In this Center of Life

In the solitude of the night I stay, and know that all the words and all the stories are lumps of life and meaning; and in the center I find myself trapped in an island, surrounded by life, all rushing at me at the same time.

In this center of life, I can’t distinguish anything at all. There is no name. There is no God. There is no hell. There is no movement of time and space; just the glorious silence; just the breath rushing in and going out; just her touch; the soft fingers of life holding, moving around, dancing around me.

In pain and joy, her hands play with the silent center. It moves. Sometimes I play with her by moving, talking. The light pulls my arm. The wind moves. The face looks and smiles when she looks back, and in the center of this magnificent womb, what can there be if not the warm embrace, the kiss of her ecstasy? How can there be anything but the loving kiss of the angel of death?

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Be the Author of your Story

What you consider to be your personal history is, in reality, an artistic creation. It is the story you are making up in this dream. It is possible to put the plot, narrative, and message of your life the way a scientist designs a blueprint, or you can design your life as an artist puts things together.

You may systematically, and using data, design your manifestation in this world. You can also be an artist and not only design it for a utility standpoint, but grab a seed from the vast unconscious and create a work of art.

When you think of your lifeline, you are not only remembering what happened. You are connecting events, impressions, intents, and doings. You are making decisions of what to leave out, what to emphasize, and how to see what happened.

More importantly, when you look at your life story, you thread these events with an invisible, hidden thread. This thread that unifies and arrange the memories in patterns create a story full of meaning and significance, an artistic array made of life.

Tell your story. Use it to discover the hidden threads of destiny. Tell it, even, to uncover that most elusive of beings: the author of your story. The narrative of your story implies the story teller, the narrator, the artist who creates patterns of meaning and sense and, in so doing, emerges as the unifying force in this work of art called life.

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The Birth of a Poet

The one who reads a poem is also creating it.
The poem the writer wrote is trying to push through words and meanings
meshing in the reader’s mind.

The reader, gatekeeper, judge, and creator
brings to life a poem born from the seeds found on the page.

The poem the writer saw died long ago;
written words stay the remains of its death.

The poem was born from the moment of death,
as thunder from light,
as life out of love’s climatic height.

The reader takes the words as lover’s seeds.
Nurturing with awareness,
dissolving them to liberate meaning;
hidden treasures from beyond the words!

Twin words inside his head:
nursing maids, young, supple breasted
full of milky light of consciousness.

They catch the hidden treasures from the death of the poem.
They bring the poem back to life
into new incarnations, one for every mind;
each read, a creative act.

Yet, each reader as it births a poem creates
in her mind’s eye another god,
creator of poems,
existing also in the mind,
interpreted into existence,
clothed with the splendor and awe
with which the goddess muse covers Her love.

She witnesses her poem child,
and imagining the creator outside Her Self,
gives Him life when She declares Him
Poet.

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Where the Witches Go

There’s a place, old and musky…
up on a green hill, where the witches go.

There, under the full moon,
they dance, sing, and take out their brooms.

Their existence was forbidden,
so they had to learn to go to this place in the dreaming,
from the earliest intents of creation,
to unite with God in sexual surrender.

Here, in the true church of the living flesh.

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They and We: dedicated to the native resistance, and the people of Cuzcatlan

They took our lands.
We give our fruits.

They took our language.
We give our poems.

They denied our gods.
We give our prayers.

They changed our names.
We gather under The Tree.

They took our water.
We give our thirst.

They tortured us.
With our tears we clean the soul.

They massacred us.
Our blood feeds the future.

They buried us deep,
but we are seeds.

They erased our memories.
We remember the coming of the New Sun.

–Koyote the Blind

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The Silent Nothing Behind the Self

The future seems
like it hasn’t happened
yet,
but it is like another room
in your house,
and you just have to walk
into it.
You have been moving through
aeons of life
in one form
or another,
and this human
experience is only
a fraction of
what you have
been experiencing.
Disengage your consciousness
from what the senses
are experiencing
now.
Even the thought
that says
“I Am”
is not really
you.

~Poetically curated notes by Season Cole from a lecture by Koyote The Blind.

Sacred Aspiration in a Fool’s Hat

How paradoxical, the nature of the search!
That which we seek, keeps moving away by the mind that places the attainment outside, beyond, later.
The immense vistas of freedom emerge, instead, as the vast horizon, always separating and unifying, in the same instant, Heaven and Earth.
And as the horizon, our aspiration remains present yet unreachable, dividing yet unifying, always perceived and never touched.
Ah, paradox of my path, holding the way and the why! You are the rim of my hat, and I but the clown who kicks his hat away every time he bends over to pick it up!

Unperturbed, I hold the Sun.

There is no mountain that can take me to the Sun.
No ladder tall enough.
There is no tree tall enough to burn its crown on the solar sphere.
Yet, just like the Sun seems to travel across the heavens,
unperturbed and untouched by clouds,
atmosphere,
or planetary event;
so my true self moves across the surface of life,
unperturbed by all that happens,
undisturbed by the sufferings and joys
witnessed by the mind, felt by the body, and held by this heart.

Until noting remains

In the vastness of time I stand in this brief moment between a dream and a dream with no name, no face, no past and no future; alone and naked, giving the light of not-being to the false dreams of prophecy and the path; breathing hope to the hopeless hearts; narrating the stories of the void; burning my light over and over until nothing remains of me. — “Stories For Ugly Children” by Koyote the Blind