full attendedness

if all we have are act outs,

I can't really say what means.

for means is an after affect,

as that which strikes a pose.

action took all the secret parts with them,

and they went on their way.

triumphant or troublesome, 

either way, long gone, 

and now, only left a heed, for disclosure,

as cryptics and decipherables, 

presently on display.

we all know that act-outs can't account

for the weave or the tether 

or the miracle of might.

everything is post script.

nobody is there holding hands.

ink is then the blood of the past.

action has its firm grip

and intention drove the human mass.

I just wanted cause 

in its innocence stance,

ice-field, before it turned into glacier,

tree-life, before chainsaw,

sand, before its posture as pseudo glass,

heat, before its bragging rights as thermals.

I wanted to be there for the inception,

where thought stole from think,

where think went out into the vast,

with nothing in mind.

and returned embraced with nothing named,

as just the essence of embodiment unquantified.

to be right there, 

where thought stole from think.

I wanted to be there,

to be at the sunrise of intention,

the next, as new thought,

initiated to partake in the play.

I wanted to be, 

where animation gets its permission,

where the act out first started its hurl,

to know the punchline that act out delivers,

and the secret intimacy of its creation.

I am not saying right here,

that why is ever the cause.

but what, as becoming conscious, 

has its sources.

that's what I am after,

the seed essence of initial-dom,

that which crosses the line, 

from non-existence into living, 

as if real,

who are my parents, 

before the invention of mass and form.

I want heritage,

so that I can withstand the onslaught of time.

some place I can go,

beyond the constant nagging of experience,

someplace without the need of superlatives,

some spaceless space,

some utterance of, 

from a beyond,

that is non-relational, 

as its real,

no boundaries, no referentials, 

no dallies, as if self perceived, 

just in the unaware, 

but the full attendedness 

of the beingness of be . . .

 the coming

there is this cave within me,

a cavern to my awareness sense of me.

it contains to the size of echo enchantment.

off these inner walls, I have feelings emerge.

no light comes in from the outside world,

yet there is abundant light from within.

in the way back, from far within,

there is light broadcast coming forth.

I am its keeper, 

but always on the outside of it,

looking in.

I am the transport, 

but also the cover, the camouflage

the messenger and the conveyor. 

I take it as mine for worldly reasons,

but know it as my deep and eventual means.

my emotional self wants to call it out,

but generally it is I, 

who goes deeply within.

it is there that we immerse as one being.

no one is wise to that,

but this happens in all of us,

faintly or full blown,

by circumstance, karma, and needs.

I have no reason 

to be called out by another human.

we all proceed and presume in a self manner.

but then, quite unexpectedly this happens.

the beam of me is called out,

out of the inner cave of me,

beckoned from beyond my means for myself.

my heart comes out of its deep residence.

it floods out of me in overwhelming.

I am reduced to tears, unexplained,

to a sense of being elevated and surrendered.

the light of my being is possessed and anoints.

it sheds light into the soul of another,

beyond the sense of meaningful.

it is consummate beyond caring,

as the vibrational takes center stage.

this experience is more dimensional than embrace,

as a oneness of light experiences itself.

I am a bystander to myself, 

as if previously unknown.

I am a vessel, a messenger, awakened.

I lay down beyond meaningful, as spent,

to be consumed by this light passing through,

for the loss of definition becomes illumination,

being beyond what my mind can render.

