Monday, December 02, 2013

Practicing Yogic Alchemy

Embrace complexity.
Radiate simplicity.

Embrace duality.
Radiate neutrality.

Embrace the finite.
Radiate the infinite.

Embrace struggle.
Radiate grace.

Embrace grief.
Radiate compassion.

Embrace service.
Radiate gratitude.

Embrace chaos.
Radiate peace.

Embrace the radiant.
Radiate the embrace.

Embrace space.
Radiate nothing.

Embrace nothing.
Radiate all that is.

Wednesday, September 04, 2013

Mr. President, Please Do Not Bomb Syria

Mr. Obama,

If you bomb Syria, you bomb as president. 

When your beloved American people voted

you into office,

they did not vote

you Commander in Chief of

Violence in the Middle East.

The greatest tragedy will not be the expense

to taxpayers. 

The greatest tragedy will

not even be the loss of human lives.

The greatest tragedy will be the victory of

violence,

when the preferred victor in this situation should be

Silence

(Silence--Mind you--is not the same thing as inaction or turning a blind eye.)

(Silence works wonders for those practiced in its art.)

After all, who would want to be remembered as

President Oh Bomb Uh????

But one who is well-versed in the

Arts of Silence

shall be remembered as truly human.

Friday, August 23, 2013

smoke that wok

Please read this poem after reading Jason Schneiderman's sugar is smoking.

Like Schneiderman's, my poem is dedicated to Mark Bittman; but, my poem is also dedicated to Albert Chang.

there's every reason to be
but the reason is
gratitude for that fire you flipped in the pan
and the quick toss of burning oil onto
grandpa's shoes as your fire shine
gives new meaning to the words
bootblack, whiskey, woman, and caramelize
but for all the cigar bar litigation
what did the doc say: too much garlic?
sunlight? white-collar crime? heartless judiciary?
turducken?
it is okay to loosen your bow tie
while cooking salmon with lentils
but do wear it tighter for stuffing
the scallops with basil
yes many wives agree
you are more handsome than
Chow Yun-Fat
so smoke that wok
and sue on!

Wednesday, August 21, 2013

Now Love

Please read this poem after reading Michael Blumenthal's The Difference Between a Child and a Poem.

And if you are neither terrified of death nor
have you accepted it,
you may want to dance
with a child, or
read a poem
to your parents.
Your name in eternity may not
undo the oracles of flesh.
Your seed in the wind may not
fail at love in a field at night.
Your voice is now.
Your flesh is now.
Now is eternal.
Now love.



Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Summer Solstice 2013


A great soul hides in the Games booths at a new theme park in Southern California. 

The theme park is called Financial Crisis Land, and Dan Burite is one of its Full-Time-With-Benefits employees. 

From looking at his outward appearance—sturdy build, 5’9” 165 pounds, dread locks dripping with Rasta beads—one would never guess that Dan B. is God.  

Every day he performs miracles.  

Today is no different.  He stands at a game booth called “Asset-liability Match.”  The challenge involves “withdrawing money” from a “Bank” before the bank can receive the proceeds of its loans.  The "money" is symbolized by a roll of toy paper currency that a player unrolls, similar to the way one would unroll toilet paper.  "The Bank" is an image of a bag with a $ symbol on it.  The moneybag rises higher and higher on a golden pole.  If the moneybag is too quick to rise up to the red Liquidity button, an alarm sounds and the player gets All Wet when a bucket dumps water on the loser.  But if the player removes all the money from the roll before the moneybag reaches Liquidity, a bell rings.  And we have a Winner!  

Dan Burite is the guy who collects three bucks from theme park patrons who want to play this game; he presses the game’s Start button, and says, “Go!”  If the player wins, he bestows a huge, plush Moneybag into the winner's open arms.  If the player loses, Burite encourages the loser to use the “withdrawn cash” to wipe water off his or her wet head.  Outwardly, this seems all there is to Dan Burite’s job.  He performs these simple tasks, with enthusiasm, day-in and day-out throughout the entire year, even on holidays.

