedence support illusion,
finite versions designed into legal rhetoric,
numbs precision of open curiosity
by substituting status and power, for choice,
reinforcing conformity and effective control.

Add humility to blindness, over the flames
of courage and heart. Justice comes
when acts appear as points of paradox, control spin
before it derails, and land injury before impact.

Making the turn of paradox happy
has no precedence
when by definition, anything is possible
so that man in his weakest condition
calls the shots without selfishness
precisely when selfishness precedes.
Justice knows no limit
able to stop all comers
who would rule the world.

That is doing justice,
the opportunity is an eternal choice.
Some are better at it than others,
they are the deified, the hero.
For the rest who feed and benefit
from their achievements,
dancing in the bend is a bumpy grind
as we stumble in the curve.

~D

Savin Gestaltin

What really amuses me
is the confusion, my best
friends take it from me
let me talk endlessly, I will.
Chatting by their confusion
on it, over it, through it, under-
standing but a_part of it all
fantasizing of my princess
named gestaltin, beauty
the ideal I adore.

Everything stops however
comes to an end exhausted.
still, remaining best friends
and; I, left solidly a part.
What pieces are these
then and now
if ever?

rj, 2007
in response to Nickelback's Savin Me, Susie's choice

With a Smile

Who came today while I was standing
surrounded by a garden, a playground
fun, beauty, and the green opportunity
it's my job to serve without deserving.

The reality of this existence pays me
lets my meanial work suffer an ecstasy
where life conforming to the mediocre
is traded a time for waggling paradise.

My job cleans away what travels along
coming in, going, coming out, I find
my purpose to separate what sticks
at the time, a sludge I love to hide.

Picking up what my mates let slide
somehow expands what only satisfies
a dance in harmony with cultivation
between the best in man with nature.

The planet came today with a smile.

(C) 2007, RJDuberg

Stream of Consciousness Poem - Lonely Press of Mine

Love to write of love,
to pen on absentia
proxy more than poetry
falls as cloud of feathers.

Words all pointing to being
from which they grew
and together somehow
plucked to fall and scatter.

Rapture or heartbreak
healing or celebration
conscious love is willing,
the core of music, who knew?

Before this aboding ends
some anathema arises
in fact two intervals occur
to divert or detour the love.

Self centered love ends
turning around sadness of loss
our one sacred gift, the sacrafice
an eternal scar remains for us.

(Writing for love is not
what is higher, pure feelt.
Standards and all rules
surround token in logic.)

As such, the copy feelt
usually defies the common,
negating understanding,
moving not but stranding.

The pain involved finds us
intrinsically absentia by proxy
the rise of human spirit
tests precisely one persistence.

When failing to make the turn
learning to expect future abyss
forgetting and calculating comfort
limitations and finite time to come.

Darkness grows ever more just then
If there is persistent opposing
painful proof of the old adage
shakes as dark, being worse when last.

We love and fail to communicate
while communicating is essential
and despite our understanding
we discover a bizarre incompetence.

Born of habituated need to judge
based on the edifice built by self
our capacity to love remains pain
until we end self-love's knowing reign.

The prick of this imprisoned existence
comes at the moment we forget not
that such higher states are given
to surrender, not achieved by plot.

This remembering of one's self
supported by separating knowing
from what is purely feelt
passes as space in a needle-eye.

To forget this and one's self
and to never quit accepting help
designed to wake one to not sleep
paradoxically succeeds just as well.

There are paths and ways to evolve
despite this poem's chaotic revelation
one cannot deny in closing with verse
ending as just adoring beautiful source.

If beauty takes a beholding eye, then
ugly basically is what passes us by
such that any notice recognizes justly
the consequence of our weak existence.

In truth, ugliness seen is beyond notice
like perceiving astrophysicist's black holes,
what in fact isn't seen is beyond seeing
and will never be seen, it's beauty no more.

Thus to write about love has equal footing
while love no more would spell our demise
our particular defect of sleep is mechanical
mental, emotional, physical, and instinctual.

Freedom from that known requires an edge
sharp enough, to cut through Gordian's knot
and a place to start as mentioned above
the sacred sorrow and death to self-edifice.

Realized as a possibility, the real work begins
for that moment of grace when gift is made
the glory for all those awake to accept it,
we prepare by increasing consciousness.

So it goes... this much I remember at least.
It helps not to judge anything, recognizing
role of logic in sustaining a safe beingness.
Uncorrupted, reason isn't feeling, as thought.

