to reverse engineer the now * 1/10/13

With every last dying breath of then,

we scribble in the mind sand,

notes to the vehicle of self.

Remember me,

from beyond my destiny to manifest.

I am, we are, it is,

before the confines

of time and space,

before cognition

was a method of constriction,

before think has a location

and the restraint of a story

in the telling,

before the pandemic fallout

of self-consciousness.

Aware where all answers

live as verbs

and questioning was

without sentience for source.

We have become tongue-tied

by the tortuous means

of understanding.

We are traveling bands

of complete compromise

and bountifuls of denial

basking in certitude.

Now has a progeny

which is not represented by time.

We are a stark raving

thought-provoked suddenness,

masquerading as if in that now.

Our apparent reality

is a manifest of chemistry

made up of reoccurring cartoons.

We are a meager means

by our own sensory survival.

We are the collective genius

of a reptilian brain trust.

We score high on suppositions.

We use an indelible ink

made from fear as our means

of testable self-documentation.

We are not confined

but we are vestiges of confinement.

We comprehend no faster

than the speed of thought.

We cannot code break

the sound barrier of logic,

nor the light barrier of being.

We are of a civilization

producing an SOS of isolation.

We are desolates asking for help.

What we have as a festering,

is a consciousness

of the incomplete.

We are of it but not with it

and desperate to be, soon.

For what we call “it”

is denigrative.

From where we call this “it’

is infantile.

We are blessed and cursed

with complete innocence

to moving on.

All our dignities of sincerity,   

all our divinities of comprehension,

all our mountains of momentum,

all our keepsakes as truth,

only measure up as pleas.

We have a concept

called “wherewithal”.

We have no clue

as to what is essentially means.

We don’t even know

if meaning itself

is the miracle.

We are all burdensome

but driven,

orphaned by familiarity’s demise.

We have horizon lines

as defining us.

We claim our heartbeat

from the rhythm of night and day.

We are all soil samples

and of recent, carbon dated.

These are our I.D.s

if you please,

that permits for us, a presence

for nowhere, we really want to be.

We present, as a compulsion

called by us, our sanity.

We are witlessly, us and them.

Our shackles speak loudly for us.

We are foreigners

in the woods of isness.

We pride ourselves

as standouts in the void.

Our truth is a pack of still shots,

we pass off as credible entry

into the now.

No registry of evolution

acknowledges us.

We are a costume party

of prison outfits

without an event to go to.

If there is a new language

for us to learn,

hurt would be our first utterance.

We are forever

in reference to the phrase,

“back in the day”.

Were we ever

“the tinkle in the cosmos eye”?

And by that means,

what was our directive?

And if so,

where have we taken ourselves?

All of mass, as our existence,

is our plaintive excuse.

We are fourth dimensionally

tongueless to speak it.

We are homelessly humming

of being,

but not in the now.

Forgive us

but be not of,

forgotten . . .

Yet, the universe,

as mostly dark matter,

has no mind of its own . . .