to make a body.
I have taken up space
in being and doing.
I have taken up time
by honoring it.
I have worked
the thought bank in passing.
I swam daily
in the emotional sea.
My dance card of dreams
is sufficiently worn.
I have made
longstanding efforts
at communication and belief.
As much as I have worked at it,
I still don’t relate to any being,
being alone.
I don’t see the deep benefits
of understanding’s ruse.
And this thing with experience
is so much
a rear view mirror enterprise.
No,
this is not a suicide announcement
in the making.
This is an acknowledgment
that life is slow “satiscide”,
(slowly being convenienced to death),
that experience is a downgrade
within the passing of time,
that understanding has succumbed
to a standard of impotent postures
and positional stands,
that in passing,
we are not just a recognition
of a kind of graffiti to each other,
that being self-conscious
is not just essentially the same act
as keeping time,
that intention should be
an action of trust
and not an act of will,
that working with language
and symbols,
however elevated,
fails as short-lived,
that love as a concept
would have never needed
to be invented,
that dreams are
only a measure of persistence,
that movement and rhythm
are origins of innocence,
that gazing into other’s eyes
initiates oneness as commentary,
that breathing offers reigns
towards conscious evolution.
I have a perception
that is not comparative
by its nature
but a longing,
based more deeply
on a yearning,
obsessing as a double dare
but much like a calling.
I say these things out as words
but there is no release.
We are always
the actions of the whole,
talking amongst ourselves
as if no one of us were there . . .
We are one of the casts
of the cosmos,
looking for transition,
for what makes it so,
from reel to real . . .
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