tactility (haiku) 8/31/19

human existence

perception is our white cane

where we point and poke

the life and times of meaning and motive 8/30/19

can motive ever truly find words to say?

can meaning ever reach the hidden depths

that spur motive into unmitigated action?

even if that bucket of meaning is poured completely out,

there is still a dampness on those interior soulful walls.

karma does not wash off real clean.

that which held the hidden truth

is still a container of worth

for the previous existence replenishment potential.

exit the water but the bucket’s capacity stays.

its containment can serve all kinds of fervent ways.

meaning can have moments in the sun

but motive has the weave of far-reaching at hand.

a thousand private tears 

can go in secret towards filling that bucket

but one act of reality spillage 

can be the cause for revelation.

motive is a glitch in the efforts of being current.

agenda has father time as a parent

and emotional with-heldness as a mothering.

meaning can only say 

what the child of this relationship has come to know.

we are all homeless in that sense.

the energetic heritage is buried within each of us.

we don’t seem to have very clear access 

to our spiritual genetic code. 

living into the truth is a life of self study.

to know that wisdom does not become spoken

but dwells in the advancing presence of being.

meaning is left within the body that dies,

while motive can carry on for lifetimes . . .

earth-skin 8/29/19

the skin of the earth 

is wearing the human conditioner

yet versions of eczema, dermatitis, 

psoriasis, acne, rashes, 

burns, warts, and dryness pervade.

but this conditioner doesn’t really help 

alleviate these circumstances.

directions say: 

spread more of the humanness around,

more thoroughly and wait.

what is so wrong with these directions?

consensus has protocols 8/28/19

one’s own personal search for freedoms 

is confined by the methods used 

for that search.

anything less then the full awareness of oneness 

is the subtly into the profoundness of suffering. 

for the lack of complete presence as such,

separatism, has become a meaningful method,

of existence.

it is an everyday obscenity.

for it is far away 

from the unspecified human connectedness 

wanted with and from all others.

captured is the result 

of the conclusions we have reached.

so how does our expectation model 

for meaningful existence

actually work?

and what are our sources 

for the operation of those priorities?

what are the persuasion methods 

for our drivenness into its dominance?

in humans terms, 

when tale wags dog, 

two premises are involved, 

namely audience and cashflow.

such is this yield.

for capitalism is armed 

with a machiavellian sword, 

made more efficient 

by shorter attention spans

with superficial topical seductions 

as its firmness of grip.

conclusions from short attention-spans

makes for a reality 

of mentally ordering 

from the retentive mind-menu,

seeking more seductive cash-floods then ever,

as if it were vitality-blood

from the enemy

which, in this case, 

is also ourselves. 

what’s wrong with what’s wrong 

is also wrong and still, rightly so 

we seem to be functional 

as a bungling conundrum 

yet consensus has protocols (!) . . . 

the what-if of stimulation 8/27/19

if one was in 

the constant world of stimulation,

when would the grounding 

of overwhelm-eventfulness ware off?

what other usefulness then 

would seeking search for 

besides the breadcrumbs of stimulation?

would seeking ever turn on itself 

to discover its source 

and therefore its driver 

more thoroughly?

would seeking of itself

then either hire or transform 

to a different mode of operation?

a more distinct means of rendering 

other than the cause of stimulation,

and therefore a new sense

for its self of recognition?

possible even a more particular sense 

for the rights of one’s passage.

and of course a more colorful method or means 

of its self-audience as awareness participation? . . .

the environment of think 8/26/19

what is the nature 

of the environment of think?

and what volume of area 

fills the surround of this?

what is there 

for the sake of appearance

and what are the workings of this 

that exist undisclosed?

so, do all appearances 

come from the same style of entry?

how much of it occurs as silent films

as opposed to the download of the diatribe?

is there a sense of logic 

to the phrasing and punctuation intended?

and how much of all of this 

then reaches for pronouncement?

and will external dialogue 

always be the eventual outcome?

at that point, sense and sensibility 

have an appropriate attire.

for taking words out 

for the walk of the mouth

requires it.

as for linear thinking, 

it is like always having fish 

in the aquarium of the mind . . .

linear thinking’s seduction 8/25/19

seduced by linear thinking.

