From The Movie...Lucy

Dr. Norman's conversation, at the beginning of the movie, upon 'cell activity and intelligence':

If its habitat is not sufficiently favorable, or nurturing, the cell will choose immortality, in other words, self-sufficiency and self management. On the other hand, if the habitat is favorable, they will choose to reproduce — that way, when they die, they hand essential information and knowledge to the next cell, which hands it down to the next cell, and so on. Thus knowledge and learning are handed down, through time. Source: Wikipedia


Annotated and posted by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Knowing

When the sheep lay down, in the pasture, they are safe, in their sleep...from 'the knowing', of the wolf. That the brave, 'awake', and are taken...is no new thing, yet all, shall go to heaven.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

In The Lords Ear

May your words, ring the sweetest bell, in the deepest chasm...that he, may hear your prayer, and reach...to take your hand.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

That Simple Bread

The blessed, are sustained, as the voice, from a harp's fair strings...in sweetness, evermore. Where ever, The Lord is our host.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Gather Ye

Where Amrita be found, our simple self, the sweet divine, that 'food of God' be handed down...there, we be saved, our feet be washed by brook of Hebron, sense be stirred...by flower of Caanan.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Of Thee

I could have said, before, and should have said, before...thy name, be 'need', and I am here, forgotten not...my own.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Call Sign

Howdy, 'Tango Foxtrot'...we seem to be, 'further up Charlie Kettle' tributary', than initially, thought! How do you read? 10/4? Marker is 'green smoke'!

Please advise!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Odds Are

We all have codes, codex's, manuscripts of interest, of secrets, of which...even our 'love making trysts' are more public. We have kinks and twists, from before...it all became 'wireless'. We have odds, in sacred places, we can't scratch...without notice, and we only go there, in the dark of night.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

I Shall Make You Fishers

What are the consequences of truth, really? Is it 'dare'? We put our victim'd lives out there, the sputum of our fear, our hopes and care, not knowing 'whom' we're speaking with really...our fishing line, but confiscated, sim corrupted, naivete.

A last stand, our last strand, I think, our last nerve...a 'Holy Mary' pass, from one consumed existence...to another fading frequency, out there, and then...'something' tugs the line. Our feet, six inches off the floor, our gagging destiny, hanging by a hair, and there...a miming trickster, smiling from the screen, offering an 'app' of savior?

Are we to believe? Are we 'believers' to begin with? Does Belief, make up a thing? How are we to know? At best, fate has a face...compassion, yes? No? A giving nature? I never heard, it was a thing of theirs, from cold and distant inexorability, to 'we warm ones'.

I don't know. I only hope an pray, and like a child...play, in a room of gods, and angel beings bearing ways...if they will share them...down the line.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Our Father In Heaven

What if, our face 'is' mask, and only so, in order that, we might be known, of any sense? What if we are 'hollow', back of all, a race of beings, owing God, our cloak...and men, our unknowing?

What if here, we fold our wings...to fall, among your warm children, harboring in mystery, and stealth...our own forgetting? What if we, in earth...serene, reside, and here, in wonder...contemplate , a father we've denied...because, we cannot see him?

Wonder not, we are not known, of anyone...then, for we are of our father in heaven.

Amen


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Upon Moksha

Starting with the middle Upanishad era, moksha - or equivalent terms such as mukti and kaivalya - is a major theme in many Upanishads. For example, Sarasvati Rahasya Upanishad, one of several Upanishads of the bhakti school of Hinduism, starts out with prayers to Goddess Sarasvati. She is the Hindu goddess of knowledge, learning and creative arts; her name is a compound word of ‘‘sara’’ and ‘‘sva’’, meaning "essence of self". After the prayer verses, the Upanishad inquires about the secret to freedom and liberation (mukti). Sarasvati’s reply in the Upanishad is:

It was through me the Creator himself gained liberating knowledge,
I am being, consciousness, bliss, eternal freedom: unsullied, unlimited, unending.
My perfect consciousness shines your world, like a beautiful face in a soiled mirror,
Seeing that reflection I wish myself you, an individual soul, as if I could be finite!

A finite soul, an infinite Goddess - these are false concepts,
in the minds of those unacquainted with truth,
No space, my loving devotee, exists between your self and my self,
Know this and you are free. This is the secret wisdom.