Ethically, proper reason is mediated by theory
the boundary between known and unknown
where limits express orders of chaos
the sine qua non encapsulated in roll of dice
which begs the most important spiritual issue,
being the work involved in reducing our evolution
based on luck, when lucky enough is not.

So, this is neither balanced composition
or in any rigorous measure, poetry.
Here are merely the ramblings of mine
looking even less prose for the stumbling.

Question remains of value about nature,
to suffice on extract and to cohere
into a concise statement for elucidation?
Or, like more useful bandages in general
ought the receptacle for these words
likewise be the same, including its hazards?


-rjd, 2007

Dubie Digits Logo

Dubie Digits

Not Tonight

That voice,
needing so much care
place, reason, enlightenment
period of time, craft, and structure.
The design of poetry trifles not.
Knowledge is just discord.
Desire is temptation.
There is no plot.
Not tonight.

Gift of Light and Vision

The things that are seen
speak against a flat roar
of grumbling backfires
heard as tick tock blows.

The definition of ethics lost
when fog rolled in to talk
a hypnotic, imperious yawn,
some vaporous devil's spawn.

The spirit of man died,
the devil takes no care
as the rush of stupidity
moves in like real estate.

Ethics is lost in listening
whatever gets said, gets said
all petty cracks foam the drift
a toxic doom fatal to the touch.

I donned my bib and gloves
and set my art upon this
surf by the paradox
to the fading light.

Fore! Playing through it all
is a matter of visual style
integrating grass with asphalt
mastering eternity's shore.

While this cloudscape remains
I'll not waste time in harbors
no ethical meaning could dock,
but chase stupid back to hell.

Still, I'll rest to moon whispers
on full nights you might hear me
to quickly, to make the time real
beautiful is given in light and vision.

rj, 2007

This was meant to give some perspective to my absence here and what I've been doing with my time, developing myself as a graphic designer. Clearly, there is some less than masterful shore definition within the container and it continues to be wanting with respect to concrete anchors and pillars to hold it in the listening.

Some things always change, and some never do!

Little Imperial Air

Merry Xmas from Imperial Beach

Sweet Move

Guardian of the Realm ~ Jones

Being Tubed at IB

IB Pier in the Cloud

Love IB Sunsets

sunset yesterday here in imperial beach, ca

~Sung Within Surreal

Not of time or place, this heart of mine
still beating as loud, this mystery of life
because good answers, a silent kind.

Death is coming for us, each day faster
challenging is our preserve, our purpose
religion made irony a fool for hypocricy.

I’ve been already and continue besides
asking myself how long maybe can take
against the innocent slaughtered by god.

Straining against the mechanical decibel
has always been a humming that’s mine
a wrap against the elements sung within.

(c) August, 2006, RJDuberg

~How This Heart Continues

Late nights trouble me
I lose track of time
how long ago was it
when fall began
the world left to me
in the ruins of my heart

Doctor attended my survival
but nothing has changed.
How this heart continues
I'd rather not say, can't;
especially late at night
when life craps this way.

Those I love, so far away.
Men not allowed to whine.
Lonely and abandoned...
Would it have helped a child?
Back then as I began
the ignorance was bliss.

Now I'm accused of being a child.
An old guy does childish things
absentmindedly racing by time.
I feel less than way back then.
The spiritual quest didn't fail.
I awoke in a fall from grace.

Women were always a mistake
I'm obsessed over the love lost.
The pain warns me of my ego.
It's my life, it's my right to wake
on this flight more an aftermath
of waiting that's killing outright.

Knowing worse in the world
doesn't stop an iota of pain.
The wings that kept me aloft
were mythological and rotten
adding insult to the injury
of time lost in coming horror.

The dawn inflates my facade.
I know pretenses that please
despite how bitter the taste
invoked by other's whatever
like Sharapova tennis reruns
virtual power by image elite.

I have been waiting too long
for me not to whine about
how my heart continues.
I am forced to make a move
though there's no reason to.
The paradox screws tighten.

(c) September, 2006

~Eve's Secret

Why agonize over it?
The assumed quintessential source of man's pain
cannot be balanced by what makes his life fun
cannot be looked at with her cynical eye lash
from shadows of myth or mirth in rebellion.

The rib, the crux, the bone, the point of wars
men know all too well her move behind doors
her worth and the stakes that fools bleed on
if a lady would extend me her great patience
women are not men's rival or defective genius
wrecking happiness by temptation over desire.

