we were never a we * 12/31/12

There is no cognition

that will quench my thirst.

There is no thirst

without of my deepest yearning.

Further, there is no yearning

outside my distinct depiction

from the drawnness

and there is no distinction

outside my calling this out

with singular clarity.

And, unknown to myself,

the belly side of my call outs

constantly reaffirms my isolation,

not knowing that that composition

facilitates this aloneness to be so.

So solemnly, here I presently am,

with my thoughts

and these thought processes

as my cognitions,

yet realizing myself as a witness

to all of this.

That what I think

and how I think, what I think,

is as affirming as it may seem

to myself, so much so,

that I continue to do so,

and it only constructively places me,

more deeply embeds me,

in a self sense of isolation.

I am soberly seated

with these methodologies

that perpetuate my being here.

And with this usage as persuasion,

I bring to my mind

supposed answers to a problem

that profoundly doesn’t exist.

That I treat as problematic in origin,

under the guise of objectification,

is only to be humbled

by my mind’s offerings

and the monotony of its novelty.

Yet by these repetitions

there are premonitions 

beyond the apparent requests,

so much so that I revert to reflection

upon each answer received,

to refine the who of me

who is asking,

to locate the who of me

who is beaconing,

to identify the who of me

at source for this,

to be aware of the who of me

holding and withholding,

and of course, the who,

who gathers to be the me,

to be in response to me

who unceasingly keeps asking.

When are we, all of these of me,

not this fundamental of isolation

and yet calling out a presumption

of complete consummate connectivity?

I have no words of utility.

My thoughts flounder and are vagrant.

My requests are a brutal redundancy.

I go away from that which thinks me,

for that which feels me

though minutely so.

I am no more to be hooked

by the false entitlement of language,

or the presumption of formalizations,

by the pomposity of a rational stance.

All of this has no speech of entry.

I imprison myself to say.

I lay down my existence as I know it.

For that it would profoundly

and deeply bow

to be a sound in my sensory range

and I would be a fool to listen for it.

That it would lovingly surrender

to be a sight

within my visual reach

and I would be bamboozled

to commit rods and cones

and wide eyes to this intake

in such a manner.

Sensory to wit

is a debacle of progression.

Where we are of each other,

is not there by this

experiential endowment of means.

I feel with this phantom tongue

of my heart,

for that which has no mass, no claims,

that which would not belittle into words.

To know what I am saying here,

is to hear me clearly and go away

from understanding any further

as if this was engagement.

We were and are never apart

and we were never a we

but only vastly,

and now resoundingly

in oneness

as the outpour forevering . . .