Sarasvati Rahasya Upanishad, Translated by Linda Johnsen

Source: Wikipedia

Whiskers

I know, I make things up, that God does, too...creating worlds, though, love is not a lie. You start a thing, and there it goes...to be or not to be, at all. The trap is that, a bloodless coup...a hope, the cheese is not a tainted thing. The mouse stands down, his twinkling eyes, calculating every move...except, that love's a choice of its own.

Snap!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Hidden

Need we prove, that we are human? We are 'too'. Then, why prove that we are God, and how? Here. Let me take it all off. There. See? I didn't think so. There are some things, we may not confide...in the nature of us all.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Blood Line

The sensation, of having 'someone' is an ill made stone, an anchor hooked, but to illusion. Better then, to walk alone...the heart within you, be the anchor and the stone, a perfect fiery thing, always giving, always in you...blessing you with life, whispering it's love...in the voice of your veins.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Jealously Hold They

In the sonic insecurity, of present day, faith is lost by the many. In this age of over zealous information, we have nothing, but white noise. Whatever's given as the secret, of a wisdom, is a lie, and we haven't got a choice.

We are victim, to the scholars of exemption, exempt from telling us at all. Now, they make a show, of laying bare, all sorts of things...but, they 'lock their libraries', tighter than a prison door. Why, I ask? You haven't clout enough, to break in.

So, we think it up, we make it up. We guess at best...from crumbs left out, upon the table there, that's all we've got...beside belief, and that, based largely...on a childish curiosity.

This is why, I hardly seek, the foible'd lies of ivy league...Call me fool, I hold, unto my self, 'experience' as gold, for only fools seek that, that 'seem to be'...in academia.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

A Foolish Thing

The wind, is a foolish thing, always ruffling the hair, always whispering you there...eternal love, but just, too great a love for mortal flesh to bear...

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Temples

I will not swelter in the hot house, of a dream, but will face the bracing wind, torrential rain...or easy, as a mood may take her, for I love the world, God made. She is my mother, and my lover and my teacher. I will walk among her spring tides, fresh, gently live among her creatures...and her solitude's, if they will let me.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Storm Warning

The grackles gather, in their thousands...blackest night, and one white, snow white...dove. No mistaking this. A sign, be given us, from heaven...we who sought no sign, are witness of. For, this cloud gather's o'er us, building...as the spirit is. A storm is coming! Here! A storm is coming, to the days ahead! A balance, tipping, to the level of the land.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Quiesce

When she turns, and rises in her majesty, a golden chain of mailed brilliancy, there, upon the black night, casts her great head back, her mouth agape, fangs bared and roarrrs...wildly! Silently, then comes she, down upon me, gazeing in my dark eyes, for our nest, our soul...is one resting. We sleep. We sleep...

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Whom It Serves To Deny

It serves little furtherance, to persist, where ego, abound, are flocks of birds, their magnetic north, gone...smashing into windows, or any clear uncomplicated explanation.

Even 'love'. Look at love. Jesus said 'love', in essence...that is all. They text, 'I am in sex with you'. What is wrong with this picture? Everything has gone haywire. Why? Because, 'will and desire', that power couple...still want trouble, and they wont give it up! Not for God, if the devil offers a simulucrum.

They want. They want what they want, and they don't give a hell, for a soul...or care if its given up. So, fine! But, I'll keep mine. For those, of an interest in the subject, I will press as I can...those buttons of brief wisdom, and other's can keep going 'off the rails' about them.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Mensa

The sensitive suffer. The intelligent, suspend themselves from involvement. The rich and privileged, are insulated, and say...'they didn't know this was happening'. The retarded, the lame, and the problematical...are living on the street. The American, Judeo Christian 'caste system'.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Golden Dragon

I go further, in the universe, at times. I travel, at the speed of thought. I am upon a steed of light...that is a dragon, in it's shape. It is a great and golden beast. It is a strand of filigree, its wings, the span of galaxies. It is, I am, and we ride.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

In A Lifetime

You see, how it is, when 'wars cease', because of love? It doesn't take many. It just takes 'love', really. A little bit of caring commitment, meant honestly, to a heart, so harmed...it has to be rebuilt. If you think of it, this whole world, must be rebuilt...and we must ALL put down our guns. It wont happen, just like that. Much will be forgiven...and the stinking carcasses, of those who never stop hating, will be dragged away and burned. It's a hard way, a bitter thing...but, we will know peace, in a lifetime.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Gifted

The words I speak are true, and you don't believe a one. I am very used to that. The heart, inured to pain, pumps on...but, it would love to settle down. The muse, I use, and uses me...is God. The music, that I hear, the words, I say...come down, divinely gifted, to a world that doesn't care, and only turns away...

from love...


