I awaken each second
to recognition's hot breath
of particulars,
to the ever whisper within,
accompanying the image coming
into my inner view.
It’s the work of my internal kibitzers,
extracting a linear movie account.
It is embellished with cross weaves
of nuance connections
and emotional fill
as if it were all
from a cash-fold currency of stories
constantly being read to me
by an oh so familiar elder
sitting within.
I can almost be
a fully intent listener
as if it were all consuming.
It can be so full with display
and reasoning and connections,
so precise
as if to complete my perception.
It can seem to be fully flooding,
pouring down
all the tall sensory spires,
metaphorically playing before
me as a wide-eyed child ingesting.
Who of me looks up
from these passages
to inhale and imbibe
these droplets of permission,
to live down the fear,
to go on
knowing and not knowing,
to feel for my inner movement,
and by that very action,
find a great deep cavernous hologram
embracing this onslaught’s account?
This who of me
is vast yet still within.
It humbles my senses with echo.
I am momentarily
and dimensionally slain
in the demand to decipher.
I am learning to give away all,
to have nothing,
to have no tools, no skills,
no positions of strength,
to have no axis that polarizes me,
to be all points,
all opposites bowing,
to see all contradictions kissing up.
I leave evidence
as if to distract me.
I make sense as if to delay.
I love as if intentions merit.
I let go as if to release from effort.
I laugh as if to counter
inconclusiveness’s firm stand.
All these tenets possess the same.
I am tongue-less with the weave
of all these as particulars.
I am weakness bowing
in the light of these claims.
Entry is a constant prayer
without praying.
Being is a constant prayer
without knowing.
Feeling is a constant prayer
without reason.
Presence is a constant oneness
without experience
as this light . . .
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