But also every day.  Before work.  Dan wakes bright and early to perform cleansing, breathing, and bodywork rituals and meditations that strengthen his nervous system.  For the past forty days, he has been chanting this mantra:


Repeating this mantra as many times as he has has given Dan Burite the ability to Recognize Any Other Person He Encounters Is Himself. 

What does this mean?

For Dan Burite, this means that every time he looks into the face of a theme park patron, he merges with the divine essence inside that other person.  

What influence does this have on his interaction with total strangers from every walk of life?  

When Dan Burite and a game player exchange cash, when he hands over the toy "money roll."  When Dan distributes a prize to a winner, Dan makes sure that his fingers brush ever-so-gently against the other's fingers.  In this moment, Dan Burite charges the other person’s biomagnetic field with the pure vibration of divine intellect and higher consciousness.  

Any theme park patron who plays the “Asset-Liability Match" game is certain to leave Financial Crisis Land at the end of the day with a sense of heightened well-being (which of course they inevitably attribute to the experience of visiting a theme park in Southern California as they almost totally forget their interaction with Dan).  But now, dear reader, you know the truth.

Dan Burite knows he is god.  He recognizes every person he encounters, and he encounters over 1.4 million people per year, as himself, as God.  He treats others accordingly.

Dan Burite was a regular guy when he moved to Southern California from New York City five years ago.  But after practicing this particular, 40-day meditation, Dan Burite can proclaim, with confidence, he is a Wise Guy.  He's gained wisdom.  As far as Dan can describe it, this First Sutra for the Aquarian Age Meditation is a learning tool for the Ascension Process.  

What does this mean?  

Sure, the old adage of treating others as you would like to be treated holds true; likewise, love your neighbor as you love yourself is still useful wisdom.  Hell, we've mastered all that.  Time to Amp It Up.  How about for the Aquarian Age, and for humanity's continuing evolution, human beings push themselves a bit further?  Treat one another as you would treat your god. 

And if you do not believe in God, or a god, or Creation; and perhaps you hold the view that Religions are at the root of all the world’s problems; in any case, treat other humans with the same kind of reverence and awe you have for your car or your cock, your smart phone or your donkey. Oh, Dear Ones, whatever it is you hold dear, whatever is you--You be you begin be me become because believe beget be good bebop bepop bepop by golly be God…!

And if you hold nothing dear, but feel you are a dizzy, unworthy, hag with a heavy drinking problem, then you deserve a vacation.  Play a game at Dan Burite’s booth.  Ride the thrilling Housing Bubble Bust.  Visit the Fun House for Economic Reform.  And enjoy the rest of your day here at Financial Crisis Land, California!      

Tuesday, April 30, 2013

April & Poetry 21


When
When succumb, umbrella.  When whole, help.  When marked, make off.  When wordy, cut the rug.  When whimsical, roar.  When om, joy.  When home, tidy up.  When reading the news, scratch.  When feeding the cat, hum.   When blank, bank on it.  When blink, blank.  When bored, borrow.  When bare, beg.  When baffled, steal.  When broke, break.  When busy, blink.  When finished, flip.  When tired, seduce.  When scared, succumb.  When numb, reach.  When nervous, cockroach.  When pressed, press.  When wrong, rise.  When write, rose.  When moral, empower.  When ravaged, beget.  When refinanced, fornicate.  When ever, where ever.  When yawn, bathe.  When laughing, lust.  When fruitful, forget.  When officiating, occupy.  When over it, sit tight.  When agony, ecstasy.  When logged on, encrypt.  When bathing, bite.  When bird of paradise, fountain grass.  When Earth, worship.  When moon, wax.  When sleepy, orgasm.  When weightlifting, swindle.  When banking, breed.  When up, up.  When sensual, celebrate.  When eager, exhale. 

