Sunday, June 28, 2015

Four Years of Google+

As Google+ chief architect Yonatan Zunger points out, today is the fourth anniversary of Google+. As I mentioned in my comment, I'll have been on G+ for four years, having followed Louis Gray with the FriendFeeders on day 2. I admit that, except for posting my blog entries and leaving the occasional comment, I haven't been active there much lately; I started with Twitter, and I still mostly hang out there. But unlike Facebook, which I never liked in the first place, I've never been fully absent from G+ for long, even if I didn't actually post.

What I always liked about G+ is the conversations, which don't descend into flame wars anywhere near as much as on Facebook. And the photographers, who were the most interesting part in the early days and who were the original reason Communities got started. And the ease of posting my blog entries, something that got very frustrating on Facebook just because Zuck hates Google.

So I've decided that now would be a good time to make myself more present there again. That means more uploading (and taking) photos, more poems (and song lyrics too, as 50 Songs in 90 Days is starting on July 4), more article links, and whatever songs and videos I feel the whim to post. Not that I'm abandoning Twitter; I'm still there, and I might even interpost.

Oh, and that "ghost town" they keep talking about in the tech media? Well, I must be seeing one hell of a lot of ghosts in my feed.

Here I come...

Saturday, April 11, 2015

Man Mountains (He Died Big) -- NaPoWriMo 2015 Poem #4

dudebro jams the needle in his arm
shoots up manjuice like a junkie
gonna make himself a manmountain
 bigger & meaner than you
gonna grow big die big gonna
 die young die strong dianabol
steroids turning muscles into mountains
shrinking his dick his balls & his brain &
 growing his boobs big
  & beautiful

big beautiful boobs bouncing bare
he goes fulltilt emo on your wimp ass
  beats you up
 screaming like a mad bull
 calling you faggot mangina
   & girl
furious fists flailing free in all directions
roidrage manmountain muscles straining
tries to strangle you with his
 sixty inch pythons
tries to smother you between the
 mountains on his chest

you land one big blow between his bitchtits
fivefinger deathpunch explodes his heart
he clutches the hole in his mountainous chest
flailing staggering moaning dying
die young die strong dianabol
 death in the lockerroom
inert mass on the lockerroom floor with
 massive manmountain muscles &
  big bare beautiful boobs
epitaph for dudebro
he died big

Copyright © 2015 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Sunday, April 5, 2015

Jesus in My Teeth -- NaPoWriMo 2015 Poem #3

I saw Jesus in my teeth
In the X-ray my dentist took
Right there in a wisdom tooth
He can’t take it out now
While Jesus is sanctifying me
Through His presence in the X-ray
  of my tooth

I saw Jesus in a pancake
He snuck onto the griddle somehow
At the restaurant where I was having breakfast
Downing a gallon of drip coffee and
Eating my bacon and eggs and bacon
 and pancakes
  and bacon
(Did I tell you how much I love bacon?)
And there He was,
 Jesus, the Lord
 appearing to me
  in my pancake
And so I ate Him

I’ve got Jesus in my tummy
I ate His flesh and drank His blood
 as bread and wine
  at Mass
He appeared to me in my pancakes
 and I ate Him
He appeared to me in my French toast
 and I ate Him
He appeared to me in my hot cross bun
 and I ate Him
He tasted oh so heavenly good
Like the Son of God should
And now He sanctifies my tummy
 till He’s digested
And I must eat and drink Him

Copyright © 2015 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Posin' -- NaPoWriMo 2015 Poem #2

please allow me 2 introduce myself im
nonentity drummer pikki pockett
  prettyboy poser
sellin out rocknroll 2 the man
sellin my soul 4 big bucks
  & bad drugs
 brought 2 u by
 sponsored by
 dont think shut up & buy
 xtra special offer
 get urs today
 i got mine
 im lookin @ u
 i got all ur money
 i know u luv me
got my invisible blackface on
cuz im playin 4 the man
sellout rocker playin 4 fame
  big bucks
  & bad drugs
modern minstrel steady posin
for the amusement of the oligarchs.

