Thursday, August 28, 2014

Learning The Conversations Of Darkness

Andrew Tipton

Spitting Magic

The sun has just hidden itself behind layers of thick, swelling clouds..  there is a noticeable yellow blur as the sky dims and becomes an opaque, rusty version of its afternoon brightness.   It is high-tide, and the waves are biting at the shoreline.  
My body is wet and panting..    I have the feeling of supreme essentialness and near clairvoyance.   I am sprawled out in a chair, gazing into a pristine, blue-tiled swimming pool - feeling refreshed from swimming laps.
 But not here...  in the ocean.  
And not really laps... but more like fierce strokes of aggression in one direction until I am exhausted by the swell of the waves.  
And then repeating.  
Back and forth..  overtly directionless, pawing the turquoise and kicking up sparks of aquatic smoothness.   
I have so much energy here its ridiculous.   Brimming on every level with enthusiasm and subdued machismo... flowing into a state of obscene clarity.   I am fortunate to have the jungle in every direction so that my possibilities are continually narrowed.

I am sitting cross-legged, post-ocean-swim, holding a tattered copy of Carlos Castenada's "Tales of Power".   This moment is perfect and supremely ironic.
I am in a conversation with a priestess...  a female sorcerer.   She is in all ways effortlessly feminine and articulately cool..  like a stone sculpture, carved by philosopher hands.
   I expect her to be in her 40's - she is tall, her long hair tossed around her shoulders, her bare skin still magnificently vibrant.   I can feel intensity stirring inside of her.  I can feel it literally coming out of her stormy eyes and passing between her nostrils as she exhales.  

We are spitting magic..
 the two of us side by side, conjuring the splendor of each other's minds.. discussing the fundamentals of sorcery, and the birthplace of rituals. 
  Both within ourselves,
 and elsewhere...  

Andrew Tipton      

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Sinews of Godness

The clouds were a frame for the sun
this morning.  5:09am,
 I was there with a cup of green tea
 steaming.   In my hands
 I am holding the "everything" that this day offers,
the escape, the remaining, the clarity, the cleverness, the naivety
and to remember that, means remembering that I am god,
what a decent and delicious thing to remember; 
I am working on becoming a person(al),  
The words are a cradle
 for enchantment,
the placenta of our contemplation, 
but afterwards they grow up
into sinews; the arch and shudder of muscles - lifting, with their strength - our minds and lungs.
We do more than simply speak eloquently
when we wake up,
we are those threads / we are the talk.
I am watching/feeling/allowing the sunrise to lick me all over;
it is kissing my face and lifting my chin, gently
asking for my holy recollection.
I am god.   I am the muchness
I am the birthplace of goodness
as well as alchemy.   And when I believe that,
I can't help but become it
and bleed it
and wash my face with it. 
Thank you for this. 
give it away
give it away
give it away
give it away
give it away
give it away

Andrew Tipton

Thursday, August 7, 2014

Omens of The Coasts of Osa

Andrew Tipton

The Deliciousness of Loving Stars

The sparkle above,
the sparkle within
realizations that your absence when blueness
is an illusion;  ever-there, you are, delicious star.
they say Jesus is tossing salad
with the beat poets of Ashville,
and the djembe bass nectar
keeps carving supernovas
out of the sky
's muchness.   
Osa, Osa, burning bright,
these stars they shine
with all their might,
through the clouds they
tastily fight
a visual meal never felt
 so right.
Spiral of the skies,
spiral of my eyes,
I'm savoring the memory, gazing
into infinity
ever-expanding community of consciousness
your precious particles I shall partake.
my spirit bends,
digesting the difference between
point-like twinkle & the truth of you
r magnitude.
Estrella,  I mean the moon
shakes/makes strawberries out of my explanations
(and) deliciousness walks me to the alter,
lets me worship
the heavenly-ness of my own humanity. 
Shine on.
and the dead papaya is sticking out of the trash can
behind the laundry room.
your shoulders and
lift your chin,
they illuminate thy beauty within
I snag a taste and then
I'm full
from my heart, my gaze they pull.

"The Blue Osa Poets Society"
Andrew Tipton
Lindsay Meagan
Taylor Jean