To consider her origin, let us ignore a secret
women act competitive provoking unhappiness
their karma distancing them from this shore
where they must return this honorable desire
stepping here is a goddess' right of passage
the alternative is hope's unthinkable death.

The secret of eve is the challenge of love
man's possibilities evolve in proportion
to the heart of synchronicity, with another.
So dear Lady, men are inversely your magic
and your presence gives essence its beauty
that imperfections like Satan get cast out.

Freedom needs you to be free next to me
It's time you come home so I may survive
otherwise these creeps that surround me
will be my deminse on this sea of outrage
Could you be anymore feminine in mercy
when you step here to end love's isolation?

© 2006, RJDuberg

~Watching Grass Grow

ahhhhhhh, ummmmm, many things can be realized together
and this abundance is ironic and honestly a true misfortune.
Internalizing and understanding take time to circle yoga,
a quiet place to watch the grass grow and do catch up
with folksy music, old celtic lyrics sublime, Nicks sometimes.

With the result being future integrity's renewed compass
expands the perception in a higher more intimate plane.
Too many cooks spoil the festive grassy ground's growing.

ii.

When upon returning to the scene
of the first encounter with this theme
If your honesty is bright and real
You will find precise festivity
grown between your ears by memory.

For what is this growth in perspective
but a revealing and correction
And for the curious hint seekers
what can a cook do with a compass?

(c) copyright, July 2006, RJDuberg

~Improv This

To let the mind imagine anything
with a push pull rod connecting
the mystery of life to its living

this moment.

Very rarely can poetry make due
on the gift received we eschew
where illusions reveal this you.

Still, there is so much missing.

July 2006, RJDuberg

(c) July 2006, RJDuberg

~In The Dead Men's Chest

The first time I felt true love has remained
a high water mark atop my Everest peak.
My stand, with 360 degrees in love horizon
wasn't without its cold spot or great needs.
Unprepared, I stood destined for the falter
now fallen, I struggle to regain that ground.

Simply closing my harbor to reckless illusions,
staying committed to remembering myself,
applying lessons that stood the test of time,
keeping hope and faith distinct and apart.
For what hope desires, faith has not a basis.
Adapt to changing times is infinitely better.

The ambiguity I face to peak's preparation
compared to a one memory of being there
vanishes in immensity of starry light passion
whose twinkling silenced clambering fright
from spoiling the awesome truth I realized.
And then I fell to memories failing in decline.

My preparation sunk in blasts of resignation
with legend pointing at dead men's chest.
Life is a drama of pirates battling undead,
ghosts, represent surreal absence of light.
Though imaginary interpretation of normal
they express mystery's lament under peak.

On the fall, on the way down, they remind
if we are able to keep awake for the call
our new position in the universe in reverse
is the possibility for being alive totally in love
our basis for a faith returning hope to a chest
owned by dead men, cursed by faith in disguise.


(c) July 2006, RJDuberg

~Wakes of The Void

Jobless is a circumstance concluding in dangerous boredom.
Love seduced my soul before I knew the scourge of denial.
It ruined my life, stole my compass and sanity, in a flash to go.
I'm lucky somehow, despite being violined by maudlin romance
I continue to remember what was taken before being ready.

So powerful is true love it serves the purest opposite negative
when not guided and ruled over by higher conscious men,
and it is here where I have found the greatest divide
between dogma and pragmatic satisfactions I've applied.
Very few see to that distant far shore across dogma's plane
having its own horizon for lower perspectives, most will forget.
Those lacking access to such principals to contain soul's fount
encounter the worst liability to being alive in an ongoing grind
where souls could play lube and bearing over dying moments.

I've tried to stop the process of mind seeking solutions to find
it continues I suppose until my romantic soul, my muse is mine.
Intuition tells me the doors are locked and the guards are deaf
rendered blind to any impression resembling me from that time.
I've reached hard into the world for guidance without success
and I'm at the hilltop where knowing my limits and failure in fact
confronts me as the downside pulling me back forward to anew.

The best of times, the purest hearts in love with just being alive
The celebration was a raging roaring conflagration which engulfed
leaving the deepest imprint and causing me to face my oblivion.

To accept and share with any reader the fruit and wisdom here
requires one to understand a moment and precisely how temporary it is
at once the result and production of time, and how they vanish
and this vanishing is life today, This moment, anything, knowledge
is just a bubble of consciousness which is about to burst and dissolve.