I am another land. 

beyond self provided,

is my light unabashedly to another human,

is oneness realized awakening me.

the cave becomes consummate in the broadcast.

emittance overtakes self concerns.

if I have radiance as my sacred,

then I am ever the pour onto another's presence.

this being has birthed me, 

into my light and purpose.

you have divined me, 

out my self mold.

ever-pour is my gratitude paid forward.

no more a spelunker, 

in search of inner source.

but now, one who lactates, 

as an energetic truth beamed,

to know the mystery source of all breezes,

converse between shared silences' secrets,

shape the mouth of circumstances into prayer,

make inanimate into a river of flow,

eliminate the need of language forever to say,

possess the movement of all the imperceptibles,

as never of the self, 

ever taking leave again,

the enormity of a kind heart in disguise,

presenting as humans do,

as the coinage of a self,

spent on these burdens of livingness.

but for now, buoyant ,

beyond whatever has ever had value, 

that presents, 

as the human display . . . 

the life of a vote

the mythical life of a vote,

for one so hopes,

is to cast belief, 

as if an act of ritual-confirming.

there could be future blessings applied,

benefits out of beliefs,

sunny days out of future seasons,

right livelihood sent forth,

the care of many in the hands of few.

the psychology of mass consciousness 

applied towards practical views.

the earnestness of belief, 

placed by an act of directed intention,

possibly has become,

yet another ritual of disenfranchisement. 

what is a vote?

a bouquet of principles presented for viewing.

a fragrance of futures 

in a field individual growers.

how belief lives on a winter of thin ice,

expecting summer to come from a vote.

maybe vote would be more impactful,

if shoulder to shoulder was part of its means.

if imaging was less of tactics

and more of real face to face.

if competency was the show-face of everyday life.

if the rigor of our culture was empathetically active.

but vote is only a stare down.

you look at what they say

and they stare back

at what you need to hear.

it's more of a lottery game of wish-fulls. 

when a method goes into madness,

what happens is fallout has prominence. 

how to invent something if impact as meaningful.

vote, as a ritual, dies a thousand deaths in usage.

people pay no heed any more.

there is no comeuppance to decisions made.

no care for registering one's attention grasp.

it is what it is,

without the greasing of vote applied

or even consensus as loosely applied.

we are all still currently skating around,

waiting for the spring of life to arrive,

but voting that the sun will come up

in the minds and the hearts of others.

that is a race the metaphors run

and the winner gets to act out

their own version of interpreting the collective,

with their self in mind.

and we pledge to vote,

based on either their think skills demonstrated

or the beliefs we have in them going forward.

there has to be a better means

of expressing belief and conveying trust,

than voting.

as if we are a society, 

that expects voting to be the nose ring

that leads us all to a better life,

riding the bull we elected . . .

light up the day

so, 

maybe this is too cheeky to ask.

but do you have an emotional intimacy match?

something like say, with surface friction,

a strike-spark of some sort?

you know, that feeling of compression,

but in a good way.

something like, like matches.

something like tender tinder, 

that we both can use.

I'm not thinking, 

my flint to your steel,

or vice-versa.

no, something less striking.

like some inner source of electricity. 

say, my moody metabolism mixed with

your steel wool in resistance?

that could work.

but if we both came together

on a lighter note,

that would be the easiest. 

or any kind of magnifying magnetism,

intimately shared, 

in a timely manner.

we need to spark something up

in order to have a heated exchange.

something that is warm and cozy

is what I'm looking interested in.

something to light up the day,

for both of us . . .

the depth of wakefulness

wakefulness, with what depth,

is the steadfast of clarity,

is meaningful, all but floatational?

we feature surface as securing,

but delve is with constant irrational interest.

sensory has been conditioned to reflect,

what expectation deems as real,

yet we live for the unexpected.

we thrive on turns of eventfulness.

we are nuance-driven without report,

as rational mind is the cover.

but beyond the sensory overlay

or beneath the convenience of rational account,

tidbits of illusory keep false-surfacing.

somewhere within, 

in-depths are working on a different level.

safely, we call that an active imagination.

and we don't commonly share, 

these pit-passes with others.

yet people have to have the instincts 

and the self capacity to report of their findings,

to travel in privated ways within,

to journal their self sense, 

as if the life of a diary,

is in the making, 

but not to be revealed.

yet, topics of interest do emerge, 

as all the talk, 

as kindling presented.

does anyone expect science to answer?

is there something like a non-prejudicial view?

and if so, is there a clear mind for its reception?

