Experience
itself hands out an afterglow,
an
outcome as deposition for the retentive mind,
comparisons
well up as eventual composition,
encounters
with self-conscious as witness,
as a
reporter to, of, and for.
Imagine
experience is pre-thought,
an empty
screen composed
of outpouring presence,
a
newborn before engagement
then becomes notability's clamor,
a nanosecond's
accumulation of
memory
that becomes a lump some
in
recognition's trough of awareness,
followed by a
shutter’s click-shift
and focus dressed up
as
notice's fresh face with details
wearing
cognition's trappings.
Experience
is before particulars,
before senses assume
through that fixation drill,
when
vision was
still a gaze
of a wide horizon embrace,
while
hearing was an overwhelming silent fill,
before
touch was outside the fluid womb,
before
energy succumb to piñata representations,
before
subject-object short hand
became
the norm of objectification.
Experience
offered nothing,
no convention by
essence,
no mandate of agreement.
It, in
essence, precedes the maneuvering of time.
Experiences
do not happen to any one.
It is
they and of them
and then we make a self of us
out of it
who experiences as expressions
made of
accountability’s means.
Assumptions
stand blindly behind words.
The
windmill is mind fill
but selflessness is
experience,
as breeze . . .
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