the ultimate return- the only way to truly love God is to be crazy, too!

    Okay, younguns-

    Of late, I took to telling some people I know pretty well that the only way to get to know me, other than living with me, is to read my novels at the free internet library, archive.org. Enter “Sloan Bashinsky” into the search space, and icon links for Kundalina, Alabama: A Strange Tale, Heavy Wait: A Strange Tale, and Return of the Strange will come up to be read on any internet device.

    However, that is not entirely true. 

    My poetry is another way.

    Erik Rittenberry, who publishes Poetic Outlaws, where truth, beauty and love often show up, posted this below today, and something got into me.

The Ultimate Return

In the early dark before dawn
I awake with a dreary feeling
of death dripping from my eyelids.
I sit up in bed and listen
to the echoes of oblivion
haunt my room. The emptiness
of 4am streetlights stream into
my dreams. The euphoric caress
of madness. A poignant
premonition of the
inevitable. All my yesterdays
converge into the nothingness
I am at this moment.

You poor sap, where
have the days gone?
What have you done?
Why does it ache so much
to be a finite creature
in an infinite
universe?

So much of our passing lives
are spent drifting along
on the surface
of our everyday consciousness
hiding behind the social
mask, too frightened
to take the necessary
plunge into the abyss of
ourselves.

The banality of the hours
becomes the banality
of life. I’m neither
happy nor sad
because it’s all too
senseless to be either.

Sauntering through this
bureaucratic age of
death and sterility
with a marred mind
and heedful eyes,
I bleed alone
with a half-smile on my aging face
wondering how long I can keep
the wolf of insignificance
at bay.

Gazing into the bathroom mirror
has become too much to bear.

The fierce thirst
I once had
for the
elixir of life
has waned.

I’ve grown weary of the fight against
the ways of the world, the moral
demands, the normalcy of the
façade, the binding ties
of obligations, the tribal feuds,
the pathetic protocols of
the unlived,
the unpoetic masses
with their unpleasant
pettiness, tired of the
endless pursuit
of illusions
in an effort to tongue kiss
the elusive lips of
immortality.

Our pursuits
our actions
our tedious haste
are nothing more than
anxious attempts
to escape the torments of
our finite presence. An escape
from the awareness of
the brevity of life.
We spend our days trying
to get somewhere
but there’s nowhere to get to.
We dilute the experience
of the moment with a false
sense of hope
and a laborious longing
for a resolution that
never comes.

In spite of all the “truth” and
“reason” in this vulgar world,
we know very little. Yet, it’s the
unknowable that holds
the treasure we seek —
the darkness, the seat
of the soul that we’re too
afraid to explore and coalesce
with the light of our
consciousness.

Perhaps it’s a romantic deception, but
I believe in that unattended darkness
within. There’s a mysterious
current guiding our lives.
I’ve felt its presence all my days —
an ethereal force,
an unrest,
a transcendent whisper —
that forbidden fruit
dangling from the primordial tree
of our inner garden.

I don’t know what to make of it.

The Upanishads tell us: The Self,
though hidden in all beings,
does not shine forth but can
be seen by those subtle seers,
through their sharp and
subtle intelligence.

The Greeks called it the daemon,
the genius, the guardian.
We all harbor it in the
obscure regions of
our inner life.

Yet, society and its godlike
institutions
try to snuff it out in our youth,
this hidden power within us,
and they never stop. They try to
school it out of us; they try
to preach and pray it out
of us. They throw the heavy
nets of “social duty” upon us.
They’ll even attempt to subdue
this vital force with
pharmaceuticals and therapy
to help guide you away from
its potent influence.

They need you to become like
the rest; mechanical, obedient,
chained to your social role.

But for some people, this force
is too strong to be tamed
or throttled back. It wants
to be heard and to throw off
the shackles of the life-denying
demands of the status quo. To flip
over the tables of conventionality.
To obey its own laws.

Our bodies are the mere instrument
of this deeper force.

