reality is the scattering of misinformation
for the co-benefit of others.
it is the garage-sale of pasts
to become the present for others,
the maps of surmise for futurizing
gained from the trivials of others.
it is the weave of interactives
as a reality text to first-person encountering.
no fact lives in its fullness forever.
every lie dies a thousand deaths
before it is forever laid to rest.
we are the creatures who use symbols
to express what essentially can’t be said.
our lives are a prop-fest
and the conveyer-belt of awareness
to make this so.
cross-referencing is shared consciousness.
no detail goes unattended.
we are all flower-arrangers
but what has become of our private gardens?
that cemeteries become the final resting place
for cut flowers to reside and to console?
reality is the table-cloth spread.
there is the upside
that features in the ever-changing.
and there is the underside
made solid of the undisclosed.
we are all the washing machine of self-love.
to set a clean linen every day
is a human premise.
oh to live for that night-time
when the table itself is exposed,
while the cloth is being gleaned as if cleaned.
talk to me table.
tell me,
from where do I stand.
I would if I could
but I am wood
that I am . . .
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