lookit all the old old rockers
lookin like dear old dad who
  smashed ya rekkids
 (do u remember?
  u put him in a nursing home)
where o where have the
 rocknroll rebels gone
  from days gone by
 gone baby gone
gone far far away
to the nursing home
 with the nice white men
 in their clean white coats
or the boardrooms of the oligarchs
  sellin out
im lookin @ u daltrey & townshend
 who sold out
 u thats who
 i dont believe in who
  no mo
never trust anyone over a million
sellin out rocknroll
no more screams & riots only
sellout rockers steady posin
for the amusement of the oligarchs.

minstrelsy will never die
alive & still dyin
 long as there b oligarchs
fashion industrial complex
lookin far & wide 4 the
perfect face & perfect bum 2 sell out
 rocknroll &
  hiphop too
im lookin @ u
 iggy azalea
 from australia
  pretty-pretty bird
  with ur afroamerica ghetto gear
  & no bum no brain no clue
  wearin ya blackface
pretentious posette steady posin
for the amusement of the

rocknroll & hiphop b dead dead dead
mergered & assassinated by the
 fashion industrial complex
givin the people the finger & the
for the amusement of the oligarchs
  in the name of
 free enterprise
 intellectual property
 infinite cheap profit
  & absolute power
dollin u up in hifashion bluesuede
  concrete galoshes
serenaded 2 the bottom of the hudson
 under landscraper wallstreet view
or london thames cuttin thru airstrip 1
 kingdom of lord murdoch
 lord branson lord saatchi &
 big brother who b
  watchin watchin u

please allow me 2 introduce myself im
nonentity drummer pikki pockett
  prettyboy poser
 watch me pose
  pretty 4 u

over the rotten stinkin corpse of


Copyright © 2015 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Saturday, April 4, 2015

Foosball Riot -- NaPoWriMo 2015 Poem #1

The weird kid is
 not popular
 not cool
 not a thing at all in the eyes of the popular and the cool
But he plays a mean game of foosball.
He sees the holes you don’t
He shoots with uncanny precision
He scores before you even notice
He wins.

Riot in the cafeteria
Fake food flying in the air
Tables overturned, chairs thrown
Hair pulled, punches thrown
The faculty can’t handle it
They call in the cops.

The chaos spreads into the streets
Dumpsters on fire, flaming trash thrown
Cars turned on their sides and rolled over
Whole cases of empty beer bottles thrown
At riot cops firing tear gas back

It’s all over the news all night
These cute white kids all throwing a collective tizzy
 so cute, so charming
 this lily-white riot
 they’re only having fun
Being dragged off to jail drunk and
 foaming at the mouth
 screaming at the cops
 smashing news cameras
 beating up reporters
 looking like utter fools
Broadcast on live television to the whole world

 And the whole world’s watching

All because the weird kid
Played a mean game of foosball.

Copyright © 2015 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

After the XPocalypse: My Journey Back Up the Linux Learning Curve

Okay, so I'm free from Windows XP at last and my former XP box is now running Ubuntu Studio. Thing is, I've been away from Linux long enough that I have to retrace my steps and climb my way back up the learning curve. Because at this point in time I'm faced with urgent things like a fast approaching NaNoWriMo and getting Spanner Book 1 edited for publication, I'll be doing things more slowly this time and focusing on basic commands and the desktop first.

The basic commands: stuff like cp, mv, rm, and wc. For those more familiar with Windows and MS-DOS, cp corresponds to copy, rm to del, and mv to both move and ren or rename. wc counts the number of words in text files. Actually, you can use all these commands in Windows itself if you install the GNU CoreUtils package; this may have an earlier version of the CoreUtils than the one that comes standard with Linux, but the commands work just the same. GnuWin32 has a lot of Windows versions of Linux packages that you can install and use; they may not be updated anymore, but they can still be useful. I installed most of these packages in XP and used them a lot, though the last couple of years not as much as I once did.

Also, there's the package managers standard in Linux distributions. Ubuntu is based on Debian (and Linux Mint, which I installed on a partition on my new computer, is based in turn on Ubuntu), so it uses Debian's package manager, APT. The advantage of package managers is that they make it easier to keep your software updated. I missed that. I also missed the command line tools like apt-get. When the XPocalypse finally gave me the chance, I plunged back in.

