have you ever thought about thinking,
as if sitting on the edge of a lake-pier looking out
with the water surface withholding
a further in-depth view
or mindfully came upon a convention of conclusions,
all resting on their recited laurels
as if staid of circumstance made evident
yet somewhere lost
between loitering and its linger
or imagining a beyond
where thought has no entry?
yet think can blindly go
and not be thought-provoked.
yes, with no provocation,
no reactiveness as impulse or urges,
a think that chisels its way
effortlessly back behind the shimmer of words
to a reveal that has an innocence of sheen to it,
that has a clear and distinctive
but not a comparison to.
a think that is beyond any previous specified attachment,
even beyond the habit of knowing.
a think that has its birth and creation
and its own origins of zeal.
a think that takes one as whole
up and into, as if away
from the prerogative of questioning,
that, ‘was I ever a person’ (?)
and then this, appeared to be?
oh for that’s that, thoughts have longings
as if they want to travel
to experience further
and then this, out of the blue, happens,
a think without a homeland
to fallback upon,
as if memories are mothers
yes way before origin had insistence,
before mind had drone awareness.
a think, that if given the chance,
that would undefined itself of me.
a think beyond meaningful's measure,
way beyond the limits of relevance.
but I’m just saying,
this is what idleness is for me,
a preparedness,
yes that think without thought's assistance
would actually provide . . .
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