Give With Your Eyes

Give with your eyes and veil not thy face!

Reach down into the depth of you, find what is real.

You are divine learning to be Human, search there

in the heart of you, the warmth so rich, go into

that expansive sun, give yourself into it.

Give with your eyes.

Then, when you meet another, any other, really any –

immersed now in the sovereign firmness of inner Firmament,

healed free of the sickness of self-doubt, of conceit, of envy,

of self-pity, of pessimism, of dulled boredom, of thoughtlessness,

of shame and of guilt, of hopes and of fears:

look at that other – and give with your eyes.

There is no sentimental-sympathy of helper-syndrome here,

helpers have issues, they do not give with their eyes, they take.

Dis-ease is what comes with dividing and conquering others.

You however, regard your entire body-form as whole, a unity –

thus you are in health, and where it hurts you embrace and include

into the fold, and you do so without a story, you give with your eyes.

Bathing in the rolling stream you visit within you,

and drinking from the well of everlasting Life as you breathe,

letting the joy of Being take hold of your limbs walking bold and loose,

feeling your moods, being glad, being angry, growing in empathy,

being yourself trusting yourself, learning faith, neither coming nor going:

just give with your eyes.

In one steady gaze, neither invasive nor intrusive,

neither coy nor shy, without games or power issues,

looking with discrimination without actually judging,

willingly seeing if there's something that wants seeing,

and letting the love which has been born in you and by you

come forth: give with your eyes, give with your eyes!

 

 

 

How Do You Propose To Discuss?

How do you propose to pursue a discussion
with someone who's identifying – much or little,
with a nearly three billion population of believers
in a 14 centuries-old doctrine which proposes
that you are kuffar and thus unworthy; or dhimmi,
and therefore second-class and taxable for it –
unless you should decide to forgo and identify as well?

How do you propose to approach a discussion
with one who either perpetrates, aids, or abets
the practice and implementation of unspeakable abuses
on an unspeakable level at an unspeakable frequency,
with an ever double-sided habit of speaking, whose
stated agenda is to make you and the world bend to its image
or else bow to its all-encompassing domination?

How do you propose to begin a discussion
with those who demand your "tolerance" but have none themselves,
who mis-use the multi-culture you already had and press it into mono-,
who will not conform to the modern jurisdiction of lands they've entered
but demand you and every land conform to the archaic court of the bedouin;
who shun the clothing you wear and the meat you eat while demanding
that you break your neck to suit the design of their environment?

How do you discuss coexistence with one who is not only
incompatible with but entirely against the very notion of democracy,
who withdraws his hand from any Western female encountered in greeting,
or who withdraws herself behind her niqab and insists
                                                                                   it's her choice and right,
who hold Jews to be apes, Christians to be pigs, Hindus to be worse,
                                                                                                 gays to be less,
and generally despises animals and nature anyway – emphatically insisting
that this is about a religion of peace, asserting this argument most aggressively?

Selling One's Own People

A spirit of nihilism is taking hold
not of mere resignation or of neglect,
but of active self-immolation in the name of "diversity" –
Orwell should see this, or did.

OUT, with your own homeland security,
now shed centuries of evolved identity,
like a cheap suit unceremoniously – this continental tapestry –
learning to hate yourself, and this with all pathos and sanctimony.

Shut your trap, don't speak, unless it's in NewSpeak, then it's alright;
it has Europe by the throat, winning rave reviews;
all competing in courting Islam – and with it Shari'a's bite:
"Left" and Greens, Press and Church, the entire spectrum, even the Jews!

Ah, that wonderful rainbow so flaunted,
paraded ad nauseum until its forced "meaning"
is lost on such vanity of fogged perception.
These seven vibrant hues will wind up coerced into one uniform murk
and all differentiation, all beauty irrevocably lost –
                                                                     not to flourish but to perish;
and that precious rich symphony will be no rainbow more.

Don't Let Them Name You

God alone knows your real name, 
don't let the ignorant name you.

If you are critical, non-appeasing and awake,
don't accept the mantle of "Islamophobic,"
tell them who would name you: that you are "kuffar"–
it's more honest, and exposes their own game

of card stacking, of dice loading, of branding you
intolerant, negative, populist, a public danger –
when you've confronted them on just that and more –
of projecting their venom and their bigotry on you.

Cheer up, stand straight, look ahead;
go into your love, stay there in your love;
their aggression will test your resolve;
relax in your Infinity, this love is far far older.

Anesthesia

A creeping vapor insidiously
pouring into every crevice of our world,
sharing its poison generously in every passage,
anesthetizing entire populations with its

narcoleptic dumbing-down.

Submission, it whispers, and Tolerance,
giving us familiar words in NewSpeak,
treading on once deeply held values full of meaning,
with an ersatz-faith, a cult of political correctness.

Steeped in the stock pathological symptoms
of a long well established Stockholm Syndrome.
Love is foreign to it, though it abuse every word even that;
dignity as well – and sovereignty of one's word is entirely gone.

