robbed 11/18/11

Experience has robbed me.

I have taken to acceptance

of the place

where experience touches me.

I only attend to where this touch

as gross contact occurs.

It is my religion of attention now.

All the implicit rules

about interest as such suggest

that without this recognition

I am a lost and isolated soul.

So I identify with it

like a lit flashlight

in the otherwise darken room

of the isolation of me.

I live for where the spotlight is

and then what it is framing.

All else, in the darkness

is of no consequence.

But secretly,

I am beckoned

by the dark room itself.

There is the all of it

coming through without fanfare,

without the abusive recognition

of face-to-face particulars

as if this void were not empty!

For me, it is the universe.

I am an embrace

of empty focus away.

I am my opposing thumb sure of it.

I fully expect this to be so

as my dreams are my creation,

and that world will come to me

in this way, night or day.

Until then,

I am a parade of bystanders

claiming that all motion is upon us

as a next of kin.

And that experience has robbed me.

It has replaced my life

with an almost exact replica

in every sensory way.

And now my life is

all about the faintest remembrances

of how it really is

without mental equivalencies.

It is all clues from deep wells,

faint reflections in dim light,

and echoes from voices within

who speak with pertinence,

phrases that set me free

and yet place me

in other dimensions

by other means of understanding

for how it all is.

It is a crisscross of dimensions

that do not honor the senses' take

very straightforwardly

but leave tail whips

at the end of lazy explanatory replies

and propose trap doors

beneath all

conversations that fill the now.

Experience has robbed me

but somehow I can't explain

these gun handle impressions

still embossing my palms,

all the little scribbled notes

in every pocket of my awareness,

and the collection of odds and ends

that potentially cuff my attention

with uniformed memories

and stories as flashing lights

and sirens blaring away

as truth that I can't avoid.

I can't explain

this loop tape of existence

as it seems to me to be so

yet I can't catch an edge

to prove my point.

I can't humiliate language

with more words.

I have no act of silence

to shout down the roar.

Experience has robbed me

and I am only my own accomplice

at every

self-service experiential store.