The desktop: naturally, it's got differences from Windows. For one thing, there's several you can choose from. I was a huge fan of KDE back when I had Kubuntu on my old and now defunct Gateway. Ubuntu Studio comes with XFCE; the version of Linux Mint I chose for the cute little 64-bit dual-core unit in my home theatre system uses the Cinnamon desktop that is just about as processor-intensive as the Unity desktop that comes with standard Ubuntu, or for that matter the heavy-duty desktops in Windows since Vista. In both my Linux distributions I had to assemble a few desktop components, especially some control panels that were missing. But learning the ins and outs of my chosen Linux desktops is the easy part.

The hard part is, as you'd expect, the deeper aspects of the command line, and the heavy-duty text editors I prefer but haven't been using lately, Vim and Emacs. For this, I'll have to explore deep into the jungles of documentation that surround them. NaNoWriMo is just around the corner, though, so I'll have to take my time with that.

One new thing I'll have to learn is how to use the advanced audio system called JACK (recursive acronym: JACK Audio Connection Kit). I know nothing about it. I need to find documentation and tutorials for it. I want to at least get competent in using it before FAWM, which is only 3½ months away.

Anyway, I'm happy I've reunited with Linux again. I even have Wine to run Windows programs again, and I've even installed a few games (Minesweeper, that pinball game, and Hover from the Windows 95 CD). I'm not starting from scratch, actually. Still, there's a lot of stuff I have to learn before Linux becomes as intuitive to me as Windows.

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Surviving the XPocalypse: The Sequel

Since my last post, I've hardly blogged, tweeted, or otherwise been very publicly active on the Net at all. Mostly I've been editing my book and trying to wrestle it into readable form even as it mutated into two different shapes. But I've still been busy, for the last few months in fact, replacing the late lamented Windows XP with Ubuntu Studio Linux on my old P4 box and gradually setting up Windows 7 and Linux Mint on the cute little Core Duo unit in the living room. This is the sequel and update.

Part of the struggle involved a much delayed game of musical hard drives. The new computer came with only an 80GB hard drive, which didn't give me much room considering how much stuff I had on two hard drives on the old box, so I had it upgraded to the current industry standard of 1TB and transferred all my music, videos, and games to it. Then I cloned my 40GB C drive on the P4 box to the 250GB drive, expanded the partition on that to the full drive (except for %GB of Linux swap), transferred much of my old data back to it, replaced the 40GB drive with the 80GB one from the new computer, and installed Ubuntu Studio on that. To do this, I realized I had to buy a USB hard drive enclosure to do the clones and transfers I couldn't do over the network. After that, there was the task of reinstalling programs that is still ongoing.

The important thing is that I no longer have to deal with the dying XP's increasing lack of security. Win7 is much more secure (and still regularly updated), and Linux is more secure still (though I there still is the learning curve). Now if only the rumors of a Windows 10 upgrade being free to Win7 users were true — though I'm not holding my breath...

The bad part: it made me miss 50/90...

Tuesday, May 13, 2014

I Have Survived the XPocalypse!

If you haven't forgotten me already (that happens), you may have noticed I haven't been online much since the middle of last month. You see, my old computer runs Windows XP. I got a new one running Windows 7 for the living-room home theatre system. It's a cute little thing with a dual-core 64-bit processor that runs XBMC Media Center like a dream, making it my set-top box of choice (I'll still play Blu-Ray discs on the Blu-Ray player, of course). It took me a few weeks to acquire the computer, install all the software I require, and get all the settings just right. That, of course, cut my NaPoWriMo short.

There was a big, big reason for all this: the XPocalypse!

You see, Microsoft ended all support for XP last month. Today was the first Patch Tuesday on which XP didn't get patched. Already the black-hat hackers are starting to exploit the vulnerabilities that will never again get patched. Today is XP's true death day. By getting my new Win7 machine, I have avoided getting caught up in the XPocalypse. Besides, I wanted Win7 anyway; it's just that a Pentium 4 cam't run it right.

And so I've disconnected my old P4 box from the Internet entirely while it still has XP installed. My next priority: to get a network drive I can move my music and videos to. Next step after that: install Ubuntu Studio to what is currently the D drive; I have to move my music, videos, and games because I'll need to reformat that drive to install Linux, which uses a completely different filesystem (EXT4 instead of Windows' NTFS). Since there's Windows programs I want to run under Linux, I'll want to install the Wine compatibility layer, then install whatever compatible Windows updates no longer available for XP. And then I'll be free of Windows XP's corpse forever!

