Face is but a Mask- Elder of Elders, And The Only Song Of Unending:

Behold! This body is a mask to adore, or to scorn oft, to weep for, abandon, cherish, and belove!

In this face
is each smooth stone
of the endless rivers-

-my skin is milked of the bone of Earth,
-my mind is electric etheric Terra
Thoughts like liquid glass assembled,

-my hair like sol- the ambers fields of grain, the cloudless furrows at dusk,
-my sight the effortless dawning vistas of the Moon,

But this mask of Earth,
this Face of Man-
That shell of stone-

This heart of deep mountains and dark and diving oceans- or vicious effervescent skies at the raptured Wings of bright mornings!

The forests are
my wisest company-
and a Trillion birdsongs,
earthquakes, and thunder-claps, are my beating heart!

So too
that veil greets

the unkempt
star-fields,

And all ambient being
before
Pleadiean
Palace’s

The Seven Sisters
have kissed
this brow-

I Stand between Cancer, Virgo and Embody the Eastern Lamb of Night-

I have Tamed the Lion- for I have grasped Denebola proudly!

“Al Ras al Asad al Shamaliyy,”
“The Lion’s Head Toward
The South” is My own also-

The Sickle is my mouth,
My tail, and my breath-
Mansion of the moon- my sweet bright chalice-

Colomba is
The Dove fairest of my maiden flock-

A little Prince- my Sky is my Crown!
Rex is my Latin solace, a name I cannot say aloud-
UR.GU.LA “the great lion”,

Regulus of Ages, sweetest Star of my heavens anon
is my royal Diadem,

Zosma- where my hip was flayed by the
Blessings of the morn,

and The Shining forth
is my malice in that ladder of night-

Feared by the Arabs, the Turks, The Red Dragon of old-

Revered by Babylon, Egypt, and Greece-

Azure mixing planes-
This brow has sopped the clusters of Centauri, Leethes shadowed keep, and these ears have rung out songs from-

-The Nexus
of the Bringers
of light, night, and War.

I have etched
in echoes
the

Umbilic discord
of the harbors of five
million million million
Ascended
ethereal Masters,
Like
lithe
entropic-

-Bedouins of
the far reaching
Sky,

I have climbed to the utmost pinnacle of the upper chambers- I have declared the dance and song of the Unseen Ones- The Fiery Ones- The Nether-cast

I have broken all seven seals
Assembled each Elder-
and the Book has flown through me.

The Unchanging Orders of the Cosmos have spoken from this my Mask-

I alone have been their witness-

Behind my mask lays a hundred million million eyes- of an uncountable sea of Souls.

For I have asked
The First
At Last.

I am but man, but made of Starlight, dust, and Thought-

I am the vessel happily
emptied of ego
for this reward.

You here are only
That which you see
In your own image-

Vapid unions of your Masks
might reveal
That behind
yours-

There is but a face:
In shame, in joy, or in wait-

Or worse
Only
the covering
Of that
porcelain-

-Shell.

20140627-032540 pm-55540634.jpg

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About Epoch Awareness. Writer, J.D. Hughes

I write. Do you read? I write. I write words: Carefully and consistently, and chaotically, from the deep pulsar unison of the still mind (or the violent undoing of the still mind); Sometimes I resemble Robert Zimmerman (my hair uncut, my mind uncut, all unregulated thoughts, wind haphazard along a pale american brow too). Sometimes, Sometimes words are fragments of paragraphs and you find them eschew in and from time, and with care, in the long ribbon fabric or one single unsealed cosmic spiral, and then they burn wild like black-holes ( birthing voids built the milky way); Still there are words so heavy and pure that they anchor fast the mind to the mere memory of their syllables in the quiet echoes, in and around, the deep violet sea of the questioning readers inner-mind. I write sentences: In strands, like silk, or links in chains, or diamond arranged compressed carbon coal electrons, or the frequency of more intimately woven atoms; In intricate quilts of reason, and warmly glowing sheets of cotton fiction that cover you at 4 am on a Sunday (with the sun bright and a bastard, soon to be hitting your face from the slats in the window shades); I write paragraphs, and as such I consider it a duty of the considerate and conflicted human to consider their conflicts human, and consider: In airports, in churches, in penthouses in Hollywood (who overlook the homeless mountains and the slanting fogs of debilitated industries, and the vacuum seduction, and lifeless Angel City in the Wests bleached blonde sand, and lids of imagery cover sad vacant eyes), in station wagons, in deep wood temples in Maine, near the Androscoginn River, where the Native Americans caught silver fish and eternity lived off communal tides to the distant ocean, which is now more black than the sky from our waste, now wrought with the studied three-headed-demon-fish, (but still a holy place Maine, it glows); In any meaningful medium, known or noun, imaginable is mans only true duty. It is mans only Deity (For what was with God, what was God? The Word was, In The Beginning). To chase the promise that reality and truth are not yet only relative devices, and leaving these scriptures: On brains, and on paper, and on papyrus, and old plaster, and on the backs of old Polaroids (once someone did at least), the thin skin on wet hands who ru
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