I so hold on to letting go.
way far from what,
as the passage of images to measure me?
as if surrender from within was the task at hand
and then embrace, is the secret to living?
awareness is such a fickle cause.
relating happens like this
as if time is my teacher.
the sense for gravity has no audience appeal.
for me its acceptance is my leverage into motion.
the singularity of personal story is suffocating.
just want to scan what prompts me,
to then not have cursory as a form of attention.
self-consciousness is a form of personal indifference
but knowing that doesn’t help it dissolve.
it seems attention is a focal addiction
as life with a lit flashlight sense of crucial concern.
I just wanted ocean as conversation communally.
I would live to jump and sneeze at the same time
and call that flight of my being
as the possible entry of spirit.
but I truly wanted was
for the leap that has no landing,
then some sort of psychic surgery
to remove expectation from mindfulness,
a language of verbs that escaped from meaning
and a landscape of the heart,
only as the soothing mud of contact as journey.
if then, a shower of tears for cleaning up,
to realize that hope was never meant to be a verb
and all of honesty, as brought to mind
is only a sense for conjecture, in passing,
where proof utterly has no shelf-life.
as I only live, to live on,
to be in the sense of using spellbound
as being profoundly lost in this flow . . .
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