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

When We Were Young

Behind, every bloody 'bar fight', there's a woman, screaming, 'Kill the bum!'
The world, today, is NOT a better place, because women got involved in politics. It's more unstable, 'by far'...because of it. Women were 'saviors', when they raised kids, and provided some stability to the 'small world', of each household, while the men went off to be 'warriors'.

Now, the women, have given up the household, demanded an equal helping of 'cock and balls', and are more contrary than men ever were. The men have been weakened, and pretend to be 'surrogate mothers', in touch with 'their 'feminine'. What utter bullshit!

Both men and women, in their joint effort, to confute God, and excuse themselves...for rejecting him, have taken to 'a will of their own', and because of it, they are very near...to ending their world!

They can see it. They will not admit it...for, to admit, is to admit...they are wrong! God, so loved this world, he gave his only 'begotten' son...to save it. Is that worth 'anything' to you? No smart mouth! Think on it.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Wonderful

Why do we give up childhood? Why do we grow up, only to harness the 'hard plastic', of a lesser thing? I know, we yearn back to childhood,. We look to them, a wellspring, of fun, mischief...true and joyous life, not life waiting to die.

We want to 'be them. They are 'our source'. They are more malleable, more dumber than a stump, more brighter than a light. They are 'wonder filled', and wonderful.

Maybe that, is the difference...'wonder filled'. Having, not known it all, or even part...but believing they do, in that blessed and graceful state of bliss, akin to ignorance, and yet...

Adult hood, has 'that' down pat, that ignorance of all but self...that niche, they seem to cherish more, than any other. Maybe, we should 'go back'.

Back to where we 'did not know it all', but only wondered much...this thing called life, this mystery of open ended possibility. We have given much away, to science and to certainty, to answers, stead of innocence...our sanity, indeed...our soul.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

In The Beginning

I remember, when 'much of this', this habit of writing, started...about three years ago, maybe four. Oh, it was such a grind, with tiny jubilation's, of realization.

'I could write', and I could rhyme...and then memories, began to surface, at the mythic edge of other lives, or seeming lives. Not clearly. Through a glass, darkly...at first, and then, with increased confidence of reception, like a radio station, that finally catches the frequency, and the 'duh' light goes off, and the red light goes on...and you're singing tunes, with 'the golden oldies', and 'hearing brogues', of men that fell to ground centuries ago.

I could write stories, and poetry, off of this. I came to realize...I had always thought of writing, and did small stuff, and terribly. But, now, it was 'muse driven'. It was time, and I was 'useful' to someone. It became, God, in realization...and I give God, the credit.

I really try to maintain 'a modicum' of perspective, so that, I don't begin to sound, like 'the great and awesome' wizard in OZ. I'm afraid, I fail at that...somewhat. But, it's only to save 'your embarrassment', not mine. I know about ego. We have it. We all do. It overtakes and ruins many, and then, we are of no use...to any.

So, I tamp it down, yet, the phenomena, that is happening to me, while the world is labeling me...'pretend god', or worse, is...I am becoming 'comfortable with myself'. I am my own friend, and confidante, and critic, of course. Terrible critic.

While other's may believe, 'I have stormed heaven'...I believe, 'I was invited'. Now, I AM a writer, and I can fling turds out the door, at unwelcome guests...slam it, lock it...and move on from there, enjoying 'creative writing', all by my lonesome.

I have found 'my ji', and if you haven't seen it, or recognized me...tough on you. Music came, at the same time. I mean, dynamic string control and neck control of the instrument...I always 'dreamed' to master. My sweet guitar.

It has arrived. They turn away, outside. I turn within, and 'play away'...God's own sounds, from his own mind...sent down to me.

There's more...


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Simple Town

The dark gathers here, in her legions...every tree shaken, for the space of an hour. Every dark eye, stares to the sky...to redemption. I've a mind, to give them, for I never heard a sweeter song...than the Grackle!

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Apogee

The dark gathers here, in her legions...every tree shaken, for the space of an hour. Every dark eye, stares to the sky...to redemption. I've a mind, to give them, for I never heard a sweeter song...than the Grackle!

