the prism of response

language itself is pseudonymistic,

in every out-breath of its efforts. 

yes, we are alive, 

undiminished and clueless.

we have nominology save our asses,

so it seems.

we have relational, 

as a deep philosophy of means.

we teach it, 

subscribe it, 

incessantly demand it.

we override with cognition,

as if to name all legitimate feelings, 

as such,

but we don't have the creative resource 

to be from the within, 

without cognitive, 

as this supersede,

as if feelings of origin 

have lexicons of usage,

as if feelings have needs 

to surface for words to say.

feelings have an original world 

before and beyond,

what spoken has to offer.

even the tone of one's voice 

has deeper validity,

than what spoken articulation 

can lip-service define.

we made cups and saucers of speech,

to sip the fluids of being 

and swim with gusto,

rather than melt into a liquidity 

of collective presence.

we have higher octaves 

of connectivity operative

but we dwell in a prism of response

rather than become 

the light of our beings . . .

to sense the unknown

we all have an unrealized shared sense 

of the unknown.

we bond over 

an inherited muted underlying silence,

vast spaces occupied 

without the fill of understanding,

without a knowing pledge 

or confirming oath taken.

we passively rely 

on hidden truth to eventualize,  

as if recognition convinces the spirit 

of our being,

as if acknowledgment 

is a rite of passage to existence,

as if experience is a pit pass 

to the engine room of self,

as if regulatories are actually housed 

in a conscious mind.

experience is a mockery 

that plays upon its primalness,

for we are all addicted to 

the sensory drugs of infusion.

we over-emphasize the worth of intake,

yet burdensomely carry the light of being 

in our darkness.

we develop under-dimensionalized strategies for living,

as if survival has a timeline 

and proof is always evidential.

we mock ourselves 

with the substances of realism,

not the objects so much 

as ways of outward relating.

we are prided by an authenticity 

of separatism justified,

heavily invested in questing 

for the worth of survival,

yet fear is still the basis 

of brain development going forward.

we therefore create 

rightful fears of each other,

by race, by countries, 

by religions, by accomplishments.

we have vivid and lucid pathos 

evident upon recall.

we have singular motivations 

based upon drivenness.

we have falling forward in balance 

as looking good.

not all get to have existential sighs 

in the course of daily life.

some have the bleed of an innocents, 

they swim in.

some have the override of impressionism 

as compelling.

some are situationally bound 

that they load-carry as living.

some are just standouts 

as anomalies not worth association.

if we could just flatline 

and then rise from the dead,

each of us 

as an amazing collective, 

of transcended awareness, 

beyond circumstantial distractedness,

with instincts of bonded-ness realized 

as consciously operative,

not task-bound to build or reconstruct,

just a knowing presence 

from a different source base.

not knowledge but a knowing, 

as if a bonded oneness,

a medium of one-thought, 

one-presence, 

one-means.

where we all attend the funeral 

of existentialism together.

we are not burying the thought of it,

but more so, we are released from it 

as cognitive means.

we come to have a verticality 

of thoughtform skills.

we have hive-mind 

and a common sense of reflectiveness.

we are relational, 

as if planet and other species included.

we have tact, 

as task number one 

as common mutuality. 

we become relaxed 

from the mentoring of time.

we take, to have these bodies, 

as representational. 

we have brains realized, 

as resonators from beyond reality.

the universe is one mind 

and we tap in.

we are emotionally in flight 

and heart is all sky.

the material plane is just chalk 

scribbled on the board

and we are thoughts 

to hand to chalk to pressed to scrawled.

we are the vapor of existence 

returning back to light. 

we have come here 

to leave thought behind,

ride emotions 

until they evaporate as if dreams

and dematerialize 

the riddle of embodied form-existence,

to a zest, 

without void,

to zoom, 

without movement 

and to peace, 

without question . . .

beings of shade and hue

within us is the life 

of the shade and the hue.

all so witness dependent,

as if menials set to the task,

and the carriage of view in action.