April & Poetry 20


The Mark
There’s no doubt that the mark she sees on the exposed brick wall is a cockroach.  She thinks about it for a while.  She’s never really despised cockroaches as much as she has always pretended to.  She doesn’t mind them crawling on her while she nurses The Master’s child.  She doesn’t even mind when the infestation grows so out of hand that the government declares a state of emergency.  She remains calm.  She nurses the child.  The infant continues to suckle with quiet passion.  Her eyes open and close.  Her tiny, pink hand rests on the woman’s flesh.  The woman uses her long hands to brush the creeping vermin off the child’s head.  She chants the thousand names of the divine mother over and over.  After forty cycles of chanting, the roaches enter into fits.  She watches their brown bodies shake as if charged with electricity.  She chants the names of the divine mother over again in rapt quietude.  The room fills with light—the nation fills with light—and the insects burst like soap bubbles; bugs burst up and down every coast.  A remarkable sight!  And the sound is like a billion Zen E bells ringing out over the purple mountains majesty and above the fruited plains.  The government lifts all warnings, all sanctions, all curfews.  Though the woman becomes a national hero, she doesn’t move from the rocking chair.  She continues to nurse until the child decides she’s had her fill. 

April & Poetry 19


Blameworthy
It’s trendy these days to take the blame
For spreading il-, ir-, un-, im-, mis-, non-, ex-, dis-
It’s cool to take responsibility, 
and body slam it on the pavement of the
information superhighway that I built in your mind.

If one places responsibility on oneself,
points fingers at oneself,
voters will enter Samadhi
and whatever will lame will b-. 

April & Poetry 18


I (dot) com
I, eyes.  I, mouth.  I, crisis.  I, aching.  I, startled.  I, desired.  I, awake.  I, humanity.  I, ecstatic.  I, she.  She, leaping.  She, composing.  She, ruling.  She, mothering.  She, divinity.  She, exploring.  She, he.  He still hangs.  He climbs mountains.  He proves.  He can smolder.  He rises.  He denies his womanhood.  He, I.  Ex-I, re-I, un-I, ir-I, in-I.
I, first.  I, person.  I, narrative.  I, is.  I, overrated.  I, and.  I, like.  I, so.  I, passé.  I, rejoice!  I, re-juice!  I, juice!  She, juice!  He, juice!  We, juice!   

April & Poetry 17


Desert Grammara
Listen to Les chant about Chance’s choice.  North.  South.  East.  West.  Send.  Press send end call press pressure gong sound send sand through throat.  Her Ex- exposed her extra explosive excitement.  Now she’s here, shoving me into this desert, which is really nothing more than an Ex-plain.  Why does she shove?  She used to press, but now she wants to hush love.  Shhhh.  Love.  Shlove.  She tries to ex-press love.  Shove and shout to get the shhhh out.  She’s as impulsive as she is pulsive, as impossible as she is possible, as irritable as she is ritable.  She’s excessive and cessive, exciting and citing, excruciating and cruciating.   

She is static. 

She is ecstatic.  

April & Poetry 16

Vacationing at the Post Coast


Postman boyfriends me.
Postmodern dating site described him as into lip service.
Postcard image promises
Post-apocalyptic panties.
Says he’s completing a post-doc fellowship as the
Selenoplexia poster child.
We go to that trendy, post-war place.
Later, post-kiss, we
post an ad on craigslist.
He asks me my plans
post-life.
I shrug, and say maybe
I’ll blog.
He shares a secret,
wishes he could
hold
postage hostage.

April & Poetry 15


Egoista

Whip Cream tells me her ego is made from milk.  Contrary to popular suspicion, Ego does not affiliate with Igor.  In fact, polls support Ego’s lead in Ohio.  While U.N. speeches lack ego of years back, Greeks protest ego measures.  Ego hits Syrian military headquarters.  Wall Street turns egomaniacal.  Ego deaths rise in New York City.  Investors high-speed trade their egos for data-enhanced servers.  Egos dissolve off the shoulders of drug-enhanced egomedia moguls.  On Friday, we met to ego all night long at the egothèque.  After the morning yoga class, we tossed our egos into the Chalice Pond.  When they broke through the water’s surface, they made ripples that sounded like this:  long, long ego an echo of ache glow inflated and let go.  California allows ego-less drivers.  Radio waves send these words: Have you seen the new spy thriller Egoland?  Download a new ap for your ego.  Enter the freeway and drive West at light speed.  When the sun strokes your ego, ah!  Be burning delight!  Be naked wonder!

