My Preoccupied Mind

Every so often I hear this voice, it is filled with desolation, this voice it tempts me, lures me, it is the desire to fall, of which, I am terrified, so I must of course, defend myself, and I do.

My mind has been an over-stimulated mess since the holidays. There are many contributing factors, I started a new job and it has affected my daily routine a lot more than I supposed it would. I am just now starting to get all of my ducks back into their respective rows and consistency is becoming a reality again. My son, who will be turning four in a few weeks, swallows up any extra energy I may find from time to time to sit down and write. I, of course, mustn’t disregard his feelings or growth for my own; his routine is even more out of whack than mine, of that I am sure.

I am starting to realize that every year this decompression stage that follows the holidays has a detrimental effect on my self-organization process. I find myself moving from one means to the next without much of a groove. It is a vicious cycle and one that I intend to interrupt in the years beyond.

All excuses aside, allow me to explain why I haven’t felt the sense of direction I often need to know, insofar as to which way my attention is headed. It is in the explanation of knowledge that knowingly twists my tongue around the knots in my stomach until my hands have tied themselves together. The use of “hands” here is meant to be a metaphor for my creative prowess, or lack thereof. It is intellect that moonlights as a dagger—one that discerns and rifts its way into the enigma of my thoughts. It is knowledge that divvies man into two separate beings. One being for the better, the other being for the worse, either way is not at all in the essentialness of a bad thing.

It is my instinct that pushes me to the edge, and as scared as I am, I must make my way to it. I must peer over the edge and overcome my mishandled fear. It is the only way that I will ever find balance. If my writing is the way to this or not, I do not know, but I am not going to sit around with idleness waiting to find out.

If I could borrow a few moments from your day to allow me the chance to litter your mind with my mental waste, I would forever be indebted to you and will always be around to lend a helping hand with whatever cerebral chores you see fit..

So if you would like, feel free to join me on this penned and splendid adventure. It is with diligence that I must advance caution towards you, the reader, before going any further—the woods are thick in this lush and uncharted wilderness of words that separates the head from the heart. It is a journey that stretches a meager ten inches in distance, but it will take a lifetime or two to navigate. So if you wouldn’t mind, please allow me the time to get a “head” start?

Almost a year ago, I published a blog post that pertained to the “Mechanics Of Change.” I recycled a quote from the pre-Socratic Greek philosopher, Heraclitus, it was he who said, “and no man shall ever step in the same river twice.” In the sense of nostalgia these words alone were the inspiration for that post and while I would rather not dive into the schematics of the past, those words do ring with more truth and value to me today than they did a year ago, not only because I understand them more today, but because I have watched the same river change its course without heed or warning. I have seen its flow go from a patient trickle, to a raging flood in mere moments. More important than any of those, I have seen the serenity underneath its surface become agitated by an outlying disturbance, only to settle back in to the same serenity that was once so still.   It is the wisdom I have gained since that post, that I understand that I am the river. You are the river, we are the entire river and whomever we were yesterday, or last year, we have changed, whether it be with heaviness or lightness, it is in its simplest and most ambiguous form, change.

It is in the reconciliation of change that reveals the moral perversity in a society that breathes essentially on the nonexistence of return, for today everything is absolved in advance and therefore everything is cynically acceptable.

This is where my thoughts tend to go awry. I do not know what to make of the outlying or inlying change that surrounds my family and I these days. Whether you believe it or not, our democracy is being threatened by a malignant tumor that festers in greed and has an endless appetite for the comfort of the bourgeois and would rather feast on the destruction of liberty than make whatever it is great again.

I try and not allow the things I cannot control wrap their fingers around my being but I sometimes cannot help it, call it an empathetic flaw if you’d like, I call it absolute love for all that surrounds me. I spend more time worrying about the future of my child than I do myself these days and I know it is not healthy for the mind but it makes my heart thump with more purpose than ever before, so on we go.

It is when I start to think about the things that are heavy and those considered with lightness that I stumble upon a vacuum of thought. Could that which is heavy be deplorable and the lightness be glorious? Beneath the sunset of dissolution everything is illuminated by the aura of synergy.


The heaviest of burdens can crush us, we sink far below it, it pins us to the ground, and we fall. But in the sense of love and all that is poetic, the woman longs to be weighed down by man’s body. Therefore the heaviest of burdens is portrayed with an image of one of life’s most intense fulfillments. The heavier the burden the closer we come to the earth, the more real and full of truth everything becomes in the light of synchronicity.

On the other side of converse, in the absence of burden, a man becomes lighter than the air he breathes; he soars like a winged creature towards the heights of heaven. He takes leave of the earth and his movements as free as they are insignificant.

What then shall we choose? Shall we choose to be burdened by weight or to float through life with nothing of significance whatsoever?

For today I am burdened by the lack of love in the world and therefore choose to be weighted down by the purpose of what little inspiration my words may choose to inspire.

