oh, for the way 9/15/18

I feel for the steel of soft 

in the deep dive overwhelming me,

for the stoniness of fragrance 

racing through me unending,

for the hands on fresh peel 

coming from every next thought,

for the penetrative claws 

from the front paws 

of this moment’s grip on me,

for the weightlessness impacting me

around visions’ next arrival

and then the seamlessness of sensory inputs 

settling ground to ceiling within me,

and for the passive-aggressiveness 

of my dualistic thinking.

oh, such longing for the way 

that summary builds a permanent nest

out of the twigs made of my conclusions nesting,

for the flat bridge sighted of that horizon line

when I am ocean beached, horizontal, 

then staring straight away,

for the spontaneous expression that comes to me

as if finger painting

that comes forth 

from every feverish next touch,

for the way that the foreignness of cold 

grabs at my attention

with such consistent intrinsic insistence,

for the way that agreement expects to hibernate within me,

for the way that the deeps of the sky 

look back at me, fondly,

for the way that time is the only race

as we are but a species of its participating inhabitants,

for the way that motivation is like catchy sing-along jingles

that eventually come to reside 

in my silent constant hum,

for the way that passages are like popups from books

that I would rather walk through and under than ever read,

for the way that turmoils linger like laundry hung

on an outside line 

but still attention grabbing in view,

for the way the memories are sent my way

like pictorial postcards as if my ears are tenderly burning,

for the way I come to familiar by my daily stare-downs

with the weather front-door facing me,

for the way amusement comes to me 

from the visual geometry of passing cars,

for the way I am endlessly yet zestfully impressed 

with the unceasing visuals of curvature,

for the way that sound humorously hides 

as if it is in the musicality of instruments,

for the way that the sun’s movement 

is so sneaky steadfast amusing,

for the way that the wind is always the whisper

but never the subject matter of the message we share, 

for  the way that I would feel completely nude

without this clothing made of my experience,

for the way that I have conviction 

as if I am on the forever road, 

traveling home,

and for the way that my every next breath-in 

is my back stage pass 

to the front stage presence 

of now, as presenting . . .