We go on within the fluidity of time.
I am called to always swim upstream,
to search for the romance of the headwaters,
intimacies that know of themselves
only in service to the greatest of causes.
Daily life offers seepage, mist, fog and condensation
as invitations along the way.
They all whisper of the truth
as if stories overheard but believed to be true
from these watery spirits as messengers.
I look at them, each one of them, discretely
as if a precipitous mystery lay before me.
They all have had lifetimes of journeys
immersed within the sacred trust
that knows no bounds.
If what I could sip would match my thirst.
But the taste of comparative truth
is my limited language
as if lying to myself justified.
but I only hear quench and satiation.
I want to swim beyond these gestures,
beyond the palate of what desire calls out for.
I want to drown in the sound beyond silence,
to drink from the sing
before it substantiates.
That is where I leave behind
the notion of leaving behind.
Here time has been the surface tension
to float me.
I want to be no more the sin of substance
to reflect my soul.
I want no part of it
that separates me from all as one.
Water weeps and seeps through me
as the religion of living.
I don’t want the marriage of what I breathe
to further represent me
as if honestly to myself.
It is worse than an urge,
a compulsion or a calling.
I am drunk, sipping on experience
but feeling lost for the vast soberness of soul.
Not soul in a self-sense
but wholly soul
beyond what substance could ever shape.
And we all, as individualist, come through this
as we give up on our separateness
and this charade of ongoingness,
as our apparel of time . . .