Meanwhile, the former office terminal in my entertainment center is now my Win7 + XBMC "set-top box". In fact, I'm writing this entry on that machine as I speak...

Sunday, April 20, 2014

Puzzle Game -- NaPoWriMo Poem #14

You don’t smoke snort or inject it
 you play it with a mouse
 more addictive than drugs
 hijacks your brain and
 makes you dream it

I remember when it cost quarters to play at
 your local video arcade
 next to the beat-em-ups
 platformers pinball and shmups
 everybody watching

It’s a puzzle why people play it
 this puzzle game
 it puzzles the brain
 pocket size insanity
 on only a quarter

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Peepfighters -- NaPoWriMo Poem #13

marshmallowy sugary inedible yellow
weapons of squishy warfare candy destruction
 brand name: peeps
raging teenagers overdosed on sugar
stock up on ammo half-off post-easter
load up their weapons to go to war
i have a machine gun made to fire peeps
he’s got a slingshot she shoots her potato gun
peeps fly around hit everyone in range
 until they’re gone

in the vacuum of space peeps bloat with trapped air
back in the airlock they collapse flatter than roadkill

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Equinox -- NaPoWriMo Poem #12

The snake of cosmic darkness swallows the invincible sun
Three days three nights the sun languishes eclipsed under the earth
On the third day he rises from the dead to shine again
 The goddess of the dawn
 Her ancient name: Easter
 Rolls away the stone
 To bid him rise again

By the hand she raises him from the loamy tomb
He shakes the black earth off his flaming hair
 On the holy day of the dawn
 Night shrinks away, day grows long
She manifests herself by northern lights in the night sky
Invoked by another of her ancient holy names: Aurora
Daring the bright sun to outshine her nocturnal glory
 On this her holiest day
 When the night and the day are equal

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Friday, April 18, 2014

Doom and Gloom -- NaPoWriMo Poem #11

Society’s going to the dogs, don’t tell me otherwise
The world’s going to hell in a handbasket, don’t deceive me with facts
People suck, so do you, I don’t believe a single word you’re saying

 Doom and gloom
 Doom and gloom
 Doom and gloom

Society’s always going to the dogs
The world’s always going to hell in a handbasket
People always suck even when they don’t
Always did, always will

But my life sucks, always did, always will
I think I’ll go bury my head in the sand

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Windows Update -- NaPoWriMo Poem #10

oh no my windows just got discontinued
i’ll have to pay through the nose for an update
they’ll have to come to my house install the new ones
take out the old ones before they get hacked

damn you microsoft why do you always have to
make my windows obsolete just when i get used to them
don't worry says customer service you’ll see better
ha i reply just wait till the next big rainstorm hits

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Burning His Bridges -- NaPoWriMo Poem #9

He burned his first bridge back when he was a little boy
He stole his sister’s toys broke them when she told mom
He beat her up like a playground bully
 he was older
 he was bigger
 it was his sovereign right
  so he said
She never forgave him gave his reputation its first black mark
 she locked him out of his life
 sister no more forever
 he was alone
That was only the first bridge:
 he had only begun to burn

Year after year over and over he burnt bridge after bridge
 robbing his relatives
 backstabbing coworkers
 turning friends into enemies
He thought he was all-sufficient unto himself
He thought the only friend he needed was God above
He dismissed the concept of karma as mere superstition
 denying his own superstitions
 dismissing his personal delusions
Looking out for number one was the whole of the law
He looked out for himself only, screw the other guy

From the burning sky above a burning bridge descended
He tried to escape it but it always adjusted its aim
It was made of all his hatreds resentments and fears
His double his shadow in monstrous form burning like an angel
Always it increased its speed in its mission to destroy him
 it found him—
  it landed—
 his reputation ruined
 his life destroyed
All he could do now was sit down and weep for himself
All the milk he spilt on everybody else
 had come back to drown him

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Saturday, April 12, 2014

Hero for Sale -- NaPoWriMo Poem #8

He had amazing superpowers and a personality cult
All the companies in America fell over themselves begging his endorsement
He could pick and choose, he just wanted exposure and beaucoup bucks
His face was plastered all over on posters magazine ads television screens
 He was a hero for sale

Every person has their price, some just don't sell out
Our hero sold his soul for peanuts expecting millions
Superpower and vanity are a volatile cocktail
Watch him at every cocktail party toadying the rich
Who thinking they're superheroes buy personality cults of their own
Trading heroism for celebrity riches playboy mansions with blonde harems

 Ladies and gentlemen:
  our hero.