Always and forever, this moment now, has and always will kill you.
Whether in memory, or in grim finality, this moment has one purpose
aimed at cessation, to die, to lose momentum's form, to end as totality.

This time, leaves us now. Please honor and observe wakes of a void.

June 2006, RJDuberg

~Of Sky

Must be too much time on my hands
and lost love from some urgent land
that makes memory prick of a plague.
An illness of recurrence, sad sashays
when someone was listening thunder,
our hearts resonating, so far beyond
the beautiful opening flower of sky.

(c) copyright, June 2006, RJDuberg

~Acrimony is a Midlife State of Mind

The tragedy of my being haunts me
and increasingly takes more from me
now cresting my midlife point I seethe
over the invariable moments of what
in my youthful innocence was a strut
seductively about life, an ignorant slut.

Resting upon this horrific peak of time
knowing pricelessness lost to its crime
I understand man's rise from the slime.
This mystery plagued me well then
and what I lost remains deep within
the memories making in me a wind.

Cold and bitter, biting into my soul
I exist humble on knees feeling slow
this wind of memory a ruthless mow.
Despite my acrimony over my plight
mystery, hope and beauty are right
together fusing into an inspired light.

A man is surely defined by his action
yet remember winds of complication
most strongly felt as a midlife vexation.
These times are perhaps the most difficult
For one remembers what did not result
when opportunity met this cluster phuck.

copyright (c) June 2006, RJDuberg

~Ways of The Call

The moments in life which produce a feeling
more intense than any other, we call the way.
During total movements hear spirits ringing,
calls of the most unique and singular kind
one almost has no choice but to have faith.

If the idea itself my laughter left light and dry;
The above and I would be solid, down to deal.
It doesn't mean I don't listen and learn though.
Intellectual trust is special human gift to start
and it alone exists, the suffering of spirit.

So, I don't cast my pearls before the swine
but think Jesus is genius for pointing it out
with one of his many catchy shizzl jingles.
I have one grand exception for the record
but it begs the question, they all call away.

(c) May 24, 2006, RJDuberg

~How Does It Feel?

In love with you, made tightrope a view
strung up and listing over some four years.
Not one chance, no truth made evident
while you kept my attention in fixed crisis
little yips to shake me back on the stage
to play with your great facade of a shell.

For my own delusions, I was your #1 fan
and would have kept the faith for love.
All that talk of needing time and healing
turned out as hollow as your black heart
as the years brought the opposite about,
your increasingly poor judgement of love.

That last shrill projection struck as insanity.
Imagine love that wants to knock on you
only because it stopped honestly sharing.
Telling me unkindly to get professional help
defied my ability to maintain your illusion.
How does it feel to cheat love for your hell?

(c) May 2006, RJDuberg

~The Clueless Grind

Running through this scene again
making up time for a greater plan
to get back the mistakes I made
after I lost my way and one brigde.
That power is my stumbling block
an intermittant awareness howl
for when it's off I recall, but a whiff
and the ferocity of spirit took.

There are certain events which help.
Certainly music like Rock n Me Baby,
extreme danger or attack by illness.
Here in the middle of life, all is passing
so fast, faster today, faster tomorrow.
There's no way to catch this stream
except by intellect and a slowdown
yet I'm tired with the clueless grind.

(c) May 2006, RJDuberg

~Legend of Silence

After the dust, there
where time disappears,
truth waits for the true
in clearing that is real.

My selfish pins pinning,
brake, a broke rendevouz
as sadness remembering
in a burning skid from hell.

Hopeless deniablity comes
with Lucifer singing along
unmuzzled with our misery,
the voice that speaks wrong.

May your spirit listen now
and heed this revelation
about the legend of silence
over love leaving us behind.

Accept no lies about it
and let a skidding break
end, for choice of destiny
begins and ends with that.

As love renews our world.

(c) May 2006, RJDuberg

~The Door's Door

Morrison's beach fire made band of light
and in his mad intoxicated spiritual haze
saw illuminated within a world with doors
This vision door boosting a mystical pass.

Today we work to pass recombinant DNA.
Science's answer to Jim's wildfire problem.
Just as The Doors made ruin into an art
GE will ruin evolution and nature will lie.

Yes, there are voices of alarm and caution
just as voices around Jim spoke back then.
We had need, his madness warmed us
enough, and a locked door kept him on.

It isn't enough to complain and exclaim
until those hearing can return in urgency
if only to confirm life remains truly lock free
correctly evolving on a dead-lock counter.

