the id of it

when do we make conscious 

about the id of it?

it can't be done in topic.

can it be done in tone?

if I swim the feel of what you say

rather than listen to understand,

would that get me closer to the truth?

not that truth is a constant

but more towards the livingness

is what I really meant.

what goes into what goes on,

that is what I want to feel for.

to me, way back there,

there is a commonness of spirit.

I mean way back there,

maybe before we invented separateness,

before we had fear as an operative, 

before we had frontal cortex 

as our consciousness,

before we came up with living in dismay.

it seems everyone 

is a mountain-journey away.

a trek to only get to be in the know.

I wanted human emotional viscosity, 

not a common forest 

sharing the same cognitive breeze.

I wanted that 

which baffles understanding's attempt,

that which logic demands but cannot define.

to be beyond what know has to offer,

to be so tight with it

that language is revealed to be useless.

can't even say share and get to it as relevant,

to where the id of it 

has no audience of observation,

to a where that has no boundaries of need,

to where fluid would have been 

another term for id

and thus the consciousness as such . . .

crops of fervor (haiku)

passion needs options

curiosity as seeds

planted provides growth

subtlety

subtle is always inviting,

as if a path towards sacred.

for that which requires me 

to be of self in presence,

moves me inwardly along

into a world,

less of clutter 

and minimal of jargon.

silence there is in a loud voice, 

standing as overbearing, 

but softly mentoring me.

what is this, 

that existed as seed unseen,

but now, almost secretly, 

becomes the sight of blossoms?

this, as happening, 

has it fill of moments.

for nuance has a residence

that generally lives on undisturbed.

evidential life is, as always, 

in the lockdown accountability mode.

but subtlety does have hearsay 

yet is beyond circumstances' disclosure.

it does not necessarily put on 

a word-of-mouth

nor merit the worth of gossip.

but it does liquify behind the obvious,

aerate the apparent,

and give feelings, 

as an underground stream of travel, 

always has worth,

more than a moment's take.

but rarely is it just for cause.

it is often as cellular, 

as feelings ever become

and as narrative, 

as a microscope

that ever passes as the eye test.

what that subtle seems to blatantly offer,

gives me innuendo

rather than applause.

I will take nuance 

over apparent knowledge,

as a path in the snow 

that leave no tracks,

and mutedness that ends 

in silence asking.

I don't want details.

give me doses of rarified.

I can live within attunement

as long as subtle in my guide . . .

suicide is not a songbook

suicide notes of depressives 

are expression of higher vibrational denials,

as if given reality menus, 

where value is what you order

but not anything of what you eat,

as if for you,

there is nothing vitally healthful on it.

each person of that ilk

needs to be their own short order cook.

for a way to make fixings for the brain

that are spicy and tasty enough 

for the feelings

to be as eatables that empathetic can get.

and are delicious enough 

for spirit to go into delight.

perception is the kitchen to start with.

and then there is a startup parlance 

for cooking.

it involves access to higher octaves 

of sensing,

not resolve we commonly deal and live with.

but something more like the vibratories 

in perception,

something with a feel as eyes

and heart-brain as translator, 

a way of self dialogue, 

as if you were your own cooking show,

as both presenter and audience. 

you have to start with what feeds you life

and then add flavoring of a wider scope,

so that emotional salivation takes place

in the living aware digestion process.

sure, make enough for others,

in case they ever show up.

it is a somewhat specialized cuisine, 

but health as sanity requires it.

serve yourself often.

become a connoisseur 

in the art of your being.

share the vernacular with kindness 

when you can.

feed the beast as well as the beauty.

make epitaphs into recipes.

you are a cookbook in the making,

featuring higher frequency recipes 

as your flavorific lives it, without denial.

for the commemorative should be

that you live your sensitivity alive 

as others come into the deliciousness 

to dine . . .

along for the ride

to feel, words are all spare parts.

to think, feel is wetness after the rain.

to me, these mediums are strange 

to each other,

watercolors with stick brushes

or legos that suddenly spontaneously melt.

it's either a dance card 

left at the table of thought

or overfeeding the fish that whimsy my day.

in a perfect storm,

the garden gets nourished 

and I am clean and dry,

but that doesn't happen very much.

instead, cooked meals that are eaten cold

and taste great and feel warm inside me.

a shopping list forgotten

but mingling with people is a substitute.

driving in slowed down traffic

so that daydreaming become 

the moment of truth.

times when the elevator stops

but I am floating along and the door opens.

or when I am in a discussion with someone

and yet their presence is saying more.

strangely, I can be cleaning my hands

with a sense of urgency

and the giving hand of intention

gives way to the receiving hand's feel 

for the touch.

there can be a situation 

where I am almost is tears

and my mind jumps up with solutions unasked for.

I can be in full laughter

and my feeling self is asking for more air.

