consciousness, in the way we do it,
is really like side-glances for roadside service.
sure we all drive the highways of meaningful
elaborately looking for that curbside appeal.
we seem to be in the collective,
fairly addicted to a ‘here-to-there’ momentum.
we think as if topic will provide us with answers
and those answers will keep us ceremoniously grooved
in a sensory blur of presentable dismay,
but questioned questioning defends itself with answers
yet curiosity should never be the capture of judgment.
sidebar to the obviousness of gross entrepreneurship,
as a medium, has become syntactical
as it means of imploring our attention to capitalistic frames.
it seems that the essence-driver of all our responses
is somehow now source-fully camouflaged
yet personally and privately self-ventilative.
and the decode has no native language of origin available.
for us, standing there facing forward, what is lucidly real
is where feel is first, foremost and forever
without the handrail of logic,
where time is always seen as indifferently grinning,
where problematic can always seem to be seen
as a three-card-monte rues
as if understanding is somehow dependent upon
the ladle size we can sip from and still swoop,
and where privilege is always based upon
a nest of assumptions that one cannot readily identify
or be surefooted sane in essentially defining.
for privilege is, of itself, an indulged positionalty
yet we are all each basically of the template of wellbeing,
woven together over this with need and by circumstance,
functioning in the catch-all sieve of forward living
yet consciousness, passing through us, is us as ongoing . . .