experience walks up
(read bold italics
as under the breath monotone
quickly murmured)
Experience walks up,
stands next to me,
(it’s engine running).
Stands uncomfortably too close,
(breathing hard)
unavoidably close,
(waiting to catch my eye)
always annoyingly too close,
(as if I had no personal boundaries)
and asks me for some identification.
(blatantly so)
It's like invisibly stalking me,
I say to myself.
(constantly stalking me)
But I have no evidence.
No one has ever mentioned to me
about anything like this
happening to them.
Since it is all appears in my head
(at least I think it is all in my head)
Well, no, I don't have any proof
(and I haven't heard any from you either)
like for a court of law or for a psychiatrist
and yet I feel obliged.
Most of the time,
I am comfortably oblige.
I guess I didn't know
that I couldn't feel that way.
It really didn't occur to me,
(you should be somewhat embarrassed)
that I didn't have to,
that I did not have to,
you know,
be there for experience.
It was as simple as breathing,
but it just kept happening around me
no matter what.
I seemed to sign on without knowing.
(lookie here, listen up, feel this,
experience this)
Like my mind has a writing cramp
from doing this!
Look, my behavioral signature
is now something of a slur.
But really it is the same script
of familiar habits
that have always been habitually mine
but apparently, dumbly so.
I somehow believe
that this experience-stuff provides for me.
(don't no where that comes from)
It is something like
we’re spectating fans
with some sort of self-consciousness
as the bleacher seats.
And although I feel uncomfortable
with this kind of arrangement
like it's not really me,
(it is not really you)
almost always I feel uneasy.
And this uneasiness
is as a kind of constant
like a stream of consciousness
sort in the background,
(but not)
that puts me under a spot light.
(like a hot seat of sorts)
a kind of narrowed focus
with an overload
of attention and immediacy.
I feel hot and constrained
and very much on the surface.
(you’re on stage in a play, go)
Like I am an animated symbol,
(a talking billboard)
one of those pull-string toys
that says recorded voice remarks,
(yup, loaded with clichés
and logical remarks)
like anecdotes
and memory retention replies.
At times, I feel like we are all equipped
with these pull and say responses
disguised as our own voices
and our only real joy
is alternately pulling these strings
in some kind
of rhythmically tonal
conversational fashion
and the language coming out
is with these sayings,
and this voice that comes out,
for my part,
I constantly recognize as me!
(no one else is claiming it)
or I inadvertently identify with it,
(yea, a kind of familiarity by default)
because of the sound inside me I hear
or what I hear that it says.
That is so alluringly familiar,
at least in tone
(well, no one else is around)
that I have made up a version of me
based solely on what I say.
And when I check
what I have recently said
against what I have historically said,
it seems very plausible
that that was I, saying it.
(run that by me again?)
That something instantaneously
and interiorly happens,
that provokes these responses
and that all of this passes through me.
And seductively it preoccupies me
with the amount of time
that it is seemingly ongoing.
And it tags me
with some sort of accountability.
(yup, you're it)
And that tagging requires memory,
lots and lots of dedicated memory.
I do not know if this kind of thing
is happening to you,
(admit nothing)
but it seems amazing
that this is happening at all!
Most of the time,
I find myself in the clutter of it,
cluttered with these inputs.
It is as if these inputs had eyes,
staring at me.
The weight of many eyes, all at once,
(you know that feeling)
as a sign of urgency.
I have a quicken pulse.
I sense their weight on my being.
(obligation moves in)
I feel I am required and now inclined
towards doing as my response.
They seem to only care for doing.
(how about accountable actions?)
Everything is a doing in this method,
doing, doing, doing.
Its as if doing is
a form of personal politics
a kind of gestural rhetoric as response.
But doing rarely speaks!
(yea, what’s this? talk, talk, talk, talk)
Well, what I mean to say
is that doing rarely speaks for my being.
Doing may hardly function as my being!
It’s like a pretend of life to be doing.
(and your point is . . . ?)
Yet doing, for the most part,
is in a context of response
to this outside of beckoning.
It feels like I am
in this language of silence
and in the dialogue of coexisting
as being amongst beings,
yet there is this incessant barking.
(bow wow, wow, wow, wow, bow wow,
wow wow, wow)
This annoyance is of a context-dog.
(woof . . . woof . . . . woof,
bow wow, wow wow wow, wow,
woof . . .)
It is an insistence
to shift into a medium of the barking
and address what claims as itself
to be present
but is so distant and really disturbing.
(woof . . .)
And this dilemma is constantly ongoing.
And it feels very stale by repetition.
Also stale by a hollowness
of what it represents.
(feral dogs without owners ?)
Like this requires attention
but not substance,
as in no sincere feelings
really need to show,
yet I am stalled in my inward clarity.
I am stalled,
I am stalled where the dialogue
of inner silence
lives fully as a medium ship,
unapproached and unacknowledged,
unapproachable by this outsideness
as method
and yet, some bark is always at the door.
That frame-broken door opens
and then my life is filled
with a variety of these
coming-into-my-awareness rituals.
It’s all about the opening of this door
and low and behold . . .
As if there were, an outside!
( . . . woof . . .)
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