Through it all, I kept that dark
guardian in there,
tucked back in the shadows,
revealing no signs to the
external world
of its eternal influence.
At times, when I’m alone,
it emerges from the immortal sea
of the unconscious and yanks me
from clutches of the profane
and into an erotic aloofness
where the illusions fade
and the boundaries disintegrate
and the desire for mortal gain
dissolves.

Though I do not know how I got here,
or what it all means, I know that the
same hidden force which has
carried me to this moment
will also guide me to that
imperishable hour we
call fate.

And I will doff the gross garments
of a false existence and
ascend that sanctified mountain,
emancipated at last from the
lifeless stone of reality,
reborn into the eternal realm
of celestial vistas and enchanted
gardens, a place beyond the
illusions of opposites, where the
struggle between life and death,
dark and light, heaven and hell
finally subsides,
and a radical unification
of mind, body, and soul
ensues, and I will dance
that Dionysian dance
on the other side of the veil
where flower-haired nymphs’ bathe
in misty morning ponds,
and the water lilies
are forever in bloom,
and the lush, streamside meadows
rejoice beneath
the infinite blue skies
as the cosmic wind
scatters
what little remains
of my war-torn
flesh.

The ultimate return. 

Sloan Bashinsky liked by Poetic Outlaws 

Back from your road trip to where you met the Jedi?
In a world where a depraved presidential candidate
sells red, white and blue bibles
to suckers born every minute 
to line his own pockets,
and his Roman Catholic  opponent 
keeps giving money and munitions
to one side of a religious freak war,
I sometimes wish I had renewed my passport,
but since I didn’t, 
and even if I had,
Americans ain’t all that welcome 
to live indefinitely elsewhere 
like they once wuz,
at least not in Canada,
and since I have plenty of 
demons running amok nearby
and within,
I’m left with,
resolved,
or not,
to take yet another look 
in the mirror on the wall,
old and ornery,
wondering why the fuck 
I’m still here?
But since I am...

    The poems below plot a journey I never heard or read of except in my own personal experiences, in spirit and on this world. Today, the two are inseparable: I live in both realms at the same time, awake and asleep. I sometimes describe myself as a donkey lured by a carrot and driven by a stick, headed to where he knows not. He has no choice but to head to wherever it is, because the consequences of revolt have proven over and over to be most unpleasant. You don’t want to know just how unpleasant it sometimes was following a revolt. 

 

"Living Poets" 
Dead poets are poets who never write
Who obey shoulds and oughts
Who live to please others
Who value money over God
Who die without ever having lived
Death is their mark 
 
Dead poets are remembered by the living.
Living poets are remembered by time
Dead poets never sing their song
Living poets never stop singing it 
 
The difference between the two is this:
One worships fear, the other life 

To be a dead poet is hard
It requires being someone else
To be a living poet is easy
It only means being myself  
 
One choice is hell, the other heaven
That is what is meant by free will  
 (1991)
 
"The Mockingbird" 
I happened upon a mockingbird
singing its fool head off –
I asked it how and why it sang?
But all it did was look ahead,
all it did was sing.
It never turned to see if I was watching,
or listened for money jingling in my pockets,
or asked if I liked its music,
or expected a recording contract –
It was too busy singing
to pay any attention to me.
Thus did I learn
the greatest sin of all
is to kill a mockingbird. 
(1992)
 
“Black Diamond, Yellow Rose” 
Black Diamond, Yellow Rose,
Odd couple until inside I see,
Black Diamond protects Yellow Rose,
Yellow Rose loves Black Diamond,
Will and Heart,
Heart and Will,
Black Diamond, Yellow Rose
(1993) 
 
“Rainbow Fusion” 
Black is white,
White is black,
When they fuse,
Rainbows bloom.
(1993) 
 
“Rainbows”
Rainbows know no master.
Fueled by Father Sun
They touch Misty Earth
Only Heaven knows where.
Rainbows are more shiny than silver
and more brilliant than gold,
More valuable than diamonds
and more precious than pearls.
Rainbows paint heavens beautiful,
Make angels sing.
Rainbows are you, and me,
Full spectrums of Infinity
blazing across Eternity.
Rainbows are now.
(1993)  