Tuesday, April 23, 2013

April & Poetry 14


Read this post after reading Charles Simic's "Club Midnight"

So, you’ve sold your seedy nightclub.
Are you now the sole owner of an organic farm?

Are you its sole forest gardener, its do-nothing farmer?
Are you its sole crop rotator loosening its green manure?

Do you spend the wee hours summoning insects
To gorge on weird germs and improve crop fertility?

Is your plough flying through Compost Valley
Or sinking in the glistening greensand?

Are bearded Punjabi yogis your silent partners?
Do you have a ploughman by the name of Wendell Berry?

Is Grendel’s Mother coming to the harvest?
Is Mirabai?

Do you happen to have as much forced bliss-energy as you have biodiversity?
Do you have a hunch you’re a cosmic being playing being human?

Is that why you wear Bhakti boots
And kick the eroding Earth sky high?

Monday, April 22, 2013

April & Poetry 13


Take me to the Graces!
After you soap my back, of course.
Take me to the ends of the World,
Or the ends of the whirl.
Let marble walls surround and around.
Though blood or wine may be spilling hot here & there,
Let where be light, light, light
Up our noses and between our toes!
I love forever and you
Besides and backsides and B sides!
Make me come to my knees
And beg Divine Power
In every breath of Every One!

Saturday, April 20, 2013

April & Poetry 12


(Read this post after reading CJ Evans' poem entitled "Elegy in Limestone")

If he, stone, and if he
does.  If gods, like light, like if people
towns and cities and nations, like a stone’s throw,
like gods, sound mind and ancient body.
If he does, like if the days and nights
of Earth think Earth, if the spinning
of the Sun and Saturn burn in their Thought, cry
Sun and Saturn; if he does.
Map the subconscious, herkimer and quartz,
the stones not appearing on any map,
if the map wants inward guidance.
If he does.  Word, if it is in
and in mind.  If visible until
Deed.  If mystics lie and light
moves the spine’s hot
Serpent.  If he is light, if it is
okay to dark with.  Stones.  In the
crystal bowl sounds Mount Shasta, and The Word.
If he is the sound of Mount Shasta under Raven’s wings.
If hiding, if hard, if height, if heat, if healing. 

Thursday, April 18, 2013

April & Poetry 11


Mojave Majesty
Mother warned me not to tame the wild lilac.  But why should I mind a woman who drinks the nectar of the Sacred Datura?  We’re engaged in a typical mother-daughter wildflower. She shoots petals of blazing stars at me while I try to drown her in meadow foam.  We’ve only recently discovered the resins of the knobcone, the needles of the Ponderosa, the phallic cones of the Sugar, and the Shakti of the Torrey pines.  She prefers mountain hemlock, I, urban gridlock.  We ghost, thrive, and choke on our hike through a grove of Coast Live Oak.  Mother throws herself on a bed of bay laurel mistaking it for Coyote Brush.   She shouts, Divine Lover, if you do not reveal to me your true essence, I choose death!  Mother often threatens the cosmos in this way.  I sit back and cross my arms over my chest to observe her display of spiritual anguish from a critical distance.  Nearby, I find some coffeeberries to smash.  I paint my lips green then red then black.  I tie on my hip scarf.  I sugarbush. I sage.  I choose dance over waiting for Mother.  Later, I run off to meet my idol at a desert campsite.  Her name is Lyrica.  I find her contemplating compost as it swelters beneath a lone Joshua Tree.  Shamans say this land is a healing energy vortex.  Some local people still practice ancient drum sex.  Natives once worshipped rhythm here.  People come here to learn how to kiss rhythm.  Here, we practice dropping the Self between the beats.  A local master instructs me to remove my city and step into the hot Gong bath.  The copper pressure waves lift consciousness; the tin pressure waves shift awareness; and the nickel pressure waves wave waves way away the way waves wave away.  Sound waves wave away brain waves wave away light waves wave away magnetic waves wave away waves away waves away away away way way way way way away.  