(c) May 2006, RJDuberg

More on Consciousness

Today saw the convergence of interest and encounter regarding neuronal space and I shall comment what for me matters most in my understanding.

A very clear illustration was presented in the current Scientific American Today on the physiological process associated with pain producing corresponding awareness. There was given a classical Newtonian description, scientifically verified down to the molecular level. This level is biochemical and based on electromagnetism at the subatomic level which requires quantum mechanics to calculate and begin to quantify. For my purposes, let us simply understand that our physiology posesses the ability to channel bio-electrical signals up our neurological stem into our cranial matrix we call our brain wherein our consciousness "has pain." Also, realize the speed is not instantaneous and thus there exists a measurable delay between real-time and our consciousness our sensory signalling in response. While we witness our world its important in order to negate the illusion to understand that what we witness is precisely out of phase and at best a quantum echo and nothing more. (Giving rise to Plato's Cave and our mistaking the shadows on the wall for reality)

First and most important is to distinguish between these signals ( all of them not just those signaling pain ), the neuronal space (which is the integration and maintains the "living life's" integrity on a functional level, and consciousness.

What Jim Morrison was a visionary for supports the mind's comprehending the infinite mystery or limit to our ability to measure and ultimately detect or describe how little we actually know of true reality given everything we sense combines to be nothing more than an electrical matrix of signaling taking place in our neuronal space after the fact.

No amount of useful syngergistic proposing will satisfy via the whole is greater than the sum of the parts. That is NOT an answer, although it defines synergy quite nicely. Consciousness cannot be reduced to synergy. Nothing can in fact, and while this does not invalidate consciousness since those of us that are awake and conscious know who we are, what it does do is drive a stake into the heart of the content and the truth about it. The world we can sense must be recognized as unreal.

If one realizes that our link to the real world is defined by this matrix, in light of the irrefutable facts we must recognize that the world we live in is an illusion which our consciousness somehow manufactures as its content, drivenas it were somehow by the signal matrix.

How is this possible, just how imprisoned our we in this framework, and negating the bias presents us with what new possibilities. Just what can be said meaningfully in the knowledge that what we are aware of but a very small piece of the reality bandwith and then by remote and very imperfect facimilie? Given the quality of this illusion we take as reality what does that say about reality itself and when are we going to muster the critical mass necessary for the will to realize a means to directly encounter that instead of this?

This is a rabbit hole from wonderland though and the quality of our life being a relation to an illusion manufactured from a matrix of signaling neurons extends into our entire cognitive life dow this wellspring of confusion and limitation. Thus was the famous proposition by Plato regarding Ideal Forms given a foundation in reason however, to give a cue to the depth of the hole. What we consider perfectly valid notions and abstractions are just as much a reproduction of the real as our tactile sensory awareness in our conscious experience.

There are many questions which can be raised at this point and I suggest they all have merit and are worth "chatting about" as it were. I would be happy to have related discussions or join entirely different ones as well.

thank you for reading,
Rj

~A Poem about my Mom this Mother's Day 2006

Poise of Moon

She consumes your world
granite oceans to sky passions
her fuel, as light from darkness
into a shining jewel, her smile.
You pass her by but do not see
but the path faintly, her need.

I feed her, I embrace and heal her
awakening finally, weakly cursing
to see this largest of magnificences
poised, this world's only true heir
an angel fire lighting your night,
waiting to digest your every misery.

I'm a fool for her mooness blossom
I must attend now to her every one.
Her orb so brilliant to see, a mystery
reflecting more love from all eternity.

'Tis there reflected, the true mystery!
And there, to find, our immortality.

© Dec 1999, RJDuberg

revised this Mother's Day 2006 for mom

~Encapsulation of Leary's Limits

Innocence, OK?
Ignorance a shame.
Love to recall all
from the very start
immortal,
and a god.

(c) RJDuberg, May 2006

~Color of Light

Emily Dickinson
remembered the fly
before she died.

Ignorance, eternal and
innocent, remembered
science, forsooth.

MOM's liquid voice
was my recall
born with a heart.

One lover of mine
remembered for now
makes this worthwhile.

The sparkle of mind
remembered all that
and what, in time.

Dreams of Future's delight
remembered,
make color of light.

© May 2006, RJDuberg

The Furry Q

Drink Merrily

Here in the not here is calling I say.
Fit but untried and unseen I am.
Christ cried forsakenly,
yet truth was and is given.
Never surrender freedom,
the ward against unbeing,
and all things boogiefying.