 

“God’s Gifts” 
God’s gifts are not for sale, but are given freely to angels, saints, sinners, devils and fools alike, because all are God’s children.
(1993) 
 
“Crooked Hose” 
He is but a crooked hose through which living water flows, first to straighten him out, then to water a few other birds of the air and some lilies of the field.”
(1994)  

 

“The Poet”
He is the paper, the ink his blood, the pen his soul, and the poet is God.”
(1994) 
 
“Rules” 
Who invented the rule that poetry must rhyme, have pentameter, be cast into verse? Yes, who invented that really silly rule? Surely it wasn’t the maker of the first stone — otherwise there’d be no stones to break all those slaving rules!  
(1994) 
 
“The Pearl” 

He feels deep beauty in the dark pool from which his writings flow. She clings to him like fine silk, precious oil. She feels solid, compressed, like . . . a black pearl, growing from inside out, ever larger with each stroke of his pen, pushing her precious waters over her banks into his dreams and life. 

(1994)
 
“Rosa Mystica” 
Rosa Mystica,
Sweet Mystery,
Bride of Christ,
Living Water
without which
God is dead
and there are no rainbows.
(1994) 
 
“Sacred Prism” 
Earth,
The sacred prism
through which souls are refracted
into their elemental parts,
Purified in Holy Fire,
The one-forged
and sent on their way
to not even God knows where,
Simply because they are all
Unique Emanations of God,

Evolving . . . 
(1994)   

 

“Tree of Life” 
The Tree of Life grows not
on the battleground of good and evil,
But in a quiet meadow
beneath a beautiful rainbow
that knows not right or wrong.
(1994) 
 
“Mission Nearly Impossible” 
Only fools rush in
where angels fear to tread,
But if there were no fools,
Who’d lead the angels?
(1994) 
 
“Initiation” 
Shaman you now are.
Angels walk beside you
and call you their brother,
Even as you curse the heavens
for making you one who wields the lightning.
Be kind to your brothers and sisters,
But take no prisoners –
Kill them all in my name,
As I have killed you,
So you and they might live.
(1995) 
 
“Love and Truth” 
Love without truth is weak,
Truth without love is harsh,
Two side of the same coin,
They live together,
Or die.
(1995) 
 
“Paradise”
All fig leaves burn
All ugly seen
All pain loved
All truth beauty
All people one
All time now
(2000) 
 
“The World's Greatest Failure” 
I know what it is 
to love fully,
have my heart broken by death
and by loved ones’ rejections,
Over and over again,
So I can love even more. 
 
I know what it is 
to be engulfed in pain,
Awash in evil,
Terrified, enraged, despaired,
Believing God has again forsaken me,
Then be given the truth
that again makes me free 
 
I know what it is 
to doubt,
Be lost and wandering
time and time again,
Then be rescued yet again
and my faith grows deeper. 
 
I know what it is 
to blindly trust,
Then be destroyed by betrayed
time and time again,
Until I trust only God. 
 
I know what it is
to have much
and be completely of this world,
Then have it all taken away
and be in the world but not of it. 
 
I know what it is 
to fail in this world,
And fail and fail and fail:
The world’s greatest failure,
I can serve only God. 
 
I know what it is 
to give and give and give and give;
I cannot stop giving
because giving is receiving. 
 
I know what it is 
to explain God
time after time after time again. 
Something demands I keep explaining:
Maybe someone will listen, 
Maybe me. 

 

“I AM A MAN” 
I am a man. 
 
I said,
I am a man! 
 
What means it, 
being a man?   
 
