Experience is itself pain filled
in its truncation towards words.
Language stands facing me,
expecting understanding
to be my first forthright gesture.
I supposed experience
as a series of stills,
is brought to life
by being handed to me, aware.
Now how does my genius
for living apply?
The stream of being
has been interrupted
by boundary-ness.
Even the concept of boundary
offers a false respect.
Order is as first a reprisal.
Experience, as we know of it,
is extenuating,
a living adjunct-ness,
a wardrobe for weathering time,
excerpts of put-upons,
as life’s journey.
There is the pain of awareness
as touch meets up with objectification.
The techniques of sensibility
are as the laundering of life.
What has mind justified?
What with the sweep of retention,
there is a permanent callous
of subjectivity,
as anvil as known!
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