Here, sing with me,
drink merrily my tears,
and touch light with light.

(c) 2006 RJDuberg

While Virus Attacks I Make Funny Noises

The truth never arrived through the front door.
It has always been waiting for us round the back.
Where some notice, in a blinding flash by swivel.
Chaos and power conjoin influences in this sway
across eternity's distances defining a balance.

Separating truth from that trauma inside out
is our choice and choosing keeping well in place
but not the corrupt sir, or the sucking of care
for we all care, driven by beating love for life.
No arguing with results, reading this proves it.

Loving life is our given for which debt is soul.
Nothing raises what purely evolves as human
but source of truth revealed in press of inquiry.
The answer we finally note, as blindness ensuing
is elegantly summed, positively put, by negation.

The other direction comes upon this one to meet.
A meeting extinguishing the Void with paradox
where that which is distinct dances to perfect
possibilities evolving existence of humanities.
By his sacrafice of leaden awareness man lends
only support he's able with import inquiry offers.

Being stuck in chaos after that flash of blindness
may be primary cause of all our early expirations.
That here always is this, all and everything to us.
And, death is a fact of our living reversed in end.
Rational faith extends truth this coherent paradox.

(c) copyright, April 2006, RJDuberg

-Not very poetic, expresses honesty of criticism, whatever. My success is that in the beginning when I attempted to write a poem and turned out something like this which was not an entirely different but yet influenced by, I was there and still was moved with understanding my own language somehow a cryptograph of reality if not deeper meanings.

It's so very beautiful here today, and in the midst of it all my system is crashing with a very nasty and insistent virus keeping the flow from its normal freedom and unfettered spaces.

I would have liked more for this poem, I know there's at least another half unwritten which belongs here somehow, and I will simply close to say that truth you'll find in the cracks of what veneer is left over after the burn subsides from flash of blindness .

Another Imperial Beach Swell

High Def Doggie

Journal

Last night I heard a story of infidelity from someone who then talked to their spouse on their cell phone, forgot to end the call, and proceeded to continue speaking on their transgression while the spouse listened in.

Nothing ever turns out the way you want it to or think that it should.

Writing, especially poetry is becoming harder and harder to do. It's very difficult to even begin and I haven't written a poem in ages.

I'm watching Adaptation and appreciating its breadth and range of applied technique expressed brilliantly. What is brilliant then? There are standards, methods, and that sort of rigamarole, but what is brilliant to me is precision expressed through the storyline. Middle of the road, is always adviseable, but brillant as long as the road is not cliche.

Recapitulation for me in which I have relived my history eventwise has revealed some odd sensorial memories regarding smell which I never remember otherwise even when I access associatively on purpose. Why is that? Smells escape our intellectual associative memory framework somehow, yet when recapitulating, a memory of a particular smells comes write in and is unmistakeable. This is of course the hallmark of recapitulating, the power of attention given to one's memory which somehow transports one's conscious awareness into the past in a way so as to have more than the memory but to relive the moment.

There is a separation between the experience and the awareness, and one's conscious awareness becomes self aware in the process of remembering a moment not present. This defies logic and is yet another mystery, not observable in others.

But what it all comes down to in the final analysis is all about action. So then, what action do I need to take now to support what I action I need to take today. What actions are successful and effective? Mostly, people have already committed to their agenda, but the trick becomes magic when they or you or I can assume some new action in that agenda without limitation or having the action item destroy our agenda's foundation or MO, if you will.

The subject of attraction and what we do to gain another's interest and attention, etc., is somehow kept fresher and more potent by a sustained mysteriousness which obsessing or analysis degrades, leading to a fullscale disintegration. Yet, once having accomplished this disintegration, one lives with the scar and may forever live hearing the echoes and speculative nuance when confronted with new possibilities of attraction and romantic discovery.

Today the Mood Changer

Another Infinity

Pigeon Posse in Imperial Beach

What do you do when you can't find the words to express what you're feeling? In the past, I've always relied on confidants or therapists to help me talk myself through to some resolution or better day. At least that was their purpose in my life. It remains unresolved for me whether this is effective or whether talking with people whose only real purpose is to "pretend"or "present" a particular listening for you or I, whether that doesn't just create another entirely different set of issues. I spent years taking advantage of the so called "help" and then a few years back I suddenly started avoiding them and closing their access.