Love embraces a hint of an empirical tendency within it. Love after all is said and done, is like an empire, when the idea it was founded on deteriorates, it too, will fade away. Like all of us, love is also a river, one that we should all be satisfied to stand upon its banks and look with longing and hardness upon its waters, for it is soothing and can heal even the most tortured soul.  It is a shame that the simple things like love and water have become more and more scarce throughout my life.  Love, nor water is either a privilege or a right, it just is.

Love is, as it were, is the universal vital energy capable of converting the passion of evil into a creative force of goodness. Hmmm. Somehow I gather that this thirst for knowledge is love directed in a certain way, and the same should be said of philosophy, which means love of truth.

Love can only transform evil passions into creative ones if it is regarded as a value in itself and not as a means of salvation. Love in the sense of good works is useful for the salvation of the soul—it can give rise to a creative attitude of life and be a source of life-giving energy.   Love is not only a source of creativeness but is in itself creative. Hence love does not pass judgment but gives life, receives life, heightens the quality and the value of life’s contents.


I am approaching the edge, this is where the fear starts to set in, and of what it is I am frightened, I do not know. Sometimes I want to give up from fear of sounding batshit crazy, from fear of losing myself, from the apprehension of not being able to come back from the depths of my own mind—then my heart beats harder and the chill bumps that sprout upon my arms like seedlings on a Spring day—can only mean that something inside me begs to keep driving down this track in the direction I was meant to go.

Then I see it, the optical illusion that love has become in modern day society. This illusion has become its own entity, it breathes falsity, and with each exhalation it pollutes even our children’s minds. It is an illusory train that must be stopped and I aim to do just that, but first, I must engineer my thoughts into the equation of where they need to be.

I once believed love to be an optical illusion, this should allow me the needed experience to conduct a train of the same magnitude. I hop aboard and take over the responsibility of leading this train into the promise land.  I envision myself steering the train through these mountains of purpose carrying enough dynamite behind me to rewrite history with its own antiquity.   I rummage through these mountains annihilating my way through the masses of granite with the sole intention of the discovering new caverns of wisdom and maybe something in the schism of myself.

This train that I must conduct, I will call it knowledge, I must then divide this knowledge into a couple of different parts, those which are thought be in the nature of classic and romantic. It is in the term of comparison that classic knowledge is taught by reason, and should be considered as the engine. Romantic knowledge is little more abstract to the herd-minded eye, one must be aware that this knowledge taught by the mystic is not static but endless in its own creative nature and the purpose it serves, and one must be willing to embrace the change before one can fathom it.

Romantic comprehension isn’t any physical part of the train; it is the mechanics of the classic engine that keep the train moving somewhere towards change. Romantic knowledge is the vigor that pushes or sees the train along the track of life and then onward to the edge of experience. It’s when we begin to understand this that we no longer divide the train into parts since all this really does is impede the train’s momentum and creativity becomes stuck in a particular moment.

Knowledge in the sense of wholeness is not static and cannot be stopped and divided. The train of knowledge always has somewhere to go down life’s track. The train and its cars of classical thought do not go anywhere without the direction in which it is pointed by all that is romantic. It’s not that this train is lacking romantic qualities but most people just choose to ignore the fact that there are two ways to look at all things, including life, and those ways belong to two wholly different dimensions of existence. The quality of romantics is the hidden force behind the train that takes us all down the same track with the same final destination.

The romantic reality of your dream, that is the sharpest edge of experience—it is the momentum behind the train of knowledge and it keeps the whole train on the track. Classic reality is nothing more than the collective memories of where experience has taken us before.

It is upon this edge that there are no subjects, no objects; it’s only the dream and the spirit that guide us. If we have no way of evaluating or acknowledging the quality of life—then the train has no way of knowing where to go, which is fine sometimes. The voice of reason is not pure reason if you do not know where you are going it is considered reiterated confusion. The edge of experience is where all of the action is. This edge it contains all of the infinite possibilities of the future, as well as containing all the history of the past. The edge of experience is where the value of existence rests waiting to be rescued from the clutches of torpid thought and brought back to the presence in which we all belong.

As I come to the reality of myself, I am the only thing holding me back; I am the one that allows my daily demeanor to be interrupted by the things I cannot control. I am the goodness in me; I am the darkness in me. I can also control my balance with enough gumption to push the vertigo away from me, and into it’s own dizzy spin, but every now and again will allow vertigo the chance at manifesting itself. Call it a test of strength, if you will.  It is my choice to choose what I do. I will always rise from it’s fall and I know that it is by the grace of God that I am living and it is by the grace of God that I will die, but I cannot speak without skeptics about love and the grace of God. Unless I were discuss the fact that my heart is clapping with a thunderous beat as we speak, so maybe he hasn’t given up on me just yet. But if the gospel in which you preach confines its attention to love with commands and laws then you fail to grasp the meaning of parables and the call to freedom—for you have sought only what is revealed and not what is hidden. Freedom should not be repressed but enlightened with love. Look for what it is that is hidden within you and you will find yourself.

With that being said I must go, a child reckons my attention from his afternoon slumber.

I am not sure how far we made it on the journey, in the reality of time, about twenty minutes has passed and we haven’t even touched the surface.   Until the next time.