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Doorway Home

We are all afraid to die, even though, the act we think of 'as dying', is not, but a doorway, back to childhood...where, we once again hold opportunity, the rolling of the dice, divinely 'loaded', we may hope...in our favor.

Fate 'winks' at us. We'd swear, it winked at us. I believe, in the bridge of God...a link, we cross to a place of 'new start', a flower, come back...a leaf that verdure, every dream...in sleep, with 'everlasting life'.

I believe, it's ok to 'cross over', stepping out, leap of faith, freshening. Nothing will be lost, everything is gained. I just can't take my guitar, I guess...but, who knows, in the fullness of wonder, I will wait on God to furnish me, that 'golden harp', that I may dream a song of him, to dedicate to life.

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Down The Line

Don't be too good, or you might taste good. Be just good enough, to keep a little 'tug', on the line...to let them know, you might not be bait...

Chum!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

To Prepare

The 'armor of God', is no mere flak jacket, but the Mithril, of divine preparation. Prepare, ye sons of God...and ye daughters, and do not tarry!

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Who Of What We Are

We are 'one consciousness', dreaming in a sky always, of the little parts we play, and the little parts we are. Everything we see, we said with 'a word', and it came...into being.

Namaste


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Another Place

I will miss you. You will go. You will go, and change your name. I will miss you. I will go, and change, again...to someone new, but, I will know. I will know you.

Another time...


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

White Sands Black Plans

I'll be weird, and tell you something...

In my 30's, I received 'a gift', a gift of being and seeing, that took me on the road...for ten years. It was a 'divine calling'. It was so strong, vibrant, real...and I met 'many'. Some of them, were wonderful. Some of them, were mishap.

In the beginning of this, I received a 'transmission of art', a group of drawings of beings, beautiful to behold...unlike us. I called them, 'the winter elves', because, they were snow white.

Later in my life, as my gift began to fade...I listened to a tale, on 'night radio'. I believe, it might have been 'Art Bell'. He had a guest, telling a story, about the 'paper white people', a group of beings, in touch with the Military.

It is said, they mistrust humans very greatly, and are specifically concerned for their children...as, 'aren't we all'. It concludes, in these later years, of mine...to imagine, the military 'kyped' some of these otherworld children, and have held for ransom...these, in order of technology.

A 'swap', for the safety of the children. It would be a sad reality, that anyone could have done this, and...like 'The Pied Piper', it would be terrible...to lose the children of our human race, yet as the debt of karma owes, many have been 'taken'...already. There is even a movie, by that name.

If these, so called 'paper white people', are owed, their children back...by all means, 'give them', and imagine, why, at war we are...and how it never ends, and ask yourself...why? Is this, a part of 'the why', of it all?

What happened in the desert of New Mexico, in 1947? What tales have been spun, to hide a grievous wrong...and what would you do, to find your children? This is but a part, of those 'clips' ripped from the heart and mind of truth. What really happened to...a lot of things?

I wonder...don't you?


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

The Walls

If you really want to quit the soft stuff, and move past the hard stuff...take a swig of 'Cold Turkey, Single'.

Killer!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Meg Ryan's Orgasm

There is nothing in the nature of routine, lately, that could not be mimic'd by machine.The smile, the teeth straight in a row, the million dollar travelling machine, the love note left, upon a post...the likes, the hates, the comments back, the vaporous clouds, the vaporous souls...that are , probably not...it could all be faked and probably is, as phony as 'Meg Ryan's orgasm'.

Phooey!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Cloak This

May your ship crash, and your alien dicks, drop off ...you dystopian pricks!

Amen!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

Tool

These 'social networks', are a tool, not the goddamn answer to everything. While they made themselves, indispensable...you made yourselves, completely dispensable, phukwithable, eradicatable. You have 'bought' into every app they've offered...'without a clue'! You have no idea, what it's doing to you, and you don't care! I'm a fool, but you're a 'too oo ool'!

So, there!


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico

God Help You

They wont give you, or me, a clue...they only lie, a 'ponder this'. Then, disappear, into the night, a bit of blood red tail light...apparition's figment'd imagination.

I've watched it all. I've seen their work...a world sucking off the tit, of the milk of 'their' word. Where's the beef, and where's the bun's you fly around the desert with? That's what I'd like to know, and so would everyone else.

If you wont tell us, what the deal is...I don't give a rat's ass! I'm so near the 'real truth' now, I'm dying to know. Faith alone...

God help you...


Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New Mexico