Close or intimate relationship with another person though brings with it this form of communication however on a more genuine level and having been denied that recently (rejected may be the more appropriate term) has really impacted my balance and center, turning me even more introspective and a degree or more less confident and insecure. The genuine form of the intimate connection I'm talking about does express real value which forms something truly real and living in our hearts and souls as human beings.

Any upset or damage to bonds or relationships like that, I think have the potential of complete ruin and the disintegration of our "sense of self" or ego. The only real strategy for coping with this possibility is to diversify oneself as well as one can without stretching one's emotional being too thin and thus creating a whole other set of problems and breakdowns. And, surely for me, at this point in my life, forcing myself to focus on group support and group networking, socially speaking seems to be the best antidote and aid for keeping a more positive attitude and anticipation for the future.

Certainly, the axiom that nothing is as important in life than having positive anticipation for the future, remains intrinsically valid. Especially in a situation like this, when a person could go round and round trying to analyze the breakdown which is complete and past now. A very hard process to go through. I offer my sympathy and support for anyone who understands what I've shared out of having their own first hand experiences.

Yesterday from North Pier Imperial Beach, Hoorah!

Attempt to Articulate

In the deepest musical resonations
that matter to one, to me, to you
what exists there has always been
a dream, like you, then and now
a song that hurts with a longing.

For awhile, you seemed to speak
what I have felt as lost in sorrow
brought back with joy and love
in your magnificence I listened
only to realize tragedy progress.

Attempt to articulate this horror
finds no landing except blame
for there is nothing that expresses
that direct and in line with mine.
A confused attempt to articulate.

Feb 19, 2006, RJDuberg

My Beach Looking Like a Reef

Surfer in IB Sunset

Analysis of Q(x)=Eu

Calculate a result in terms of the achievement of X amount of Energy in units(u) which completes and satisfies the highest relevant purposeful goal. Hold cultural variance constant, IE spirituality, factors of ecology and evolution.

Analyze effort to result, and remember that every moment of our lives are determined higher levels consciousness developed for effective and efficient repetitions of this analysis in REAL TIME as is appropriate to the harmony and happiness of our life and experience.

Without an exact and complete vision of the possibilities and potentials combined with a will to act, what happens in our lives is determined by accident and our overall mechanicalized boundaries.

With success as developing beings we witness the true payment humanity was created for fulfilling. Next to all the variable dimensions and factors in this process is mankind's isolation from higher ruling faculties, and his enslavement by ignorance and stupidity.

When measures result in a certain state in man, an unfolding and rebirthing of that man takes place from which a germination of free will is incubated and given essence and being requiring a paradoxical reversal of polarity along functional dimensions, such as attention.

Regardless of the depth and complexity of this topic, a truly essential scope is termed simply Know How Much Your Willing to Pay for "THIS" and whether or not you would stake your life on producing a precise transaction in the universe. All that given and considered, those who thrive within this challenge are my heroes ad infinitum infinity or eternity forever.

(c) Rjd, 1/2006

Not Hope, Nor Hip Cynicism, but Better Day Today.

Recent yesterdays defy darkest imagination as they were and have begun to fade in their recidivism.

Sun Rays Forever

Meeting the Strays

My little flying doggy on the beach this AM after I pulled out the following two strophes reaching on cryptic legs that seem unlike doggy's but rather mired in quicksand, a destiny like that of a dump.

Well anonymous schmonymous
I'll not have strange minds
asking my dimwit a dime
when we've not the time.

Though talent unfurled in you
reminds me to curl the torrent
before I ride that broncness
and what snakeyes mean.

Beach Found in IB

When asked all I could say was 'puff of smoke?'

Glad 2005 over!

~Running Down a Moment

... is to carry a fire extinguisher
for deadly melt of self and some
a voiding transforming ~ rise.

Thank you, to luck
means what, to you
on Christmas Day
before the New Year.

The religious warring ,
factions of terrorism ,
or oppressed tourism
if you want, no matter.

Who want to charge
have ceased to exist.
Pop culture is-a low lie
tho- in light possibility.

There's tragic progress ,
our own bridges to right ,
as forever stone remains
the anchors of our floors.

My floor incessantly wonders
about yours a lot too much
and about how things turn ,
pitch, and roll into oblivon.

Remember the Bandit!!
Fastest in our southwest
ever there was anywhere.
Rest in peace? I wonder now.

Yesterday is our greatest lie ,
Here isn't desired anymore ;
No truer challenge must be
than the promise of afterlife.