A man is a warrior:
he lives by a code of honor,
his word is reliable,
his actions confirm his words,
his commitment is holiness,
his enemies are welcome at his hearth,
he fears but moves forward,
he cries and gets up again,
he hates but forgives,
he loves and let’s go,
he doubts but trusts God,
he’s a good friend,
he seeks resolutions,
he demands nothing,
he risks everything,
he regrets his mistakes,
he seeks to make amends,
he puts others’ welfare first,
he accepts apologies truly made,
he expects nothing back,
he lives ready to die,
he laughs when he “should” scream,
he screams when he “should” laugh,
he sings just because,
he shrugs off insults,
he learns from misfortune,
he cusses God for making him,
he wishes he was done,
he loves children and animals,
he relishes a woman’s scent,
he smiles when he’s content,
he knows God’s his master,
he walks in rainbows,
his garden is the world,
his way is nature,
he loves fishing,
his wife is his soul,
his food is life,
his pay is whatever he receives.
Yep, he’s crazy.
(2003) 
 
“SHANGHAIED” 
A calling to serve carries its own wisdom,
which legitimates both the calling and the serving
so that the two are one:
Only the one called to serve
can know this wisdom,
and for some who are called
the knowing comes easily,
while for others the knowing is a fiery baptism.
Each calling is different,
and while some callings can be declined,
others cannot,
and those whose calling is without repentance
know they are in it for the duration of the calling,
and while others may try to persuade them out of it,
the calling for ones such as these always prevails;
thus is it advised to all called for keeps
that they view their calling as a blessing
even when it seems at times to be a curse,
and that they try to reconcile the loss of their captain status
and allow the Spirit of God to man the helm of their ship
and be glad and willing crew members thereon,
knowing that all sailing ships of souls
need a crew as well as a captain
to maintain and navigate the ship through
seas of many tones, depths and flavors;
so consider each league sailed
as part of the overall journey
going to where the captain deigns to go
by using whatever winds and sea currents available
to navigate the ship to the experiences
this ship and crew need to have
in order to fulfill their calling and its wisdom
revealed by the journey of many leagues,
many known only to the ship and its crew,
all of whom come to know,
some sooner than others,
that once conscripted
there is no safe jumping ship.

(2004) 

 

"Bi Polar" 
the world's favorite
mood disorder
the cause of all
human ails,
including wars,
if the demons aren't counted 
 
bi polar disorder,
the destruction of the
south pole,
the feminine,
the north pole,
he ain't been
right in the head
since she's been gone
(2017)  

 

"Eve's Answer"  

April Fool  

 

Vexing Truth 

 

Life is Poetry,
Poetry is Life,
There's no more to say,
but that would 
make God
a really dull boy,
now wouldn't it, 

Eve? 

 

So, Eve,
What say you?
After all,
You have been,
still are, blamed,
for everything that went wrong  

with hu - MAN - i - ty. 

 

Well, do you really want to hear
what I gotta say?
Is this one of those
be careful what you ask for pregnancies?  

 

Well, is it? 

 

Probably, but say
what you wish -
I s'pect you need 

to be heard. 

 

Heard?
Funny you mention ears.
Yes, ears.
Such important receptacles.
Yet filled with concrete, 
shit, propaganda, beliefs,
certainties, well,
let's not leave out
SUPERSTITION
and
RELIGION, 

should we? 

 

By the way,
where do ya
suppose
God came from? 

Or, out of? 

 

And, 
why do ya s'pose
I made Eve
in my own IMAGE? 

 

'Cause Adam was
so bored and dull -
so ... predictable
He was BORING!!!
the shit outta me!!!
That's why. 

 

Now  

Shusssssh -

Don't go round quoting me on
any of that -
I've had quite enough of
the religious right
ta last me 
the rest of forever
(2018)  

 

    I sensed from the beginning that the verses coming through me were something I would live, and that often scared the hell out of me. The same sinking sensation arose with wacky novels that fell out of me, which actually were poems, but I called them novels because they were mostly prose. Jolting experiences, snap endings, surprise, suspense and cosmic jokes seem very important to God, perhaps to keep God awake and interested; and perhaps to keep me a bit loose, so I’m easier to work with and change, which I’m not when I’m all comfy and sure of myself. Then, it sometimes takes a sledgehammer to get my attention. Or dynamite. Or an earthquake. You get the drift. When awake, I see whatever happens to me as a poem or part of one. From that I can only conclude God is a poet, and from the way my life goes, I can only further conclude God is crazy and the only way for me to truly love God is to be crazy, too.