it is always the initial interior voice,

face to invisible face

as if a first responder,

in an intimate self-to-self conversation.

it assumes a sense of appropriate self-scale

yet not necessarily fully logical

but immediate and immanently applicable 

as it seems.

it’s what self-intimacy does.

pick and choose 

seem to be the logic at hand.

it can feel like one is standing 

in front of a greeting card rack,

about to make 

what one would call,

'a choice'.

one’s linear mind can stream like this

for the whole day.

for then, the story of your day is 

just paraphrases 

taken from this linear thinking account,

while any other voice feels like 

it’s overheard.

it’s like someone else 

is in the private elevator of self,

with you.

you could strike up 

an interior conversation with them,

but what the hell do they know?

that could easily be your unsaid remark.

after all, you have not formally met before this.

oh, but you have.

as one’s linear mind is so forgetful

in this way.

once again forgetting 

that the linear mind is solely predicated 

on the separateness of being 

who it assumes itself to be.

and therefore linear thinking 

is always at the mike,

and everyone else is assumed as 

the audience in surround.

only to eventually discover,

one is not a soloist 

on the stage of their being.

and if one was to wake up within,

they might discover 

that linear thinking is only a squeaky wheel 

on the cart of soulful passage,

also living for the dream of delivery . . .

whole (haiku) 8/24/19

when lucid dreaming

meets with dream-like wakefulness

one’s life becomes whole

life, since they actually met 8/23/19

sincerity and expectation have a burdensome relationship 

within one’s self-consciousness.

sincerity, making plain and natural.

expectation, living for outcomes.

neither having the other’s back.

yes, there are occasions when they appear to be

one in the same, ongoing.

but the origins are developed 

in extremely different ways.

sincerity would like the heart 

to be the source of their existence,

while expectation has been trained to seek

the success of a storyline

manufactured from the immediacy 

of the worldly props imagined at hand.

how much interface do they mutually share

in reality settings as life unfolds?

some beings manage this with calm and flair

while others battle internally as a result

of what eventually outwardly occurs.

not that either actually wins

but war-torn becomes facially and behaviorally evident.

sincerity can have a brutal appearance

and expectation can crawl up and just hurt.

yes, there are attempts at internal consolation.

none of which has to be evident to the world around.

the timing and rhythm of each person is affected

as these two work it out within.

some glide, while others pause and ponder.

resolution can be a life’s work and effort,

for it’s more than a two horse race as existence.

but these two have prominence and needs

as we all have forked tongues.

some make melody

while others are ever cacophonous, 

ongoing . . .

living beyond the doubt 8/22/19

came into intention of life

volunteered into conception

saw two souls from afar

their common light, a launchpad to me

manifest is both a sweet miracle 

and expressing a generative means

how much did I know before hand?

taking on a body with gender and circumstance?

playing all the lower vibrational chords

in order to get a species body of matter.

maybe I should have gone for gopher, sperm whale,

elegant spider, or my favorite, albatross.