RJDuberg, 12/2005

~Distinctly Different

Pulling yourself through
stiffest unforgiving
opposition
is all you can do.

What I want is what I got,
no more no less
and it is NOT my duty
despite my choice.

The moment this changes
the language proceeding
is toxic harm recognized
and personal pain arises.

Key to integrity of desire,
the peace and happiness,
is understanding flip sides,
their shadows' essence.

Backs to other dimensions
leave one ignorant, a fool.
Keeping all sides in mind
produces clearer moments.

Active search and records
testing one's education
in this case, intellect
makes spin, the distinction.

Over time, spin's moment
seen from its integral
resets stepwise focus.
Back and forth, pulls you.

That way allows words
for the self, to neutralize
itself through no desire.
Remembering shadows.

Look at the differential,
Identify what you have.
Think out everything else
grateful for what's given.

Otherwise, by day's end
hope for a new dawn
falls past the fading light
lost in darkest shadows.

It's the end of the year.
I'm writing Santa Claus.
I heard he was magic
satisfying joyful desire.

The action fascinates
by its minimalist mode
every item on the list
another degree of self.

What you are is listening.
The world remains behind
while the universe shines
to free us all from gravity.

(c)~Dec'05 RJDuberg

~Saying The Love of Spiritual Grace

The grace is known fully
by transformed listening
alpha and omega will kiss
in manifest unity, on the most
divine sexuality, spirit blessed.

The infused gross energy complete
in clearest meanings possible
paradox transpires to transparent.
The sweetest kind of mystery
unthought, yet being of radiance,
existence, intrinsic and essential.

The force faith wants not
its mustard steamy hot,
perfection without constraint,
truth without mental delusion.
This share made for us only
an infinite universe made intimate.

And in return all I ask and need is...
That, my beloved values and holds up
what happenstance of process meaningfully
to what is most worthy and unforgettable.
Failing that harm not for love's sake.

(rough TBR)
(c) 10/2005, RJDuberg

Being Done

Spiritual scripture sold to the world
gets easier to digest for every do over
we think along lies mothers got over us
after screeching in pain over a childbirth.

Our relief is seed to illusions unquestioned
our passing on the masculine viewpoint
denied value for its intrinsic detachment
yet necessary for seat of great paradox.

Silence of men responding to femininity
is greatest use of a gender's forgiveness
whereby her finish finds a sweet blossom
breathing fulfilled what fragrant love airs.

(c) 10/2004, RJDuberg

Breath Fulfilled

Spiritual scripture sold to the world
gets easier to digest for every do over
we think along lies mothers got over us
after screeching in pain over a childbirth.

Our relief is seed to illusions unquestioned
our passing on the masculine viewpoint
denied value for its intrinsic detachment
yet necessary for seat of great paradox.

Silence of men responding to femininity
is greatest use of a gender's forgiveness
whereby her finish finds a sweet blossom
breathing fulfilled what fragrant love airs.

(c) 10/2005, RJDuberg

A Break From Depression

I know the greatest need
and also my failure indeed
to honor and love intrinsic.

Once, in a great while, inspiration
arrives meterorically, a find
appearing free of time; noteworthy.

Best cliche is stereotypically grand
the missing link synthesizes holistic
alignment and reveals inner light.

More complicated than a jig saw puzzle
the key element fits uniquely
an interface connecting the knowns.

Knowledge transcends interface then,
through some magic concourse
providing consciousness its moment.

Then, and I predict again now
time somehow reasserts its evil,
erasing what grip grabbed so well.

Left relieved of power and forgetfull
our reason continues on higher
our understanding more articulate.

The reality of life less confused, is
smaller, simpler, if still mysterious too
to gain ever more respectability.

Balance, begins blooming brightly
by itself and in the myriad
this alone calms me now.

For I am weak, but desire you
as beauty abounds in the world
you are beauty's best moment.

I know the highest lofts of praise
only suggest what the eye blinks
of character beheld intrinsically.

This language is more effective
as a listening, even as I write
as I must, I seek to reconcile.

In my higher consciousness
presence purifies the great
the spiritual supreme manifest.

Simplicity equates to the slightest
any and all details harmonize
revealing a resonant truth.

May I reconcile with your grace
I wish to liberate my self
and embrace the love infinite.

How do I continue and keep awake
I've already failed, quite asleep
here with my endless listing need.

(c) 10/2005, RJDuberg