El último destello

¿Acaso tengo que cerrar los ojos, dejar atrás la luz del día, entregarme al vacío y dejarme llevar por la corriente del olvido, tan solo para poder besar con el último destello de conciencia tu remota presencia nocturna?

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Do I have to close my eyes, leave behind the light of day, give myself to the void, and let the current of oblivion carry me, only to be able to kiss with the last spark of consciousness your remote nocturnal presence?

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To Dispel the Fog of Dreams

There is a real power,

a true heart in this land.

The true preciousness in this continent was not taken.

It is not gone.

It is alive.

Because it was not a book.

It was not a building.

It was not a painting.

It was not a “history”.

The true wealth of this continent

has simply been dormant

in the trees,

in the bones of the people.

It’s alive in the silent

coming and going

of the blood in our veins.

It is in the sky.

It is in the curve of the eagle

as it circles it’s prey.

It is in the roaring sound of the waves,

speaking for centuries,

against the rocks.

It is in the depth of that ocean

that we can never touch,

but we can all feel

if we grow in silence.

It is in the air I breathe,

and in every person that died-

that fed with their blood,

those creatures that spoke to us

before the false god came to this land.

So that one day they may awaken once again,

and enter

my body,

and crawl around my spine,

and emerge as a serpent

over my head,

and see through my eyes.

Those are still here

and talking to us.

This continent is awakening.

The continent is about to utter,

in poetic explosions,

the wisdom of all times.

To speak through the sounds of the brujo.

Ancient sounds in modern words.

We are about to experience the drunkeness

of ancient wines in ever-new cups.

We speak directly with the powers

of the land, of the stars, of nature.

We speak directly with the voice of the blood,

and the signs on the skin.

No need for a holy book,

a sacrament, building, or hierarchy.

We speak things of power.

And they are opening their eyes,

and awakening once again.

No need for a war of decolonization for this to be.

No need for this to be an insurrection.

The awakening is enough

to dispel the fog of dreams.

(Season Cole’s poetically curated notes from a lecture by Koyote the Blind.)

Beyond the Allurement of your Gods

I am a magician,

I am a brujo

I am a Nahual,

And I know.

I know the power that is here.

I know the power that was here.

The power that exists in the land,

in the mountains,

in the ocean,

in the depth of the starry sky.

I know the consciousness

that stares at us.

I know of the whisper of consciousness

when consciousness begins to dissolve

I know the silent voice of conscience

when I no longer hear myself.

I have dealings with things of power and beauty.

I am beyond the allurement

of your gods.

I am beyond the fears

mongered by your loud mouthed preachers

hiding behind the screens of your television sets.

I know what the people here used to know.

I have seen the beings of power

that have touched the consciousness of the human being.

Bringing knowledge, power, and love

generation after generation…

I know this so well that I do not resent

what your institutions and governments have done…

anymore.

I see the emptiness of your altars,

of your cold ivory hearts.

To you, the cathedral of Notre Dame is more important

than the Gulf of Mexico

and the mountain ranges of the Sierra Madre.

The pollution of the river, and burning of the Amazon forest

means nothing to you.

But your Parisian cathedral filled with Mexican gold-

that you want to save.

I don’t resent that.

I only see how empty your world is,

because you have not known the beauty and the power

that is the wilderness of this continent.

(Season Cole’s poetically curated notes from a lecture by Koyote the Blind.)

Hiding in Gratitudes.

My heart bursts with gratitude each day of my existence, for every moment, for every joy, for every foe who helps me test myself, for every friend who shares the road with me, for every tear that purifies the soul, and for the very path where no chair survives.

Tomorrow, I’ll say thank you again, as I do every day. And tomorrow I’ll welcome again every joy, every teaching, every tear, and every where.

But not tonight. Tonight, I’ll hide from the pilgrims and the violence of the saints.

I’ve Learned

I’ve learned to show strength
when there was weakness.

I’ve learned to lure an enemy with weakness
when there was strength.

I’ve been manipulated into someone else’s morality.

