insisted catharsis * 4/30/13

In a writhing mind, is there

relief from the box camera of self?

If for leaving the tripod of self-sanity?

No more the development

from the captured images by recognition,

no more the possessiveness

from self consciousness as stir,

no more a position

of registry as self sensed.

I leave in resolution

the anomalies of identification.

I take off the wardrobe of eventfulness.

I am no more than

a drop in a rainfall, given to flow,

than a granule in migration

amongst all other grains in the ever-shift,

than an exhale

in an usherence as breeze.

I am ocean in return.

I am mountain in surrender.

I am the escort of motion by breath.

I am of these things

and never to be named.

I have no context for animation

that is so, here just to be.

I am all of nothing, ever in motion.

Each exhale, the absolution from I,

somewhere in the lyrics

of all song, some expression

in the medium of all sound,

to be the perfume from glitter

in freefall migration,

to be the out-breath

of a black hole’s confession,

to be the evidence produced

from mostly exploring

the lower vibrational rates

that express as mass,

to be in the hookup phase

where prayer becomes spirit,

to be in the inner wisdom gained

from where all words

are spirits rising

from road kill in passing,

to be wrapped in the fabric

of fallout igniting.

I, shamelessly, come from word,

without dress rehearsal,

without the glitch of time.

We, as oneness, are in the mix,

where wondrous has no shelf life.

I honor what you are as essence,

said back to you.

Do not hear me,

but be . . .