Experience’s experience

Historically,

my experience is

a compelling of results

while I sleepwalk

through motivations

I cannot identify,

starving for a conduit

of fluid connections.

A flood of invisible juices

run through me

as eventuality yields

unexpected relief.

My paradoxes are

by perspectives’ hand.

My conclusion’s grip

is untenable.

My expression has

some undisclosed quirks

about it,

a zeal without residence

a passion without prescription

a spiritual viscosity for everything

as intimacy without evidence.

My interior short-term memory

of “Post-Its”,

now a gum-less falling cascade

while timing is the composition

of self-permission’s slate.

I capsize my emotional boat

by salivating a vibrational ocean

that I drown my fears in

as a timeless nectar.

I do not know the hand

that delivers

or the heart that serves

or the source

that nurtures as me.

My prison was always a float

in referral lullaby.

My self-analysis is

now’s wily mad compass

of directional angst,

pardoned by memory’s sweep

and subsequent gloss.

All my themes and motives

slap stick fall over

each other’s mirth

as my self-directive

that use to provide stomach acids

for the ink of my words

nowadays features an experience

of all my experiences

as now’s simple drool

and an interior lightness

to gratefully but inwardly smile

at the seamlessness

of everything . . .