but the real work is,

the essential work is inwardly retained, 

the rendering with in-depth attention,

the be and its beaming are embraced,

taken into the mindfulness of aware.

only living as operatives is use,

possibly as skillsets, natural or conceived,

yet requiring a depth of attention

and a resource of witness to proceed.

one has to assign oneself a presence,

a means of observation with intent

and be taken by what is observed,

to commingle in an inward awareness,

delicately to construe as if rendering,

as if a creation 

becomes mindfully transposed 

but not overwhelming,

not out of perspective to the whole,

but executed with the essence of elegance,

succinct yet understated 

to serve to the whole,

and masterful 

for any second person's notice.

the life of shade and hue,

is as if in service to observation there of,

yet living the religion of light to dark

and the philosophy of potency of color,

not for observation,

but inherent to its own isness of being.

shade and hue live in

but observation is a human level of tact.

imagine us 

if we as emotional beings of accord,

as if we totally are 

of the spiritual expression

of our own, 

shade and our hue . . .

the peacefulness of chaos

the peacefulness of chaos

is where contradictions go to harmonize,

where linear minds wander 

with shoes untied,

where knowledge, having manners, 

does not work,

where slavery generates 

an alternate universe

and its humdrum 

becomes the backdrop to musicality,

where a reframe is always next in line,

where answers hold no water

and doing forges a sense of being into light,

where oppression can only stir 

but not contain,

and where where is not a poster 

but a generative term.

chaos is the fragileness 

of not knowing into comfort.

chaos is an observer's term of self reference.

peacefulness gives up on the control

and widens the canvass 

of radiant participation. 

all colors lead to the same essential source.

but naming all colors 

is a prejudicial stance in the making.

actually naming is a human's polite way 

of distancing,

as a mutuality 

of separateness gains status and account

and experience becomes 

that tally-man of awareness.

all contractions are the words 

of the evolutionary bible,

for what can't be embraced remains 

as separate from.

find me an act 

that embraces the audience into presence.

find me a team 

that generates hive mind.

find me a way 

for not looking to become.

I want a kind of confluence 

that goes without saying.

I want to be mindful 

without any details needed.

I don't need thoughts 

as front-door welcome mats.

I want feel 

that has collective human ocean to it.

I want to abandon 

prideful species exclusivity.

why does intelligence 

want to make a line of order

when the whole universe 

is sacred curvature 

ever scribing?

chaos is the natural observation 

of integrity misunderstood.

everything has constant passage 

and we look forward to our death 

as a final remark.

as if why send a post card 

if you don't put a stamp on it?

why be a package of essence 

if you can't wrap it?

so when was language ever the gift 

and not just the delivery?

there is a peacefulness to chaos,

but unfortunately, 

it doesn't package into spoken words . . .

in-breath, self-dialogue

the in-breath self-dialogue,

is irregular in appearance

and the cursive of an unspoken murmur,

emphatic as a sigh,

tonal as a complaint,

couldn't pass as a legitimate alibi, 

yet has interior flight 

as a remark with carriage,

and exists more as a verbal bruise received,

as the emotional body knows of these well,

is the albatross of a soul, 

though lost in flight,

has the wardrobe of summary, 

well worn, 

and well worn out,

can't continue to exist on a diet of pity,

wants to go over the horizon of summary

and never look back.

what came in dressed as words,

becomes nude as homeless feelings,

if actually overheard,

could be received as dismay,

but not sharp enough 

to be heard as chagrin, 

not sturdy enough to be disappoint,

could lead to bummer status,

but that would require further conversation,

also not really self-aloof 

having just enough awareness as passage,

with a feel that entertains as familiar, 

once again,

not tidy but is the labor of a snail's passing.

it could be considered 

an in-breath anomaly 

yet meaning is overheard.

further discussion is in the form 

of prolonged silence 

that eventually passes, 

as if the inner sounds of momentum overwhelm subside.

no bullhorn is ever needed

for the self mic is always on, loud enough,

for as one remark alone, 

is a full conversation 

of the self

unto itself . . .