April & Poetry 10


Rhythmia
Ventriloquists live in lighthouses, gargle and joke.  Voices surf, redden and haberdash.  Novelists ride shadow boats, cave and inkswell.  Tongues pull deeper into craters, tumble and muscle.  Subconscious lotus blossoms hafla to live music, hoop and ignite.  Cries catch in the throats of deepsea beasts, cradle and fall.  Coupons doze in mailboxes, sliver and waste.  Appliances suffer traumatic stress, polish and hum.  Books shiver in their spines, tale and morph.  Surfers hump rip curl, sexwax and comb.  Glass rims touch lips, un-sober and versify.  Throats unify outcry, swallow and democratize.  Guts wretch martyrs, bribe and pray.  Soldiers suckle kava root, dictate and undress.  The wine-men promise wireless grapes, toast and embalm.  Barmaids pour lips into skinny jeans, publish and snuggle.  The Regime orders all voices imprisoned, writhe and rhyme.  Neighbors throw digital block parties, sigh and seek.  Pronouns become verbs, she mes him.  Sages play Mahjong in palm groves, shuffle and tile.  Teachers promise rose gardens, who versus whom.  World leaders guard fish tanks, confer and becalm.  Bankers wear spacesuits, cheap thrills and escape.  Attorneys make beds, bottles and ankle bells.  Babies have second thoughts, neverdust and waterbirth.  Cows get mastitis, Rose of Sharon and Janet Jackson.  The banyan tree laughs, earthen and worship.  Gasoline excites us, chant and gauge.  Poems make sense, please and desist.           

(After Sina Queyras)

Wednesday, April 10, 2013

April & Poetry 9


I read poetry aloud to Czarina while the tattoo artist carves an image of The Raven on her back.  Now I am reading Forrest Gander’s English translation of the Spanish poem Firefly Under the Tongue.  She listens to me tang fissure pleasure the pulse.  My voice keeps her from mossing ancient with mystic ardor.  When the artist warns us that bruising may occur, we both become paralyzed from the soul down.  Hours later, a lone Chinese grammarian swags in wearing her ecstatic make-up.  A dark hiss shifts the lily breaks the rock.  Cloak courtesans claw Kabbalah cupcakes.  Czarina’s inked so indelibly deep into the dermis that the wings transform into real Raven’s wings.  She off and flights skywise.  What’s left for me to do but press and twist my foot on the book, as if I am smothering a cigarette? 

Monday, April 08, 2013

April & Poetry 8



The astronomer’s daughter
left her diary
open on my lap.

Pulsing witch’s bliss
spit flowers and fire script
over zero gravity strip tease.
The view of evolution
over Lake Shadow owns up
to people who serve your silhouette.

Crafting the perfect cun
and turning the carved key,
spiral nebulae wave we’ve loved.

Enlust the light nut
dark dust of our
neo nuclear fusion.

Sex the Sphinx and ape the
almanac of the Aquarian age with
Sisyphus blackening into bliss.

Up your erotic charisma
with queer quantum
while the Sighing Particles
bed their Cyprian Queens.

Poets reach for numinous metaphors,
but like Creatures of the Seeking Sheets,
we owe no debt to Silence.

Ladies and Transpassionate Triggers,
your leader is mad with lust
and vision.

Her ear is pressed
to the Men’s Room door
while Time takes a leak.

In the holy shadow of ecstasy’s
core, Raven and succubus
speak equal and loose ambrosia.

You’re only as secretive
as your scent and vows
shake the Triangulum Galaxy.

Mind, mud wrestlers and humping stars,
the corset-crowded dreams of
foreign passionaries.

(This post written 
after I’d gone missing 
for days with Brenda 
Shaughnessy’s Interior With 
Sudden Joy.)

