Experience is the forever book.
It is constantly being read
to or at me.
I am bored
with this sensory import
and its impact.
All my acknowledgment is
eventually categorical.
Retentive mind gives to me
fits of rehash and repeat.
Comparative truth is
now just reason haggling
over everything incoming.
I use to be animated
with these within-voices,
as if they were saying me.
Now, they just say stuff.
I must have wandered off.
They have tones.
They breathy infer.
They have certainty attitude,
tones of entitlement
and results-oriented expectations.
And I am supposed to be
the responsible party of this mind!
This is all becoming
a distant environment of immediacy,
filled with false intimacies,
and yet, at times,
I am supposed to play
the “I want” card
or the “I wish” card
or some clamor card
from the self-deck!
Life is this experiential tablecloth,
spread under everything.
And we have life served up
on the top of it.
I tried turning the table cloth over
as if a clever mind
would actually help.
Yet, inadvertently
I longed for the woodness
of the table beneath.
I went tree.
I became growth,
wisely chasing the sun.
I had whereabouts.
I took off the portrayal wardrobe
of location,
got time to stop
with the small talk
and just stand there and smile.
I shed my senses
as if they were tears.
I got to nothing
and felt more at home.
I waved good-bye
to every thing.
It all stood there, stunned
but still posing
as if in a gathering.
I got a grip
on the receiver of me,
followed along the cord of it
and unplugged it.
Wow, that was a last act!
No more events,
no edits.
In and of an all choir,
nondenominational matter,
void-singing the oneness
of the universe . . .
Feelings, on their own,
but unknowingly . . .
There is a now.
No more paging,
through the forever book.
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