we always have phenomenology, 

guarding at the suspected door.

we can event anything in to triviality. 

we can audience for the need,

but spectate as if indulged with entertainment.

is real ever really justifiable

for the things we could say,

but really don't make practical sense?

are we the pleasure of the mind

making reality a linear narrative?

observation, as if separate from,

is such a false front to be defending,

as the all of the unsaidness of circumstance.

call me philosophical,

if this all gets too abstract.

but recognition is but a mind game.

what I feel and sense still registers.

things I intuit, 

don't have the time of day

to leisure into a cognitive stance.

what I metaphysically come upon,

can register into feelings, 

migrating into thoughts.

what I sense about another,

may go beyond their personality or character traits.

if I feel a genuine connection to another,

I got vibes and then trust,

but no explanation as to the how or why.

wakefulness has more depth than account can muster.

swimming in the emotional ocean makes more sense

than standing on the rational land,

metaphorically speaking, that is.

I want land sensibilities in ocean circumstance,

to be a given for perception's permission.

life is so much more dimensionally rich,

than narrative can overdrive. 

so tell me about yourself,

without reality as your fallback 

or as your cover . . .

it all plays

what does raw feel like,

without the mindful efforts as whittle-down?

what is inception,

when no beginning will lay its claim?

what is it,

that experience pilfers for fumes into delight?

is a mistake,

the bible of wisdom, 

yet rightly taken from the wrong path?

is expertise,

ever in this moment, 

without fallback on its mind?

how I feel,

I would never say.

but what I feel,

I will tell you,

as if my words could do what they say.

for our in-depth conversation 

is always at the seashore of so stated.

where we are both of the liquid itself, 

which is beyond that of observing.

it goes on without verbal interruption.

every splash, 

as if for every tear,

signifies but does not reveal.

essence of being wears no clothes,

has no formidable boundaries,

doesn't have truth, 

as its eventual timely projection.

for no drop in the ocean is distinguished

by the nature of high contrast.

and if two ever touch,

it is viscosity that expresses their love.

I have physicality to express, 

as my drop as self.

but I have spirit, 

as my current of aliveness,

to bask and evaporate,

from mountaintop to ocean depths,

as if, liquidity's mystery and tease.

it all plays, 

as if raw does indeed feel . . .

mood sex, really?

I wanted to have mood sex.

it has no moving parts.

the physicality is non-relatable.

sure, there is breathing

and a physical presence, 

that is not distracting,

but otherwise total involvement.

it has its heighten-ness. 

evocatives happen if focus is broken.

declaratives rarely occur.

there is no bystander status possible.

it's all eventually vibratory, 

as experience would later account.

otherwise time disappears.

there is no edginess to this awareness.

living, otherwise upon reflection, seems superficial.

for there are other sides to pathos, 

besides conclusions.

honestly, there really is joyless joy,

but not experientially accountable.

the sex tag was only for eye-catching,

maybe just an intro-metaphore of seduction.

yes, it's all an emotional medium,

if one has to have words about it.

but, like in a river, 

in which drops talk amongst themselves,

the language is all in flow.

and viscosity is as real, 

as this love can get.

so now, it's all about mood,

no, not state of mind, as mood,

but the broadcast of beingness.

the unboundaried sense of a oneness

that can surface in a self, 

beyond any means of surrender.

it is a qualified sense of experience, 

that alters the method of experience permanently, 

adding a dimension that is otherwise unaccountable.

there is no going back to rational reductionism.

it is as if relational empathyism as consciousness.

it is not real in any traditional experiential sense,

just omni-contextual flow as one mind,

if that be a necessary fault, 

for the comfort of existence 

to be a consciousness in transcendence.

clearly this is not a thought world occupancy,

just as oceanic as feel could be, 

and yet be transitional, 

as needed to be expressed.

is this asking too much,

if I call this to mind?

maybe it's just dumb to yearn,

but I seem to have this calling . . .