All becomes relativized, history revised, civilized
is no longer sacred, nothing may be criticized – you're scared
to think, to question, to confront; a huge front
looms before you, a foggy mass of redundant calming.

It tells you, warns you, cojoles you not to fight the power,
not to swim against the stream, not to resist the herd;
It crunches numbers and crushes you, your will to be awake,
it commericalizes, mass produces its message: and it is all fake.

Precious reader, let us stand together, even should we stand alone.
Let us never retreat, though we lose all but not our soul;
Let us become conscious, and stay that, mind and heart, breath and bone –
the sickness is clammy and dense, it can be named –
                                                            you and I must keep ourselves whole.

 

 

Kissing The Leper

Kiss the lepers that you meet,

as the spirit moves you;

embrace the uncomfortable in your life,

to grow in your light, as it behoves you.

Love, serve and remember,

instructed that beloved Swami –

who else had once said that and altered history?

This lends itself to no ideology.

One has washed the feet of transients

in the public parks or elsewhere;

hugged drunks, beggars, all regarded as sentient –

free of any trip about it, just showing care.

If you'd ever lain next to a dying AIDS-stricken,

body skeletal, sweaty, his mourning partner sickened,

and there hugged him together, held him close and tight,

then you've been there, you've known such nights.

If you'd been up to your knuckles in piss and crap,

or changed clothing on severely handicapped

with the same joy and aplomb with which you once wrung cotton diapers,

then you know what I mean, you know to adapt.

If you'd wiped spittle while feeding adults,

or felt love toward a huge bellowing, now quiet

psychotic in messed shorts, whose nails and beard you'd been trimming –

you know very well what I am talking about.

If your spirituality's too refined, you are only pious –

bring that refinement into the messy world and put it to use;

let no body be foreign to you, let the mess test the mettle

of that refinement, so that spirit has some gut and hooves.

Kissing the lepers is an internal acceptance

of forms as they are, not forced or imaginary "tolerance"!

It is most natural and native when about nothing

but loving, and serving, and remembering.

Am I Being Un-patriotic?

No fallen American soldier in my lifetime
has ever died for my freedom.
It is but a lie, an untruth, and an affront
propagated by interests ruling our governing body,
as a cancer drives a body, cell by cell, toward
eventual capitulation of all moral force and integrity.

It does not matter which president sits, the die is cast;
profit at all cost in the unrelenting contest of greed,
cynicism, hypocrisy, incompetence and intrigue.
Young countrymen and women, with ever darkening futures
or none left to see at all, trained and indoctrinated, sent abroad,
trained but unprepared, schooled but not matured,
heroized with propaganda which respects not one of
their precious lives now fallen – not for my freedom, nor for yours.

It is a lie as a matter of policy, an untruth as a matter of duty,
an affront toward every soldier sent and fallen, and toward the families
they have left to mourn. But those who form the policies do not mourn,
so don't listen to them; don't attend their parades, don't buy their memoirs,
don't support their platforms or their calls, the ground is thin ice breaking.
Strike at the polls, vote them out, vote them out if you can – but can you?

No fallen American soldier in my lifetime
has ever died for my freedom or for yours.
Democracy is as precious as those fallen lives,
for it too is fallen, its cadaver carried high
in a frenzy of propaganda.

To love Democracy one has to first imagine it,
not play to its travesty, it is to embrace it within
where heart and mind might learn and mature –
this would be patriotic, but not politically correct.
The naiveté of my people does not excuse the ineptitude
of principle-challenged psychopaths who begin wars on a lie.

When free speech and critical opinion fall to the mainstream culture
of arrogance, ignorance and aggression, Democracy falls
and my freedom is at perile as is yours; patriotism,
a beautiful and a noble feeling in the heart,
becomes a whacked-out cocaine high when it is
toyed with, manipulated to justify cover-ups of crimes
no American can bear to be apprised of.

May I be pardoned in this, for being so un-poetic,
may I be pardoned for sounding so un-patriotic.
But do not pardon me for being politically un-correct.
Arrest me, charge me, throw me in jail – for there I will sleep no worse
than I do many many nights, far removed here from my home shores,
here on a continent being dragged into the American Dream of delusion.

I am no stranger to mourning the dead and the fallen,
I have learned to mourn the dismemberment of
differential analysis in favor of deference to
demonic ideological wills abroad and at home.
If the truth is slow to come to the surface
I will be around as long as it takes; if my deep concerns
are called irrelevant by the relativists of the day, then
let the Orks of Islam prove me out at the end of that day.

Am I saying something new, of course not,
but I will not court silence or appeasement, I will not behave.
I will not submit to the poison of insipid correctness,
I will stand corrected by historical evidence but I will stand
on my own two feet and strive to perceive with a heart immersed
in my very private love for Democracy and for patriotic values.

I remain an expatriate, but will never be an expatriot.
My weapon is prayer, my shield as well, the barricades I mount
are internal, and should I be called to the barricades on my own street
I will be there. In the meantime I burn this candle here,
unextinguished, for the fallen, for my freedom and for yours.