reality

reality only leaks the truth. 

inquiry leads to confoundedness.

answers received promote cynicism.

hidden agendas become hunt and find.

sensationalism is now all one-liners.

there is no one to talk to as to cause or source.

hearsay is working towards agreement. 

themes of interest look for each other.

someone must know something more.

it's hard to get current with the unknown.

pissed can become philosophical postures.

self-dialogue gets inwardly obstreperous.

agreement with anyone else becomes matching tones.

what has happened to the religion of gossip?

innuendo is as close as truth as we will get. 

this is why and how I have a mole life-style.

reality is a feigned existence format,

where truth is just a fashion statement in passing.

why is the closet as the largest room in my mind? . . .

knock knock

open the door to a word like love

and run out into an eternity.

have meaningful play all you want.

exhaust yourself of philosophic needs.

let your emotions get a taste 

of the air and the soil that abounds.

it's phrenetic as memory carried forward.

you can always keep some on your person.

for if feelings have a nose for earnestness, 

give yourself a whole new,

a pronouncement behind the pronounced,

a silence with more volume than loud,

but not ever heard as blearing. 

be at the impact of your sensory usage,

with love as batteries 

and a wider range of inner speakers.

with love, time has no stoic postures presented.

fluid has moments meeting next moments,

arm in arm, check to check.

one is in the vibrant exhaust 

from a waterfall up-lifting.

every breath is an uprising of buoyancy,

a zeal without a beginning or a means,

riding the headwaters of a flash flood of feelings,

where greeting is already carriage and afloat.

where movement is without guidance 

but as guidance.

love, the best of all seasonings,

for the appetite of feeling connected and consumed.

why have the word as the door for opening,

as if the mind has a residence 

of permanence as the owner?

love is the neighborhood 

before mind-residence was constructed.

have view be the residence,

while the mind claims abode.

for there is nothing more solid 

than the ever-change.

we all feed on it constantly,

even though we mentally claim an appetite for meals.

so, without delay,

open the door to a word like love

and allow yourself 

to run out into an ever unfolding eternity . . .

    

time is creating momentous

memories are the syrup on moments.

they take much longer to cognitively digest.

familiarity steals the time between seconds

so that there is less space between tic to toc.

unfamiliarity is the tai chi activity

of a moment's occurrence.

humans in time is an anomaly

while fazing humans, in and out of time, 

is our norm.

the more I daydream, 

the less time it takes.

the more I habit, 

the less time I remember.

we made up time 

as a wingman for the self

yet I routinely go solo 

in all of these habitual manners.

the more I introspectively function, 

the more time becomes fluidity observed.

the more myopic my view, 

time is the swim 

that I am running.

I have a longer life 

by spontaneous perception,

while my life is shortened 

by conclusions held.

why make time out 

to be as momentous? . . . 

inward authenticity

conclusionary reality has memory as its crutch,

as days spent under conclusionary clouds in passing.

the shelf-life of render 

lives in conclusionary's stock room.

it's hard to get out from under

and not have a conclusionary view ever-monitoring.

the gaps in life between conclusions as consciousness

are few and limited.

the shackles of summary 

are ever mounting summational. 

we are all run-on sentences of self in prospective.

language lobbies for that status report, constantly.

hardly any say 

brings us into the actual immediate moment,

but does duly report on it ongoings with conclusions. 

we are syntactically captured 

by these as our own methods.

our minds become audience to feature our lives.

lucid moments, when they inadvertently happen,

are overrun with the paparazzi of experience,

which subsequently translates into being 

by being language bound.

sure, at times, feel can escape the overwhelm,

but that medium is hard pressed 

to give a later lucid account.

summary assaults the moment 

with supreme override.

we all carry the venomous experiential account

versus authentic first person immersion,

both in and beyond time,

as in a fast moving river never stops for poses.

so what you get, 

by experiential capture,

is all static 

and under-realized of its relevance 

as the poignancy of each second in passing 

in human consciousness aware.

this is lost in experiential's account, 

by then put to words.

vibes can be shared before 

but not as spoken.

if we inter-feel with another,

experience will want the capture of that. 

it would appear that we are nothing

without the staging of self as enterprise.    

memory is such an advocate for this

and conclusions are the army 

that defends this into further existence.

it's hard to be a snitch about inward authenticity,

when we are all in the same prison for life . . .

a photo staring through me

from viewing a photo of this woman

yet her staring right through me.

