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"The primary criterion of integral art is the consciousness of the artist producing it. That is, integral artwork is an artwork produced by integral consciousness. How well the artwork succeeds or not in other categories-technical execution, coherency, clarity, range, style, and so on-are items to be considered in their own right. But whether an artwork is integral is primarily determined by the consciousness that produced it. Not everything that integral consciousness produces is integral art, but all integral art is produced by an integral consciousness."

Ken Wilber, Ken's Foreword to Eyes of the Soul by Philip Rubinov-Jacobson

The Ghetto Quartet
by Mark Binet
marcus_aureliano99@yahoo.com 

lepidoptera for butterfly

you are a god, what would God do? give away His power? that’s yours. would God let
someone use His power against you, a god? it’s yours.

a lepidoptera is lilting, in the field, where is it?

i break my hands everyday. on their palms, i write a stigmata: “N” for the left, “L” for the
right. “Neediness is a Lie”. with that, the meditation lasts all day.

The crucifixion lasts all day. but I am a god, what do I do? the crucifix is mine:
cruxidoptera. in the field, cruxidoptera, i know where it is.

do I do? i do, i do.

Last night, I wore a floral-cuffed, striped-exquisite shirt, to tango. i dropped beads of
sweat on my partners—cruxidoptera promiscuous. it was my birthday, ah. now i want a
wing, even two, a third: a nail a butterfly, a cross a cocoon.

In the field, where are you?

sewer everywhere

“I can’t be alone, I want someone to see me.” he cried.

Impossible, said God.

so he vanished, no communiqué—he leaked—he leaked—he leaked—
everythineverythitouchingouching, until he woke, vanishing delight.

“Show me the Way, God.” he prayed, smiling, “Into the Drain.”

Big-Bang the WigMonster, HeartMaster

Do not be bald. At least wear a wig… you monster.

at least wig out, at the very least.

Hey there, do you want to re-incarnate forever, all you psychonauts, or Big-Bang—now?
Um, um, um, how much do you love yourself? how goddamned much? Love, dear Sir,
dear Madam, love as the monster that you are, love. you are a wig.

yeah, perform that miracle, loves—love.

Or, if you put on enough of a show—look how wonderful I am!—you won’t have to love
anyone, and everyone will love you instead. (you fucking monster, with no heart, none at
all.) Listen, all of you: inclinations of mist, brothers, sisters, inclinations, mist: when I am
Emptiness as Form, Form as Emptiness, I am the student, touching everything: when I am
Form as Emptiness, Emptiness as Form, I am the teacher, everything touching: and both
of us, student\teacher, are wiggin’ out: peacefully: eternally: the Big-Bang: loving peace
as a Wig-Monster I am. ah, family, family, family, listen, inclinations of mist,
inclinations, mist: when I am Heart as Monster, Monster as Heart, I am the Lover, loving
myself enough: when I am Monster as Heart, Heart as Monster, I am the Beloved, being
loved enough. Lover\Beloved: wiggin’ out: peacefully: eternally: Big Bang: Happy
Birthday, Wig-Monster.

I am a Monster, dear Beloved. Never forget that. I am a Wig: I have molested you a
million times, a million years, a million souls: but think of the Vows you made, made
when your Heart was OPEN. And now when it’s closed, where are your Vows now, you
fucking Monster?

in the morning, you’re heart-bliss, oh so easy, oh so deliciously god-damned easy, what a
beautiful gift, and I mean it, truly—but then… you’re steel-closure in the afternoon, steel,
fucking steel.

YOU are a Monster, dear Lover. A Molestero!, A Molestera! Never forget that. Wear
your Wig with Pride. and so wear your fucking wig with pride: And then, And only then,
And only, only then… Vow Now. CHOOSE LOVE… I Love You.

We Vow Now—BIG-BANG—and Offend, and Offend, and Offend all Beings into
Love, all of them. Happy Fucking Birthday: hurt me, hurt me, hurt me, offend me, molest
me, I dare you. I dare you to LOVE me so. to CHOOSE me so.

yeah, let’s Vow, let’s Vow to wig-out forever, let’s Vow all Big-Bangs—always, let’s
Vow ourselves, offensively, molest ourselves, lovingly, monsterheartmasters, choosing
ourselves, completely, a million molesting angels above us, as many monsters beyond
us—all within us—as us— happy birthday, thank God… happy birthday, dear God, I
Love You.

i popped out the other side, into a system of feeling. so please, my Lord God, help me
burn in hell, lightly. lightly.

(i tipped $30.00, my beloved an extra $10.00… lightly, my Lord God, lightly.) sunny
afternoon, blistering, 20,000 suns, wearing my “We All Have AIDS” t-shirt, a warrior
headache, looking panache, looking… looking… taking in monologue after monologue
after monologue… looking, what a cute waitress.

What is this life for?

(The waitress left a couple of pens on the table. what kind were they? I can’t remember.)

What is this life for? Well, isn’t it obvious. you, over there, hands folded as your white
oxford, tie explosive, briefcase… isn’t it obvious.

At times, I hold my pen the way you do. at times I do not. when I do not hold my pen the
way you do, it’s because life is obvious to me, and not to you. when we hold our pen the
same, life’s obvious to us both. here, have this pen. when you hold it the way you do, and
I do not follow, it could be because I’m arrogant and life is obvious to me, or it could be
that I’m arrogant and that I’m lost, while you know the way, how obvious life is.

(The waitress left a couple of pens on the table. what kind were they? I can’t remember.)

(i tipped $30.00, my beloved an extra $10.00… lightly, my Lord God, lightly.)

(afternoon, blistering, suns 20,000, Warriors of AIDS, monological headaches, cute
waitress looking, looking, looking, t-shirt dying in its own panache.)

But we can be lost. there is a Way that can be known. and it’s not your favorite
fundamentalism that saves you. the only fundamentalism in that regard is Death—
constant, implacable Release. moment to moment, my Lord God left behind, until He is
my hands, holding my pen.

It’s obvious. you are lost because you are not Nude. arrogance can be clothed, arrogance
can be naked, so neither are the point.

But the total point, parodoxically—of it All—is Nudity. arrogant or not. Nudity, clothed
or not. And nudity is… Blowing up God. would anyone like to take off their shirt and be
with me? please, someone, drop the program for a second. it’s a matter of saving yourself
and the world for a nanomoment, just by taking off your shirt, just as a matter of fun. the
program is a beautiful, 9 to 5 oxford shirt, I know, we all know that, but your Primordial
Flesh is better, until you exhaust it too. if you cannot take off your shirt, than you must. if
you can take off your shirt, I don’t care.

(i tipped $30.00, my beloved an extra $10.00… lightly, My Lord God, lightly.)

(The waitress left a couple of pens on the table. what kind were they? I can’t remember.)

(blistering panache, 20,000 headaches, Suns Monologistic, No One has AIDS, no—
because we’re all sunny-looking, Warrior-Waitresses).

Exhaust yourself, Exhaust yourselves, until—fuck me—fuck you—fuck us—fuck all of
us—is the infinite Heart you speak, until you realize Fear’s Eternal Nature and blow up
God, and a SYSTEM OF FEELING is the infinite Heart you speak, until you Pop Out the
Other Side, burning in hell lightly, and the infinite Heart you speak is the little pen in
your hand, and her two pens on the table, just as a matter of fun… lightly, my Lord God,
lightly.

As heavily, my Lord God, as you want—nude me—just as a matter of light. oh right, I
remember now, those pens, right! they’re mine. yours.... ours. besides, who uses pens
nowadays anyways, it’s the digital age.