The urge to put to paper what can never be written.

Shared Writings


bail out

limping away from the world

thinking yourself lost again

in the muddle of your practice

or shocked stone cold sober

cleaning up the indulgence –

when you are coming back to who you are

after the sense of you has dipped

from the perfection of being

to a lot of thoughts about being

and the noise is more than you’d prefer

but you’re banging through it anyway

because you’re long past preferences

in looking for that thing

to drop you back in

to settle you down

into that position of peace again –

a man of Tao again –

but the efforting itself is cluttering you up

with all that casting about

yet still you can’t seem to reel in those lines

the idea of you snapping up each thought

the thinking constantly going out in search....

telling you,

hey, trust me, I have this, I’ll get what we’re looking for...

but after fifty years of dreaming you’re still a stooge

and so the panic sets in

and you grow frantic, deranged,

set to turn the wrong direction

for the hundredth thousand time

ten-thousand more orgasms just to get away

as the world drags at you and dreams confuse you

as problems suffuse you

as it all nips and yaps and bites at you

and in the fray it comes to you

my god, I’m doing it again –

boot-strapping into a circus of dust

when so scratching about is itself

the obscuration

because the self-filled mind is an activity –

is itself nothing more than the act of return

to that point of view where you are looking from the activity –

even in its spiritual format it’s still more of the same

yet even amid the shrapnel of that recognition

still you go on

– in the very next second –

looking for what you seek

seeking for what you are

reaching for what you want

grasping what’s in the way

knocking things out of the way –

the peace the practice that you seek

the thing yourself that you seek –

when you’re doing it again



you are not an OBJECT to be SOUGHT

not the object of your THOUGHTS

you are the centre of the circle

and as such PRIOR-TO and INDEPENDENT

of all this FUCKING SHITE

It’s all imagination;

nothing but a pair of glasses;

take them off and stand

with conviction where you are

‘what’s looking is what you’re looking for’


Aegis / open skies

Turn back

not forward left or right but

back, as if blown by the wind,

drifting prior to any scattering

real at last / nameless / drawn

out of the picture completely

the frame goes & dissolves –

would you believe it: identity

a thought; so now who are

you minus the concept fuzz?

Going borderless what walls

remain for wits to echo in?

All that noise snap-released –

and you find yourself still

(even as the noise goes on)

spaceless before any word

aware of air breathing itself

asking your self, under aegis's

first rainbow in love's open

skies, where do I stand here?


soon be home

switch to the bigger view

if your own clogs up

do it now no need to wait for weeks

in misery or set out hunting yourself

you’re not a snark

you’re still here

even when you think you’ve gone

even when you feel you’ve gone

even when you panic: gone

– you haven’t left

– you can’t lose yourself

– you didn’t go anywhere

you are here

just stop looking over there

that is a mis-vision

you can’t head yourself off at the pass

can’t find what hasn’t been lost

you may only displace yourself in the looking

prior to any plotted movement

before all thinkings of awayness

there you are –

so what use in conjuring up distance?

what you are is beyond all this going away business...

there is no need to search for anything

no need to recover yourself

no need even to practice for an hour –

you are here

so long as you stop imaging

you are not

and if you have ceased to be here

then correct yourself / untilt your own ship

at keel / set your own eyes straight

no need to run about righting the world –

it’s not a picture frame on a wall

unrectify your own imagined slant, and there you are –

the undeparted – everything back in focus

that cannot be seen

– So

get off your horses; stay all metaphors;

leave the dead poets alone

(none are needed)

stop grubbing up graveyard images

and interring yourself

(it isn’t necessary)

drop the conviction / cease taking sides /

refrain from creating this world with your thought

(just pack it in)

and be

leave all else but this alone / deal with

your own mind and we’ll soon be home

James Lucas

A New Perspective

To see what is before you in a single frame.  A happening all at once.  The theater draped against an infinity of never ending nothingness.  It is behind and over and under and around and through.  The act of failing to capture it leaves the mind in an enlivened confusion.

I was never at home in this world so I took my stride off into the deep without trepidation or lament.  I once thought myself an alien on this little blue planet.  The story however, is even more improbable and delightfully strange.  This little blue planet has found its home in me.

I am not a body.  I see a bubble, a window.  I peer at a halved globe.  When I stay home, a shimmering light, a warm wind, a wave of contentment fills the entire frame.  Periodically, in rhythm, the air escapes and collapses this globe.  The globe fills with air again and this is called night and day.

The mind quiets.  Not from discipline, or trance, or dullness.  The jaw has dropped and shattered by the explosion of silence.  The joy ecstasized from a single atom; it's delight in blinking into being; It is too much for the little heart of this human form to capture.