It’s the way that they say:
He’s not a tattletale.
He’s honest.
He’s kind.
He’s generous.
He’s a ‘Good Christian’.
He sacrifices for others.

It’s the way that they say anything
to get you to do what they want you to do.
It’s their own lie they plant in you.

People manipulate each other
by praising each other’s weaknesses.
When you buy into these lies
and neglect your higher duty
to not violate the moral control of others
you compromise the things and people around you
that are of that higher obligation
and there to help.

There is only one question:
What is truth?
This truth is your compass,
not the illusion presented before you.
If you know what truth is,
you will act in truth.
And what others do doesn’t matter.

It’s a game
and it’s all happening in a dreamland.

When you can think ahead 10 moves,
you’re getting good.
When you can think ahead 20 moves,
you’re an expert.

The Grandmaster see’s only one move:
the right move.

The right move is truth.
And that is always done from above.

(From a lecture by Koyote The Blind, poetically curated by Season)

I Submerge Myself in You

Only the eternal Sun in the heights is beyond the existential depths of your body.

It’s a star that travels beyond all limit and all illusion.

It is the sun of my most intimate center, and being above all life and all sense, finds itself not submerged by you, beloved of mine, but reflected in each drop of you, painting his gleam on your waves, kissing your depths with his ardour, and surfing your undulations.

I, who am mortal, submerge myself in you. I, who am eternal divine, reflect myself in you.

And at the end of the day, even the sun himself wants to submerge in your womb, as ephemeral reflection of his eternal submersion when dissolving as star in the eternal ocean of the infinite void.

The True Nature of Suffering

Suffering is nothing but the shadow cast by the light of the Sun upon the Earth. The Sun within itself, in its unity, does not cast a shadow. The shadow of suffering is only the natural result of the interference.

The Absolute is, when in its true center, not subject to division and therefore not subject to suffering. The suffering of the Absolute is only a result of the division caused by the descent through the Abyss. Duality and division are caused in that descent of the Absolute into each and every one of us (who host or carry that consciousness, that light of the Star which is truly our deepest nature).

To immerse oneself in the little suffering of one’s own shadow, and to declare such little suffering to be the true nature of existence is to close your eyes to the light of your true nature.

If you do that, you simply perpetuate the misery of your own lie, as if your shadow is real (negating even the necessary truth of the light that must shine for a shadow to emerge).

There Will Be Wine

The sacred goes where it wants to go.
Who is anyone to try to contain it
as if it were an object?

It doesn’t belong to the prophets.
No one owns what is of the gods.
I can do things
with the teachings,
with the work
that are wrong.
And that is on me.

The punishment
is that my child is slain:
the legacy,
the work,
the lineage vanishes and disappears.

Success is thy proof.

Whatever the others say about you
your techniques,
your beliefs,
your ideas,
your heresies…

The only thing that counts is success,
because it is in the hands of the gods.
If the gods look favorably on your results,
then that will survive.
If they don’t like what you present,
it will die.

We are divine.
That sacred juice flows through us.
Our product is that grape that will become wine.
But it’s not up to us what fruit will become wine.
It’s up to the gardener.

The gardener picks
the grapes that will become wine
and the ones that will not.

It’s not up to me
what my work will produce.
All I can do is produce.
If I’m right,
there will be wine.

(Poetically edited notes by Season Cole, from a talk by The Telling by Koyote the Blind)

These Were the Times

These were the times of heresy and discovery.

These were the days Ivan (first from the right) introduced me to a Rosicrucian Order, and challenged my faith and dogma.

These were the days our maid took me to gnostic masses and challenged me to see my privilege.

These were the days of attempting to extract nutrient from flowers to feed the hungry, of seeing specters appear and glide, of exploring abandoned scientific instruments in a University closed by the army.

These were the days before the girlfriends and the bullets, before the depression and suicidal thoughts. These were the days before the hanging by my ankles over a four story building to make me panic. These were the days before the finding of my true strength.

These were my Zacamil days, when that funny looking boy, second from the right, saw the world open up and the storm of time showed him infinity and the eternal power of not being.

Was I ever truly him? How did he know to survive by becoming me?