Sunday, April 07, 2013

April & Poetry 7


toomanyLegotoys

            too many

to play with fire with fire
more plastic            wonders and Structure

            (do count your plans before they hatch)

let Soaring Crow Spirit speak
let Financiers wander lonely as a

cloud that floats on high o’er till and sale

we have some things to work on spiritually

surely Language should go on a gluten-free diet

            perhaps yogi tea makes you
sexual                        meet me at Amusement
Land
                        corner of Do and Think

            toomanyLegotoys!

all’s well that endears

(This post written after memorizing Kathleen Winter’s “Glamour.”)    



Friday, April 05, 2013

April & Poetry 6


In a different city,
all fees are waived.
The Boss has fresh breath,
and weekly meetings move you.
Guys and dolls gaze out windows with
their angel phantom eyes.
Women receive long letters
written from the Pen Man’s Ship.
And letters from the DMV—
Divine Motive Vibrations—
assure all employees
The Boss expects
rain tomorrow.

(This post written after memorizing Victoria Chang’s “Edward Hopper’s ‘New York Office.’”)

Thursday, April 04, 2013

April & Poetry 5


Dear Mother

            Mercy stays out late playing Texas Hold ‘em.

Dear Cynic

Dear Psychic

Dear Psychotic

            We’ve received your application.

Dear Beloved
Dear, dear Astrotourist

            You’ve earned your stars.

Dear Herb Ladies & Gemstone Gentlemen
Dear Candlestick Maker

            The night promises to leak your dreams.

Dear good scout
Dear aged sage
           
            You’re on my wit list.

(This post written after memorizing Camille Rankine’s “Tender.”)

Wednesday, April 03, 2013

April & Poetry 4


Time      when   you
are standing on your
head.  Time as the sky
feeling the beating raven’s
wings.  Time if you’re a
breakfast bowl.  Time if
you’re    my      pillow
when my head is upon you. 
Time if you’re my pillow
when      my         head
is on the block.  Time if you
are my dream.  Time if you
are The Teacher in my dream
who      was            reading
the  Tarot  and  drew  the
Father        of         Wands. 
Time if you are the live cobra
that rose up out of the card. 
Time if you are The Teacher
swallowing   The     Cobra.
Time   as      shockwaves. 
Time      in      dream.  Dream
time.  Dream standing on its head. 
The         raven’s           dream. 
Dream Chief Dancing Raven watching
Wind make love to White Buffalo. 
Dream sweet grass grows
upon your head.  Dream takes Night by
the other hand.  The three go leaping
over       The Chasm.         Time passes.
Dream distorts.  Time may get the jump
on you.  Dream guides the jolt in you.

(This post written after memorizing some lines from Anne Carson’s Red Doc>)    

Tuesday, April 02, 2013

April & Poetry 3


Paolo and I never agree.  He insistin’ Nina Simone’s cover of “See-line Woman” tops my wail and moan.  I differ; hey, the way Feist do it measures up some.  Paolo gets to turning red, black, and green.  Gets to so he ready to throw his bile in a pile.  Paolo gets me up to confess his hump number ain’t much noise, not like music that hurts.  My woman walk in like piano solo stuck in her hips.  Good reason her name Inspiration.  Whew!  She wreck my days!  Then his lady walk up; she called Silence.  So of curse we gotta get up to assessing the She-ass.  Ugly start when Paolo kicks the trap drum down the fire escape.

(This post written after memorizing Yusef Komunyakaa’s “The Music That Hurts.") 

Monday, April 01, 2013

April & Poetry 2


With solo moon in my pocket, I proceed to clean out the closet.  Fickle dresses twist around the shoe rack, and her gypsy gown burrows in his arrow tube.  There’s not much sorrow or longing here, just outgrown shadows, his old yes jeans, and a pair of shoes that once belonged to the Creator.  Entering this closet means entering the zilch dimension.  In this storied space, the first things one might notice are not the empty cabinets, the rising orbs, or all the world's scattered vanitas.   One might notice the holes in those old shoes, holes left by the taking on of burdens and the receiving of gratitude.

(This post written after committing to memory Lisa Russ Spaar's "Solo Moon.")

Sunday, March 31, 2013

April & Poetry


January is National Blood Donor Month.  February is Black History Month.  March is Sing With Your Child Month.  