Eric Mills

All That Is (lyrics for song shared in Music tab)

This is everything

There's no incompleteness anywhere.

Took a journey of a lifetime

Trying to find that which never came to fruition

When the wholeness of all that is

Shouted out so loud I couldn't hear but I listened

It was saying something I could never comprehend

It was pointing to something I could never find

Rather than search for something new

Rather, get lost in now with you

Rather than knowing what to do

Rather, be free

I was struggling to find some peace

Caught in a deadlock of reason and superstition

Then the puzzle of Reality fell apart at my feet

And there was nothing that was missing

It was pointing to something I had never left

It was saying something that simply couldn't be expressed

Rather than search for something new

Rather, get lost in now with you

Rather than knowing what to do

Rather, be free

So sublime

I forget all that I know

All that I know is real

By Donna M

Until Arrives The Dawn

Wandering doesn’t mean lost

Tho the forest is thick and dark

But as soon as the sun peeks

Over the trees

The flame bursts from the spark

It takes a while to see the forest

When all the trees are filled

With endless scraps of what’s not real

And 'what’s happening' seems as killed

Sometimes it takes the mouths of babes

The gentle whisper of trust

To move the seeming unmovable weight

And the "mountain" whirls to dust

Nothing’s ever damaged

in the hurricane of fear

No matter how far the dream’s progressed

The Truth of Us is Here

No one decides just when to wake

That’s destiny ancient song

It’s just a moment’s play on play

Until arrives the dawn.

And then the Sun’s the brightest star

And new fields come in view

And do I need show Gratitude

When your shore needs mine too?

By Tanya Martinez-Cardenas

The Truth

I thought I was writing.

I thought I was thinking of all the words…all these “years.”

I thought I was the one who liked to write,

And yet, they weren’t my words.

To think they were so foreign

So far apart from who I thought I was

To know that something else was doing it all

That was fulfilling some type of script playing out in front of me.

Every time I wake up,

There I am.

There is an unfolding.

My thoughts think the day can be predicted

That it knows each event that will take place,

Until something happens, that sets everything in a different direction.

There is a laughter that comes from deep within

Or at least it comes from somewhere.

It’s not me.

Yet, it's what is being experienced.

How can this body feel so much?

How is my heart able to feel so much connection and energy

From itself and when others are in its proximity?

It happens to someone that isn’t me, clearly.

However, there is an experiencing of it.

All my senses come alive.

They are agents acting like tree roots

Allowing the energy flow of all that is living and breathing

To saturate me completely.

I can feel it all, even when I shut it out.

Something breathes it in and something breathes it all out.

The experiencing of so many sensations, I have come to know as

anger, frustration, anxiety, impatience, kindness, compassion, love—

It’s all here

It’s all here

This body dives in and out of it like water.

The thoughts come with so many ideas

None of them in correlation with what this body does.

There is a detachment, when you look closely.

As the mind moves chaotically,

The body does something entirely different.

How did I not notice before?

There is a story playing out in the head

The body just moves.

Two different things are going on.

Here where time rules,

This happens endlessly

Over and over.

This is a universe where stories cannot exist without time

And time cannot exist without stories.

Master weavers of words, ancient playwrights

Painted this universe with stories from the beginning.

With radio, television, film, the internet, different forms of stories appear and take shape

Through the landscape of time.

The mind says, “I lived through it all.”

But, the body never lives that story.

It was never bound to the mind, time, or stories.

All seemed to be happening to a someone,

When no one was in control

Not the mind

Not the body

Not a me.

No story, no movie ever started or played out.

It was all imagination.

We gave the stories all the meaning, we thought they had.

I could say, “You can wake up now.” But, you have never been asleep or awake.

The Truth is…you have never been.

The Truth is...The Truth has nothing to do with the story.

By Matt Julian

Blessed be the archer,

Who's poison tipped arrow penetrates the armour of that which I'm not,

Laced with the message,

Let the poison course through my veins until it overflows onto the tips my very own arrows and into the ink with which I scribe.

Blessed be the archer.

By Jaxob Ophiuchi

"Too Hungry, These Ghosts"

Reality is too real for us

So we temper it with thoughts

Caught up in the myth of "me"

Hustling ghosts

Into believing in us

Just a pile of old sheets

Just a hamper of dirty costumes

The posthumous identity

Can't conceive

How preposterous

This idea we're believing in is

Don't you see it?

We're made out of dirty laundry

And it becomes crystal clear

That even were we to clean our worn out suits, these

Roles we wear are out of fashion

The emperor wears no clothes