but sense-directed, divinely inspired

was human for the outcome

brought so much energy to existence from within

as most every one by birth does

landing it without further configuration

letting the transduction begin

and I will carry on from deeply within

not to be overwhelmed by sensory input

or by the high contrast of human existence

meant to have this inner light carry on

whatever the mediums imposed upon me

but I have had lapses into the impact of existence

times that are muffled and listless

with a plethora of lackadaisicals as if wandering

then spikes of clarity swooping in high contrast

where language doesn’t speak me for then

circumstance exists only as camouflage

bodies to bodies are so sluggish during

but there are gleams shared, with some

they don’t register as thoughts

more so enlightened feeling states

is as best I can state it now

but if you’ve been there

you can take up from my meaning into your heart

I don’t want to say that love is the answer

this context is so out of true scale

being a person, as separate, is so unnatural

as from where we all came

taking up a life is formidable, 

sometimes grueling and plain-out arduous 

being all that is a given

the deeper truth resides but reach requires

a kind of duplicity, possibly regarded as insanity

yet featuring this grasp of spirit 

as it is called from this side of existence

to be in the physics of radiance

yet captured in form and broadcast projection

to be in the construct of paradoxes 

yet from within

to be under the siege of a context 

that unabatedly denies

to have loud secrets that go on unmanifest

to be of clarity that does not transduce down

to be riddled with common place as displeasure

to find camaraderie superficially afloat

to feel rudderless yet in an organic human sea

a choir of beings lost in the page-turns

as to what to be the sing

birth was so much light and light to cast 

life seems to have presented the art of shadows

what wisdom lies in their translation

for the summoning of oneness

through all of this diversity

is a mindful mastery to align 

I put in for the experiment and the journey

as if for living beyond the doubt

plan to do it again and again

the plain truth of it lives

but cannot be experienced

there is a ruthless radiance 

that travels within me

once on the planet

I only know of it 

but still, I carry it within me, on 

as if it becomes me

becoming all of us

for becoming one . . .

candor (haiku) 8/21/19

encouraged candor

the ear of outspokenness

listens for that truth

lightness of being 8/20/19

if flattery were the sky

and candor were the clouds

do we live for reign

or sunny daze?

yes paradox has roots in the wild blue yonder

and gravity is a complimentary tease

in that regard

since we are personally caught between

an up-pull-gravity 

and the obviousness of the down.

up-gravity is so paradoxically disguised

complex beyond attention span or interest

so we honor the religion of down

we have the keepsakes of identity 

and the namesakes of wordiness around

so if flattery were the sky

and candor were the clouds

what is the weather of your awareness

and how do you have climate-eyes?

and which, if either

contributes to your essential

lightness of being (?) . . .

my daily process 8/19/19

the driver of the daily process

sits in the back of the cab of mind 

or the limo of intentions

and calls out directional details, block by block

the driver, though the same person as I

is compartmentalized to the task at hand

my inner voices tantalize with updates 

and remembrances of circumstance or need

there is the blow-by of non-relevance

in landscape and people in the surround

they could all be manikins and props to the cause

but the driver has mission as foremost

even though the juggle of private priorities

inwardly continues as background cross-talk chatter

time is of the essence or maybe as the sequence

it could be a get-there or a be-there

or even a timing-wear, of course, for show

it could all be the hell-bent of accomplishment

it could be the list-maker’s dream day-job

or it could be all for show, gala or mandatory

the dirge of it all, is as if ongoing and procedural

who, in each of us, is that driver?

who calls the shots and makes deliveries?

lots of times I’m in that vehicle

but I am not really the driver

and that’s when I begin to wonder 

out loud internal to me 

but not a peep otherwise

who is that driver of me

in my daily process? . . .

spreading my wings 8/18/19

admit to having synesthesia 

as if it is my handy number 2 lead.

roll suicide notes

as if there are filled with the weed of my destiny.

am aware of dimensions

that never have had any surface.

the proof of gravity, to me, is totally made 

of cartoon character remarks.

the drums that play in my head, 

bleed in pulses rather than make outrageous sound.

to know, for me, that there are 

no such things as nonsense.

that truth has no capacity for containment

and experience is a personalized form of trademarking.

to find that the notion of nothing or anything

cannot be stretched beyond its limits.

have to admit, that now and then, 

daily practice relies on spontaneous embellishment.

personally, experiencing indecency is a sense of loss.

weight against my back gives me a sense of comfort.

the heavens open whenever my eyes close.

will bite down real hard on things 

as an expression of trust.

if I know things all too well, 

it comes though me in the form of a sigh.

find that a sense of exactness 

occasionally takes my breath away.

feel that honesty is expressed 

when lips are passively motionless

and one’s tongue is prime for activity.

surprisingly can tell the current time 

by the way all shadows 

whisper amongst them selves.

all to often, keep to myself 

by the same way all crowds tend to gather.

bother with details to appear as if innocent.

always ask people how much do they think I weigh

if I feel that they can’t really see me.

for the way that I sense, 

makes strangeness seem impossible.

like the spaces between spoken words 

for their sense of rhythm.

employ featurelessness for myself

as a way of getting things done.

strangely, you hold me closest 

by being totally unaware of this.

easily gather myself within

where emotions feed on the collective.

estrangement, for me, is always 

a knock at the front door.

happiest when wisdom has no audience.