I donated blood in January.  I read Toni Morrison’s Beloved in February.  I sang with my children throughout March.  Did all these things as a person who considers himself a citizen of strong national identity ought to do.  Hey, I’m as dedicated as the next guy in my desires to express national pride. 

April is National Poetry Month.     

Trumpet interlude blasts through here.

This month, I promise to live and breathe poetry in a way that no man has before this April.

Every day, I will commit one poem to memory and recite that poem in my head or aloud throughout the day.  At night, I will sleep with that poem under my pillow.  In this way, I will live and breathe poetry.  I will allow the poem to live life through me.  For this month, I plan to make my mind a poetry churn.  Just as yogis practice to repeat Gurmukhi or Sanskrit mantras, I will commit my thoughts to poetry written by contemporary, living poets. 

I am excited about this undertaking.  The guys at The Base will envy me.

For one month if the whole nation will be celebrating verse,
to not engage in poetic activity every day of the month would be perverse.

May, June, and July all have their particular commemorative designations.  For instance, July is National Hotdog Month.  National Hotdog Month?  Well, I’ll have to sit that one out, unless the hot dogs can be the herbivore variety.

I’m falling asleep tonight with a variation on a Rumi line dancing through my head.
“Inside you there’s a poet you don’t know about.”

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

The Heliophysicist's Wife

Garth Blake forecasts sun storms.  He wears a protective space suit and floats around within the Earth's magnetosphere waving expensive NASA instruments with his strong arms.  The instruments he uses measure the flow of energy and matter from Sun to Earth.  While many may take for granted the 5 billion year old star that is 93 million miles away from the Earth, Garth Blake is certain that the symbiosis of Sun and Earth can shed light on contemporary human behavior.  Pun very much intended.

A coronal mass ejection, or CME, is the most violent explosion in our solar system.  Sun storms have been known to thrust 10 million tons of mass into space.  Sun storms have been responsible for city wide blackouts and for scrambling communication and GPS systems.  Garth often wonders -- if the Earth and Sun are inextricably linked energy systems, what do the frequency of solar storms tell us about collective human consciousness?  You don't suppose the Commander in Chief of United States of America is going to deploy its military to the sun to take care of those CMEs the way it did WMDs in Iraq back in '02?  You don't suppose suicide bombers are going to feel the slightest bit miffed about the Sun's oneupmanship?  Or perhaps those nations who harbor uranium enrichment enthusiasts will feel a threat to World Militarulinity.  Not to mention how CMEs can put the NRA and America's precious gun laws to shame.

Scientists have proven that when a group of monks meditate together, they influence the Earth weather storm systems in that region.  So, what would it take for the Earth to influence a sun storm system?

Between sun storms, Garth Blake hasn't much to do but figure out how to reach an itch he can't scratch.  Damned anusitis!  He uses the down time to come up with a plan to realize human potential and harness human energy to take on the cosmos.  He thinks up choreography for a collective Human Helix Dance.  Or he thinks up cosmic sounding chants for humans and animals to sing in loops so as to raise the frequency of their own personal magnetic fields.  Garth supposes that if humans become more aware of their personal geomagnetic influence on the universe, they could learn to make choices that are more harmonious with the sun's magnetic fields.  Solar storms are caused by magnetic fields opposing one another.  Humans often oppose one another.  Garth wonders if we may be better off putting on white shiny shoes and try to out-helix dance one another.

Meanwhile, back on Earth, Garth's wife Elsie -- who is a mystic and a 3QO certified Gong Master -- plays her sun gong in the middle of White Sands Missile Range in New Mexico in order to "raise the frequency of that part of the Earth."  Who says gongs are best played on sacred ground?  The only reason the U.S. military allowed Elsie Blake to play her gong there while they hold off on target practice is because Garth's brother runs the Missile Range.  And when Garth's away on a space mission, Bruce knows the policy.  Whatever Elsie wants, Elsie gets.

Elsie plays her sun gong in hopes that Garth will have plenty of down time, perhaps figure out some way to relieve his itch and scratch himself in that place where the sun don't shine.