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

The Prestigious Reading -- NaPoWriMo Story

[Note: I wrote this short story in the midst of writing poems for NaPoWriMo. Nothing annoys me more than the willful obscurity of elitist “artistes” such as the academic poet. This kind of artist really exists only to make culture-free billionaires feel "in", precisely because their art is unintelligible to us puny humans. Satire accordingly follows below.]

They are gathered here in the Temple of Art, the assembled Lords of Capital, to listen to the Bardic Elite read their works. None here care a thing for the pleasures of body, heart, mind, or soul. Modern Art exists for the ego alone. What they seek is Prestige.

For the professors, Prestige means Tenure, sponsored by the new race of aristocratic patrons whose representatives wait breathlessly for them to speak. For the executives, Prestige means Reputation among their kind, raising them in their own minds at least to the level of the merchant princes who made the Renaissance. A common conviction unites them: that Modern Art shall raise Artist and Patron alike above the people.

The first poet strides up to the podium. The projector lights up the wall behind him; the exalted audience must see what they are hearing to make sure what they hear is True Art not plebeian doggerel. Not verse but abstract words abstractly arranged like a bomb-blasted PowerPoint presentation (haven’t heard of Paul Blackburn? you philistine) assures the executive illuminati before him. They disagree as to whether the style he reads his poem is like a rabid gorilla or a psychotic robot. They sigh in contentment that, like Capitalism itself, Modern Art continues to dissolve everything solid into air (haven’t heard of Irving Fisher? you peasant). He finishes. They applaud. He smugly smiles: among the oligarchic audience, he shall find his Patron.

No, from these poets you won’t hear the feigned concern for the oppressed women and colored people all too common in the academic presses. To these men it reeks of Communism: let them spew their rot among the rabble. Here the true purpose of Modern Art is known: to comfort the comfortable and afflict the afflicted. The Bardic Elite speak only of Higher Things, that which cannot be spoken by human tongues, that which the Lords of Capital are taught by their gurus and the Ascended Masters they channel. To them the Great Chain of Being still stands unbroken; to them hierarchy is still the abstract essence of Nature.

Poet after poet speaks the unspeakable, deconstructed into glossolalia, exciting executive egos and raising them into gods. The air here in the Temple of Art is hushed like the atmosphere of a sacred temple before the holy golden image of the god. The god hovering over this ritual has no image, though painted and sculpted icons of the ineffable surround them; yet his blood runs freely in checkbooks, credit cards, and bank accounts: he is the god of this world, and the Lords of Capital are his chosen race, beyond good and evil (haven’t heard of Friedrich Nietzsche? you plebeian).

The ritual ends. The contracts are signed. The Bards find their Patrons; the Patrons find their Bards: all united by the smug sense of occult conspiracy against the unenlightened masses. The poets are pleased; the executives are pleased; the god they serve is pleased: they shall be rewarded with Profit and Prestige.

Meanwhile, many social layers below, heedless of the dance of egos among elites in the exclusivist Temple of Art, people with two and three jobs create their art, not to social-climb, but because they must.

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Friday, April 11, 2014

Rational Anthem -- NaPoWriMo Poem #7

[Note: my first poem this NaPoWriMo intended to be "songified" come 50 Songs in 90 Days.]

Rational man
Standing alone
Against an irrational world
Try to get out of it
You crusade against it
 You stand alone

Radical man
Standing alone
Against the whole human race
 No compassion
What did they do to you
Their lifeblood’s delicious
 You stand alone

Thought into man
Standing alone
Against your prison of flesh
 You thought it
 You bought it
You will must triumph over
The desert of the real
 And stand alone

God that was man
Standing alone
Against the material world
 Transcend it
 Destroy it
Judge and find it wanting
Jealous shall be your name
 You stand alone

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

It Bleeds, It Leads -- NaPoWriMo Poem #6

[Note: Originally written 4/7/14.]