I can be full on crying, almost sobbing

and my mind is all questions 

about the worth of it,

trying for rational overrule as a brainwash.

they are like two kids riding together 

in a small red wagon

but not wanting to go to the same place,

ever!

my life is all about elasticity,

lather and scrub,

swim, float and breathe.

no two moments are alike.

well, they are somehow learning 

the likes of each other

and I am the wagon

while they are along for the ride . . .  

the content beyond topic

oh for the seemingly so,

beyond evidential means.

the parade of tonal sentences

without floats of common interest

or bands of contributing memory.

the celebration of mutual silences

dressed in pauses that close-mouth stare.

the dance of tonals,

that both lead and follow.

conversation making itself sacred

by its simplicity of exchange.

the content of intent

without bearing topical gifts,

just presence given

as the religion of togetherness.

moments of mutuality, 

working to become 

one set of eyes.

the space apart churning 

as the means of etheric embrace.

the momentum of memories, 

marching onward,

as if footsteps made 

out of pasts,

to bring us to this, 

in the wintering of now,

where sacred meets up with blessed

and there's nothing of immediacy

left to say.

just living on the perusals 

as if genuine is as life support.

for we are as ships, 

that pass each other in the nights,

feeling for the waves exchanged

in this sea of togetherness.

experiencing dawns and dusks

with melodies that carry no lyrics.

we as the talons of birds that pray

yet for now,

solely play with air guitars.

we make up the bother of details

without the scrabble 

board of means.

we are the vowels of assonance in bloom

without the consonance of occurrences,

to language as if as physical was means

yet buffered by these impositions 

of circumstance,

as wearing becomes well worn.

what topics of conversation we are

that wander off

as if kite-tails

in the breath exchanged as breeze.

such is the depths of the self

ever so, 

as content revealed . . .

the symphony of being

I take in

what upliftment of my senses offer,

for they passively read what is present.

I listen with expansion in mind,

grateful in receivership.

it is as if being held close,

has no stories to tell,

just a sense of vastness to embrace,

as if my needs, 

the world passively comforts.

wide-eyed is relaxing.

breathing has no story in mind.

emotions have no load to carry.

all movement around

is passing as confluent before me.

it is the lake of caring

without any specifics of concern.

the flow of being for me

has no push nor pull.

I meet the next moment with buoyancy

and we glide and soothe.

it is in this as surmise

that is, a state of the art of being

with next thoughts that respect what is

and feelings that embrace in connectedness.

know me there

as I come to know you also.

we do have the spirit of calm in common.

this is the music played 

on higher chords within.

for, we are all 

the symphony of being . . .

care

reality is fictional for those who really care.

sure, there is the interpretative 

of the act-out.

decipher goes with the territory of care.

read into is more important than read-on.

act-out does not necessarily end 

with outcome.

care invents measures as means.

care goes off stage to edit the ongoing.

care features all blood styles in waiting,

oxygenates the storylines 

beyond just breathing, 

has time warp at its disposal,

can liquify what was perceived as solid,

creates web or cocoon, 

if perceived as necessary,

fights fire with emotional enkindlement.

what bleeds and what burns. 

all have an essence worthy of love.

care has an alchemy of cherish and treasure 

to work with as ongoing.

everybody has an internal care-switch.

but its true value to self and others

depends on location, location, location . . .

(internal, situational, 

and heart-space provided) 

when reach is grasp as separate from

 

in my mind,

why does everything have a name?

like a handshake of recognition

but also as an affirmation 

of separate by design.

it seems I am a lifetime of service

to a religion of separation by devotion,

a divination of mindset deliverance,

where by I am separate from 

but superior to,

a self supposition of dignity,

a carriage of elitism as a given,

a perceptual cause as a species of leaders,

and a case made for dominion of all.

I am only on a name-tag basis 

with everything,

yet, for me, personally, 

to exist by facial recognition

amongst the earthly crowd,

it's like a celebrity status

earns me a pit pass 

to whatever of interest,

where all of life is busy with its ongoing.

and I am there to blankly stare and pose.

at worst, I am all about props,

not planet props

but more importantly, self props.

I give doing, a bad name.

I am a lot of here to there

and all of the thought-form and logistics

that that essentially takes to fill my day.

essentially I am living in a parallel universe,

except for my intake of food and air.

oh I care, 

as needs would direct me,

but I am of righteous audience. 

I expect, and then to be entertained.

I am of the species that preempts.

we have knowledge 

as a way of a menu to order from.

we are wholly amongst ourselves,

ever expansive but not so inclusive.

we would rather in-fight than immerse,

sit in wisdom, seated,

than be the actual living expression there of.

we invest in hope and desire,

as if betting on races. 

we made up the killing of time.

we are a party of thee, 

waiting for the next table 

amongst ourselves.

the phrase, 'plant life'

is a joke about two nouns 

that can't get along.

in my mind, I get to laugh about that one,

but somewhere within,

wonder overrides.

what will it take 

for us to leave the lip-service

and join the ranks 

that make for composition,

that present as almost silent dynamism, 

ever inclusive and vigilant,

yet within our reach

but, for now, only as our grasp . . .