please bare with me, 

as intimacy is my way of seeing soul.

often wear moods as my sense of accessorizing. 

many bothersomes come my way pre-sliced.

see gestural dignity as if swan-pantomime.

should be totally asleep to living

as a form of your absence from my life.

all of sound is what I sense 

as what is breathing next to me.

intentionally always sleep 

with my head to the north,

on my left side, 

so that I am readied to greet the sunrise.

if you only understand me 

then I feel all alone in a woods 

where we are all growing old.

prayer was what I memorized 

when I was a child of hope.

always come back to the feel of my body

as a language composed of incomplete sentences.

and when I say all of these things,

honestly feel 

like I am spreading my wings . . .

still wide eyed 8/17/19

all thoughts are compartmentalization. 

every step is a conclusion, taken.

every in-breath is rapture of sky.

every view is a pixel of the universe.

every sigh is a given-back,

a portion of the whole.

I took a body as a page turn.

a chapter may be a cartoon of livingness.

I have often longed 

for the beyond of language’s reach,

way beyond the insistence 

for the recovery of love.

quantum ever escapes 

the passion of my grasp.

but then, the eye of me

is aloof, just a grain of sand,

on the beach of ever-longing.

wondering what ocean will become of me,

whether eventually precipitous or evaporative.

ever to be the dance beyond location,

to become the motion known as stillness.

yes, still wide-eyed

but blessedly egoless

then selfless in carriage . . .

have you noticed? 8/16/19

'cause' is made up of the excuses 

for the admittance of time.

and that the completion of deeds 

is in a form of camouflaged street mime.

most thoughts are only composed 

of out-breath remains.

as for what possesses oneself, 

it can’t be stolen in any way.

expectations have become 

a bad yoga of the mind.

while the use of condiments 

is like the animated expressions made 

with the use of hand gestures.

living, like we do, is so unnatural 

by being in time.

hope is a virtue of blood loss 

unaccounted for.

opinions are like bat-cave departures

in search of insects of truth.

the taller the trees, 

the more baritone the roots.

for the abstract in the mind 

may some day express itself 

as a catchy tune.

acknowledgment is its own form of enterprise.

bygones grow on fruits trees in seasonal ways.

ellipses have a natural beauty that self-justifies.

the nature of all incidents 

only happen to lonely people.

a thousand consecutive lies in the sky

make for the river of truth to pass close by.

and have you noticed,

that all passers-by seem to have this peculiar gait

that, to me, expresses the weight of their secrets?

it all started as just a sound 8/15/19

when I heard this sound,

a sound within easy sensory range,

kind of low and volatile, 

a rumbling sort of sound,

mistaken possibly for a heavy machinery sound

yet it was aching and moaning,

not just a grumbling, 

so to start the initial listening.

there was a first take

as a measure to conclude about it.

but then it continues to move ever-changing

both by vibration 

and by internal loudness heard.

then comes my re-experience.

first, comparisons to see what it is

and then where this is going,

for it keeps on moving,

moving in, deeper and deeper.

pitch somewhat altered 

but not higher or noticeably lower,

just richer and more thorough in its sound.

it gets louder but not really.

maybe paid more attention to it

as it moves in ways sound usually does not.

with further intention,

the experience becomes more refined.

the impression becomes stronger.

comparisons start to uselessly fall away.

it becomes a sound unlikened to others

yet still unique but less in a comparative way.

and then it reaches the edge of my hearing’s capacity.

my experience has never been out this far with sound.

I’ve lost track of directional source and distance from.

it becomes like no other sound I’ve ever heard.

not louder, not deeper,

possibly like non-locational but everywhere.

there is a place in hearing

where one is safe from and yet with the sound

as one hears the sound as separate to them.

but this sound crossed that border.

this sound was now coming out of and through me.

irrationally, this was a potential death threat to me.

is this the way I will die?

from sort of the overwhelm of sound?

I am drowning from the inside out.

I have to accept this death of me 

as I know myself to be 

to continue with this sound

or die by its execution.

easy in that moment

to choose to die into the unclaimed bliss of it.

and so, for a very short time, 

I relinquished my sense of being,

figuring I was in some sense of death-passage.

but then the sound reappeared within me.

and now I was not the same listener.