Booyah booyah booyah boom:
the terrorist shoots up the cocktail party with his boomstick
murderous buckshot making hedge fund billionaires bleed money
vapid socialites trophy wives last-gasping soap-operatically
celebrities entering the ideal death-state of infinite profitability
chinaware fixtures bodies drapes all ruined in photogenic ways
white wine red blood stream together into delicious new cocktails
security agents with black blood steel muscles bulletproof skin
swarm into the ruined room fire a leaden hailstorm into his body
red gushers fountain beautifully from the heroic corpse before it crumples
the dying face forms a smug grin as he drifts off to Valhalla

 First Law Of Media:
 It Bleeds, It Leads

The dead killer’s defiant mugshot front-page plastered on all editions
newsbabbling talking heads breathlessly gush over his dastardly feat
nobody cares what he stood for, he’s the hot new criminal celebrity
up there with Carlos the jackal Green River Gary and Scarface Al
and the Twenty-Seven Club of rockers dead from willful self-destruction
what was his cause again? nobody even bothers to remember
all we care to know is he burned out to keep from fading away
his humanity a fading memory, now deified into tabloid celebrity
a growth industry, a boom stock, he and all his opulent victims
their heirs now suing each other, we cry out hurry up and shoot already
smugly we bask in the glamourous heroic aura of his brave exit
our excuse to remain passive complacent conformist in our decay

 This is how you lose by winning.

Rugged individual heroism: the true occult secret to all true villainy
Make yourself a badass name to echo through the stony chambers of Valhalla
Beat the Man, crown yourself emperor, proclaim yourself a god, become the Man
Fail to beat the Man, die a superstar, a profit center for decades to come
 The demigods who rule the world are not like you and me
  All complete unto themselves, no need for society
 What humans see as mortal sin, they call morality
  The demigods care nothing for nature and humanity:

   let them bleed.

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Lotus -- NaPoWriMo Poem #5

[Note: Originally written 4/6/14. The second of my Buddhist-themed poems.]

the wind catches a petal off a lotus blossom
carries it gently in its invisible currents
deposits it with softest touch onto the still pond surface
the floating petal generates softest ripples
travelling invisibly, touching everything around it
lilypad reed insect fish other lotus and the distant shore

the flower attracts the bee who inseminates it with pollen
then falls petal by petal to make way for fruit and seed
but the lotus blossom unfolds to reveal the simultaneous seed
the seed slowly descends the whole depth of the pond water
settles at the bottom into soft mud where it sends out its roots
and raises its stalk the full height to the surface
to unfold new flower and new seed

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

The Transparent Eye -- NaPoWriMo Poem #4

[Note: Originally written 4/5/2014. The first of my Buddhist-themed poems.]

The Ideal suspended before us like the apple of Tantalus,
unreachable: we reach, and it recedes into the distance or fades away,
or worse, lead on corrupted minds ever deeper into burning hells,
collecting hellfire to cast onto earth: sweetest daughter of Māra,
weaving her veil of illusion to distract from the cries of a suffering world.

Close your eyes: quiet the mind: observe the commotion fade to silence:
become a transparent eye penetrating the veil to the true reality of things:
dissolve the confusion that clouds vision and distorts consciousness:
perceive the connections among all things from beginning to end of time:
rediscover that what is real and that what is not is not.

Go, bodhisattva, return to the suffering world with clear vision and pure heart:
countless living beings cry for relief from incessant suffering: reconnect:
leave behind the lesser self, distortion of self, moulted like snake's skin:
your self is not the outer shell or inner layers but the center:
as you walk further down the path, show them where it begins:

 but they must choose to walk it
 for some are blinded by shining ideals
 and others by midnight-black despair
 confusion clouds their eyes and makes them think
 that what is not real is real
 and what is real is not real:

clarity reveals the path, and the cosmic currents
that flow through you and me and all beings and all reality,
and the true nature of reality unclouded by faulty vision
and by the three afflictions, addiction repulsion confusion,
and by the lesser self that divides self from self and self from others.

 Siddhārtha meditated under a pipal tree
 when Māra spied him and panicked:
 first he unleashed all the terrors of infinite hells:
 failing that, he tried to seduce the prince
 with carnal pleasures and illusory ideals:

 Siddhārtha endured,
  achieved extinction,
   and woke up a Buddha.

Copyright © 2014 Dennis Jernberg. Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License