Yam

 It is I

It is Me

It is the Impenetrable 

Thee

That blocks the Way.

How ever shall I pass?

As wind or as gas?

What the world needs now the most
Is not a global police force
But a global peace force.

A force so strong
It's hitting everyone

SMACK!

Coming though you now

Boom, bang!

we've got one shot

we're in the chamber

watch out.

the reap, the chaff, the slake, the dream

Too many people believing the dream,
we're still asleep--
and gods' dreaming.

"If the revolution ain't gon' be televised, then, fuck, I'll probably miss it."

WE WILL NOT COME WITH A REVOLUTION

WE ARE BRINGING THE CHANGE

▲

From Buddy, To You

Over the rainbow, into the sky, far past the pot of gold and back to you and I.

Here we are again, same feeling just a different sin.

Is it worth it to you? What did you win today?

(I got laid naked in the baker’s palm, I was doing all I could to stay calm, but there were songs and psalms and palms, I must have read one of them wrong—you think anybody’s on our side? What about the child that was pacified, you think it wants to fight? Because we got to try to keep it alive.)

Stalked by a man in me, I think he sees what I’m trying to be. I feel a little used, but I got my kicks today.

Why do you do it, boy? You judge once it’s been destroyed. Well, you can make all that noise, but they’re looking for a happy voice. Then the child said, to the TV in his head, why’s there always something wrong every single time I turn you on. Boy, what’d you go and do? Told yourself you couldn’t choose. So stop blaming the gods for what you cut to pieces in you. I mean, laying blame it’s all the same. It’s a lot more than what you think, but is it worth it to you? And, what did you win today?

I mean, my point forever endlessly. I control this phasing fantasy, right now inside me, let me be what I be.

You’re still fighting.

You’re still grinding your teeth.

You’re still not moving fast enough forward,

But you’re still after me.

You’re still talking and talking,

But you’re still in over your head

Cause you still talk and talk by the gallon

But you still don’t want to burn that padded bed.

And you still open wide for salt

When it’s pouring down your wounds

And you still bow to gravity

And you’re still taking it literally

And you’re still laying down the law

But you still don’t know the truth

And you’re still not sure what’s happening here

Cause you’re still not going to try

And you’re still addicted to way back when

Instead of coming back to life

And I know you don’t want to hear it

Cause you still can’t stand to see

And I know you still won’t drop your guard

Cause I just might knock you free

Yeah, but my point forever endlessly

Is you still don’t know you’re amazing,

You still don’t know you’re amazing,

You still don’t know you’re amazing

For the things you see.

And I remember seeing them break and run off by themselves. 
And I remember they were full force and song, 
throwing their bodies around like (wasps?).
And I remember, clearly, they wanted out. 
And I remember, when the train came,
they all hopped  it; though they never (claimed?) to ride that way, 
but it was midnight 
and it was going to Georgia 
and it was free. 

...
it was free.

...

...

My Point Forever Endlessly (Remake), written by the master Buddy Wakefield

Buddy, if you are reading this, please be free, feel free, to complete the 

GAME OVER. . . . . CONTINUE | RESTART | END ?

There is no saving this world.

It's over. Bye-bye!

How can we ever rebuild the machine?

Don't.

Life is but a dream from hell, it's all the same; whether you're in it or you win it makes no difference once you fell from whence you came.

Let the friction fry the gear: there is no winner, no loser, here.


With Love,

From Hell

Don't worry, it's only the ride.

It's like you're on this carnival ride, right. It has big dips and little dips, sprawling valleys, bitty hills and tall mountains; it can go mind-fumblingly fast or it can go mind-numbingly slow, and every speed between. The thing you don't know--and maybe only suspect--is that it ends, not where you got on, but abruptly where the tracks stop. Some where, they're missing like the stair you forgot on the way out. And you're so caught up in all the excitement and the turmoil and the good-times bliss--the shimmering spectacle--that you don't care. You only think the ride shall never end. But, it must, mustn't it?

It's just when you're going along, care-less-ly and free, that the operator appears--yelling, beckoning. begging for your attention. Trying to warn you of the inevitable end. Of the missing track, that missing piece, there, right up ahead. The hole. A void. Inherent within the ride. But the cart goes on, no stop, non-stop. No stopping. Hell, you may not even be listening.

So, what does that big-heart, hard-headed operator do? That atman leaps forth, lies self down to sleep eternal sleep, bridges the gap, continues the dream.

Now I lay me down to sleep, tuck the dirt up to my teat.
If I die before I wake, cut me in to one big steak. 

All that too shall pass, when this earthen flesh pulled down to the dirt from which it sprang forth, when heavenly spirit exiled from these fettered bones…then, then I shall know my name. 

I'm an alcoholic. There's no doubt about it.
Trapped in the throes of brown bottle fever.
The honey drips, as I sip from the sickness.
What's this?
cirrhosis?

Kill the Messenger

Thou art god.

Thou art that.

You are it. 

Tat tvam asi

Tat tvam asi

Until all the whole wide world knows,

I will scream:

TAT TVAM ASI

TAT

TVAM

ASI

* * *

* *

*

Bite, chew, swallow, grok on that: fact.

Don't know what I do, what I'm doing, what I've done--seen it all before, blind eye.