thought-less

I am the firm hands on every beady thought.

they come, one after another.

sequencing is an assumption made,

as if linearity is a brain assignment to follow.

I use to care specifically about the thought itself,

posture inwardly in wonder,

consider a sense for its presence, 

with all of the particulars worth addressing,

for just the novelty of me 

and the thought of it.

not very sure of its carriage through me as passage.

never have a sense of ownership for a thought.

it's not like putting initials in newly wet concrete

and assuming some status of presence solidified.

yet the beads keep coming,

as if thought is a religious practice of sorts,

a mediation of some constancy of mindfulness.

religion could have stopped right there,

but now became know, 

as if claims of self to be made.

there was the entertainment value to consider,

the wardrobe of remembered thoughts to share,

the world of I thought that you thought unfolding,

the unraveling of compounded thought,

where one thought easily lead to another,

as if they were of each other and then-some.

eventually, I wandered into the thought about thought.

for the who of me who is preoccupied with thought. 

there are parts of me that are thought illiterate,

not even mildly interested in thought per se.

so I set out to watch the me that thought provoked,

the handling of thought by texture and feel,

the rendering of thought by topic and intent,

the carriage of thought as if for value's appeal.

what thought was, as a projection's claim.

for thoughts label everything as documentation's call.

so much the waggle of words incessantly so.

I wanted to sense for the feel of my handling of thought,

for sometimes precious, sometimes profound,

sometimes rankled, sometimes seething,

often pedestrian in passing,

yet respectful with observation's intent.

if each bead has importance of its presence,

to whom of me is that to be so?

maybe I wanted that as my inquiry,

yet not ever the thought of it self.

but surely the rendering given it, 

is by whom of me, 

that I want to sense more thoroughly. 

who of me has thought as so precious?

what altar of self is in receivership of these as gifts,

as if as content acquired? 

my life goes on.

I seem to live for the emptiness of thought,

before it acquires content.

I want what those hands handling thought do,

but without the beady headwork done.

no more strings,

no more beads,

just the presence, 

before thought becomes so evidential.

just the sense, 

before any fill is formalized.

thoughtless, 

and yet so full of presence . . .