I see the aging face of familiar,

looking at and past me

at the same time.

there is residue, as response,

to the past, as its weathering.

there is a steadiness of composition,

by nerves, emotional presence,

the constancy of the ever-change.

untold stories passing 

have chiseled and molded,

been surmised and embraced,

refined and surrendered.

but there are eyes,

as if faceted 

in gem settings of a human face.

they defy time's signature.

they river, 

out of a mountain of composition.

they heartfelt, 

without foreknowledge or judgment.

they possess the timelessness wisdom.

they exude without restraint.

essence travels through them.

they make me feel

shameless about being

and sacred to the self of me,

as the manifest,

I hardly know, 

as well as her . . .

the unthinkable

to think of the unheard of

that has no comparative-truth possibility,

to fathom at the reach of comprehension

though, not sure what a conclusion might look like,

where a solemn presence stands, 

as this unknown.

we'd seem to be missing chapters of understanding,

for this to be the case.

there is always, a reluctance 

towards any claim of finalized certitude.

self-dialogues are not advancing this search for reasons.

resultively, there is a want 

to apply religious overtones.

a mystifying state of emotional wander is proclaimed.

details towards clarity are vague and far between.

a wonder-about is the fallback position easily taken,

that are good at getting 

the same kind of facials from almost everyone.

yet, there is a milling 

of mindfulness collectively building.

there is a slippage gap between think and reason,

yet denial still gives one a sense of groundedness.

assuredness is not readily exchanged or received.

the fabric of truth is now shredded. 

doubt is loud-mouth demanding a clarity of source.

some want to gawk at the thought 

while others fade away from concern.

yet the true meaning of life is in question.

so where were you when

the unthinkable walked through the door?

when it came down from the sky,

rose up from the ocean,

or more importantly,

crossed your mind ? 

the delicate art

the delicate art of witnessing one's thoughts.

not being the think of them,

but further back, behind them, with a view.

not even invested in the thoughts themselves,

but more so, how the thoughts work themselves,

the methods and their madness,

thoughts' habits of process 

and it frames of reference.

very privately wanting to source its agenda,

its payoffs, its means of inner dialogue.

and what is the driver 

for being and doing what it does?

such, is the delicate art of witnessing,

as so very much separate from thought.

for thought could come and steal for itself,

unto itself, unrealized.

thought could blend and meld of its own

into an illusion of inward self-dialogue.

and the art of the witness, 

would then be lost in address and topic.

this witnessing does not want outcome or summary.

witness wants deeper access 

to energetic layers of one's inner land,

and to the source-fulness that unbeknownst provides,

and the translated emotional medium of those means.

witness wants the hidden emotional landscape

to be revealed, 

as if translated clearly beyond thought's projection.

it is as if every person is of themselves 

a glacier of interest.

and then, it was as if the world for thought 

was interesting for its presence 

in its melting process.

but, as for witness's view, the interested is in 

its unseen emotional-formation's existence. 

to see the hidden driver before the thaw.

to witness the energetic elements 

behind thought's composition,

before the outcome appears as topic and address.

for as witness, it is clear 

that the emotional content of any say

is immensely compacted 

in a monotone vocal outcome.

for thought is very linear when it comes to speak.

it gives sight but not a deeper typological view.

it ordains the evident 

but disguises the hidden agendas.

it's a path towards logical and comprehensible

but does not venture into the emotional complexities

or the irrationally simultaneities 

of feelings undisclosed.

I want for the feel of thought 

and not the directives.

the art of the witness of thought 

is a precious process.

not for rewards, 

as if a payoff for efforts,

but more so, just for a deeper sense 

for the human presence of being 

that is essentially involved . . .

 

religious (haiku)

we're the religion 

of worst case scenarios

our prayers are fear-based 

freed-up in giving

no one can hold you

the way you want to be held.

no one has heard your story, 

the way you have privately lived it.

every fiber of your being

is not in the arms of another's embrace.

no story you can tell,

will encompass the carry or the burden.

another would have had to,

by their own making and ability,

walked your path, step by step,

to know the disappointments and the linger,

the fallbacks on self 

and the close-out of circumstances,

the private scourges and the fallouts,

as if depression was ever-hidden 

but still inwardly present.

you can't really share 

what is so well disguised,

for there is too much apparent uplift present,

for others to question the privacy of your feet,

standing in the alone of feelings undisplayed. 

your story, away from the sorrow,

is all initiative that actually comes to you easy

but does not represent what is carried within.

such an odd combination of wealth and worry,

apprehension and accomplishment,

caring available and insularity yet unannounced.

there will come a time,

when trees will mentor you,

when a soul sense of others is present in them also,

when it will not be language that speaks you

but a presence of self with a calling

that allows for an unspoken dialogue with others,

that heals you and mends you,

that feeds you where you felt lacking,

that completes you into forthright animation.

where all of your wounds heal 

is where wings become born.

what was necessary sorrows for now

becomes the medium of your transformation 

for then.

it is not the time that cures

but the calling from within

that overwhelms your circumstance

into a medium of spirit-presence,

where others embrace you for your calling

and you become the deeds as evidence  

that free you

in the service to the wellness of those around.

cause-worthy aligns through you from beyond. 

what private sorrow can represent 

demystified, are then freed-up in your giving 

to walk free-spirited forward . . .