A time must come in the life of a man when he will take upon himself the burden of freedom, for he will come spiritually of age. It is in this freedom, that life may appear harder, more tragic, and full of responsibility, such is the austerity of freedom and the reverence it demands.

Good Night.


Happy Place

There is a place
that no one wants to go
for they fear
their true colors may show.
But it is between
a fib and a lie
that the soul
goes to cry.
Yet it’s there
by that place
where the spark
of truth
shall never die.
So let your fear
creep through the dark
while your light
it opens the gate
of what it is
you must create.
So as you
sit on the fence
between now and then
the ink from this pen
will dry written
again and again,
long after you decide
what you are to do
my old friend.
BeLove © 2018

Strings Of You

Beneath a booming thunder
awoke the buried beast
from his sleepless slumber
all of life and it’s misfortune
has been put to bed
by the dream he fed
with an appetite for wonder
from the fear of blunder
he shall plunder.
With a conscious stream
his heart will no longer bleed
from the wound
of life’s stampede.
In the shortness of life
we must all sing together
even through the most turbulent weather
and awake with the wisdom
that touches each and every day,
between here and there
and a little bit of everywhere
you can find the meaning
while love fills the air.
What was written in the beginning
when this started to breathe
bubbling up from the darkness underneath
with mysterious ease.
The greater good
will rise above
while waiting with loyalty
and the battle will rage within
fighting with the fidelity of hospitality.
The spirit carries on
to fight the wear and tear
of a shadow casted
in the doubt
of what we all fear
day in and day out.
Together we float this eternal river
where a word slips into forever.
From his soul
you start to shiver
from the peace and quiet
is where it will always quiver.
It’s the heart in him
and the strings in you
that begs the day
for a creation new
with what it is
that may always
speak with truth
into the light in you.
 BeLove © 2018

As It Always Was

I always stood still
though tall in a shadow
scattered with fear.
Then came a window
left wide open
only to walk
the tightrope in.
From the sands of time
through which I sift
it’s now the direction
of the sun I shift.
In the beat of a heart
it all shines through
The love, the light, it’s in all of you.
Somewhere between
the rock and the tree and love’s jubilee
I found you all
in the finesse of me.
Again came the call
from a distant squall
one I’ve heard
my entire life.
The one I know
for we must follow.
It’s harmony that sings
with the joy it brings
in the gospel we hear
to make the choice
from a voice so clear.
It is as it is,
as it always was.
It echoes through eternity
down the path that guides me.
The divinity inside thee
has now become reality.
BeLove © 2017

The Apple Of My I

From the apple
she took my core,
from the height
of heaven
she fell
upon the burden
of bliss
my being
was built
by the virtue
she was,
from nothing
I rose
through the shadows
of insanity
a light shines
on the pinnacle
of reason
which guides
the purpose of me
BeLove © 2017

The New Mastersounds



Wilderness Within

A shattered light seeps through the bathroom window

Burying the darkness deep below.

Awakened by a light within

Shining through the window of my soul

The winds are no longer damp and cold.


Is the mirror through which I see?

A reflection of what could be

Could there be some good left in me?

All one must do is believe.


The solitude of serenity speaks in silence

Without a single sentence.

If love is pillaged through a verbal vent

Redemption must be foraged in hope’s hint.

Instead of goodness being disguised as hell bent

We will watch as evil slips through the shattered light

Tainted with an exhausted blight.


There are words that cut through the darkness in my heart.

In their forsaken freedom we become aware of conscious art.

The subjective space between the objective depth of evil

Withers wicked in the light where ego is affixed as feeble.


A ship called Passion is pulling into port.

Abating the anchorage of a vindictive evil.

The captain of courage sits robed in chivalry

Anticipating the homecoming of his convinced Calvary.


He sits at sea with words disguised as a divine army

Shielded by the sanctity of a misplaced truth.

Swords of ink are being drawn

With the break of every dawn.

Love is the only weapon we need

To set the wicked free.


The time will come to sail to the sea of destiny

To fight for spiritual ascendency.

But first we must explore the Gulf of Goodness

Where a storm named Wicked looms threatening.

There is a purpose to the journey

Buried in the wilderness deep within me.

BeLove © 2017

“Saint Ex”


A note from the author:
There is a change on the horizon.  Barstool Buddha will be subject to only the poetic side of me.  While I feel that I have made strides by just staying true to my passion, Barstool Buddha isn’t the brand that I feel is true to the cerebral side of me.  That being said there is a new blog being built with a more cerebral foundation.  Ultimately it is more true to the path that I must allow my writing the access to.  It will be all about “The Wilderness Within”.  It will be a creative exploration into the spiritual wilderness that rests within my soul.  Barstool Buddha will thrive in the organic sense once its identity is set in stone.  Barstool Buddha, while genuine isn’t the purest part of me.  I’m not sure if there is anything pure about me, but through hell or high-water, we are going to get to the bottom of me.  The only way for me to do that is through you.
-Welcome To Me-