self-inquiry’s innocent, so pure an endeavor,
a distant calling without repose
as a fluid current of self-intimacy.
the audience of being brings hand mirrors.
disturbances abound becoming self-aware
through the thick of both self and self-sensed.
observence enkindles frame as private priority.
this is all so subtle as if alchemical.
the ego-mind reframes into exhaustion.
how can an emotional child have this wisdom
to channel a quality of bliss and silently despair,
wanting a mind grab of relevance,
coming into a life with bind and restraint,
making soft and humble traits as strategy,
and the deep tragedy of self-love as isolation.
what if mindfulness is a false notion of intimacy?
if Mae West was the divine mother in drag?
Why is the juice of us so self-dismissed?
is pensivity and passivity much proposed as pain?
yet innocence is outrageously and paradoxically present.
bleed it, weep it, sneeze it, wheeze it.
die with it on our faces, coming out of our eyes,
nesting resoundedly in our hearts.
but just a surrender up away,
lifetimes spent in that process.
this vibrational intelligence not in demand.
this melody remains silently streaming.
deeply inward, as our soul of means . . .
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