I was an ocean of hearing.

I was all cells of me listening.

listening was so closely intimate within me

that I was that sound of itself.

I had a recognition 

beyond who I knew myself previously to be.

there was actual carriage as my person

but not as the person I knew from before.

I was interplanetary. 

my mind was calmly sizzling.

experience had never been this whole before

and the sound continued to move as if to intensify.

I was short lived in this state,

just enough to glimpse the divinity

but not enough to be grounded.

it still moved upon me from within.

and again I had another death,

a soft beneficent passing,

only to once again arrive,

transcended to a deeper more expandedness.

one without original thoughts

just streaming as if the hum was through me.

but not a me by any previously known means.

a me beyond the sense of life and death,

a me by quantum measures,

not contained in the mind.

it was the unknowable story of life in the now,

without the reflection of past or future

and certainly not measurable any more.

an opening beyond accountability

without comparative truth at hand

and blessed with an ongoingness.

only to realize, no more death,

no more the experience to savor,

no more witness to the fact

just am and vibrationally made whole.

essence that has no need for answers.

not in the frame of the grossness of experience.

taken to heart without time dimension’s remark.

so to say:

kind of like what we were 

before we came to be physical mass.

it is that which sings loudly in apparent silence 

beyond our sensory means.

it is not as if a memory

but always a means for me,

of heart filled entry.

and it all started 

just as the sound of a gong, 

serendipitously played to tune me . . .

the absolute of felt 8/14/19

some will just see

others will deeply feel

and others will consummately be

devotion to become

devotion, as a means of surrender

realization, as the intimate process of that surrender

and the surrender is all of the articulation 

of separateness relinquished.

where becoming gives up the search,

to be.

in the earnest sincerity of source-fully becoming,

the be becomes the broadcast.

the imminence and the emanation of the broadcast

is the be… ever-coming.

the seeker is absorbed and absolved.

no more of the form or the process

of the absence in return.

the radiance of what is, centers.

alignment absolves, resolves, and dissolves 

into the absolute.

seeking has no separateness to sponsor.

sacredness is the stillness in full broadcast.

stillness wearing the wardrobe of nothingness

is in the broadcast of the void smile.

for that which cannot be sensed

but is, 

the absolute of felt . . .

there is a now 8/13/19

I am not of existence

but I am

I occupy by the window of experience

I am as dispassionate as the glass

as that pane of glass 

I look through what I see

I look back at the who of me 

who senses what there is to see

I sense what seeing has to offer

I feel for what sensing has then proposed

all at once I move 

from that receivership of that broadcast

into the compassionate broadcast 

of what receivership has blessedly offered me

as I then once again

look through the window of experience

where there is a now

to what I see

the last rites of sameness 8/12/19

my fascination with sameness

obviously it is not the object

that is of primary interest

it is more so the viewing of it

who of me who sees or senses

that feeds that information to whom

that whom of me that lives in conclusions

that references the what of it 

in a comparative way as its means

and then wildly arrives at a response

the reappearance of sameness

what clipped sense of expediency is served

who is benefited by that cursory response

what agenda plays havoc with what is sensed

that observation has no carriage of worth

outside the self-serving appraisal of view

how does my experience provide for this

I live for the variety and the uniqueness to abound

and yet my regulatory is set up to account

for, of all things, the insight of sameness around

this is not an existential remark to say

it is a misuse of my sensory range

it is living for sensory reductionism

to feed a conclusionary mind to pasture

what is the benefit for me with that

a prison of my own making

without the wherewithal to notice first hand

I did not want to turn my senses into cursory spies

I wanted them for discovery 

and the impetus for adventure

not the numbing of boredom highlighted as such

sameness as a report is a misuse of curious

an obstruction of inquisitiveness as effort’s goal

this is the slow death of comparative truth

if sameness is what I get.

sensory was to be the lead dog of a life of adventure

not the junkyard dog chained on a hill

fascination with the end-product of sameness

is a slow death from the inside out

brain numb and so death come sooner

maybe it’s just that sameness as a conclusion sucks

sameness dressed up in conclusion’s wake

is just that!

funeral services to be held 

at the vigil of observation . . .