the frequencies of existence

there are frequencies occurring. 

there are of life itself.

or at least as we claim to know,

with each new myopic discovery we make.

we are all the way to quantum and then some.

we are and they are, 

in names only.

we couldn't be more sensory remote and ponder,

that all exists in name only to us.

yet they are frequencies occurring.

we don't have existence there,

but they do.

we claim a righteousness to our existence,

but they don't even show concern.

they hardly take form seriously, 

and yet we claim all matter.

we claim to be self taught,

ever on the ascension of discovery.

of course that is within our terms

and subsequently our brain style of recognition means.

we have objectification as our form of discovery.

it's not like we synthesize and then fuse.

it isn't even as if an approach to harmonize.

we just name and claim, 

and objectify in passing.

we have understanding as if a shopping cart,

out at our local universe for some fixings. 

there to notice,

what science-mom will bring home.

for us to possibly try?

oh if frequency had sensory flavor,

or if frequency was palatable, 

as any kind of sensory find.

but frequency to frequency

does not have experience 

built in to their equation. 

for we do experience, 

as if as a bleacher seat existence.

hey, we do what we can

and the rest is outside our sensory range.

mind-wise everything is news to us.

you'd think we were onlooker evolved.

that we're here as guests,

and privileged as such.

so secretly, in each of our heads,

there is this voice that is asking us,

"may I take your order?".

and we believe, 

to be privileged to respond.

of course they could be out of stock

for what we might be asking.

but in general, we find alternatives to suffice.

frequency is a tight knit core.

they function above and beyond

what we render as relevant.

yet we expect to reap the benefits, unknowingly.

as if, oh we're part of them also.

we do our share of participation,

but almost to the point of lameness occurring.

we are of it.

kind of with it.

but basically clueless as to our manner.

if frequency could only think like we do.

if frequency was more language friendly.

if frequency had a manner of speak.

but then maybe it does

and the onus is really on us.

we seem to be culpable of capacity,

burdened with distractive style,

presumed with relevance

and burdened with remote.

mind-wise, it appears

that we are still 

in the wallflower stage of development,

while the existence-dance is still going on . . .

urgency's dilemma

what's so bland about a sense of urgency,

when what-for's loose their sense of insistency?

when have-tos forget their order of approach?

when deemed necessary brakes out in laughter?

when death is celebrated 

as a breakthrough or a brake-out?

if we actually had time on our hands,

would that be in the form of gloves, rings,

skin lines, scum, or weight-fulness?

impending can have so many false fronts.

expectation is ever so anxious in waiting.

thank god bedtimes stories were read over and over.

therefore expectation was discovered to have 

its limits of excitement and intrusion on the moment.

the whole titillation of next moment's come

is the pretend of a bystander to one's own existence.

for every moment's action is its own accord.

yes, it carries messages forward.

yes, it deems as if to direct.

yes, it often belies of future intent.

but it is also richly blessed 

in its immediacies present.

urgency may have over-dressed.

tides of the moment 

are always on the move.

it just depends, 

how north or south you are

and what season 

you find yourself in . . .

the intricacy of intimacy

the intricacy of intimacy,

as if wrapped in the warmth 

of a private showing.

slowly attending to the draw 

of an atmospheric maze

that is ascending, 

transformed into a labyrinth,

leading to a wellspring 

beyond expectation's grasp.

the embrace of atmosphere 

is tenderly inviting.

the soothe of self,

as if a bloom opening 

to sunlight, 

is softly approaching.

all the parts of notice 

liquify into alignment.

my being acts out 

through me.

all appears lighter 

than gravity allows.

all our conversation is stream-speak,

ever flowing in the same.

touch is gratitude meeting gratification,

as if melt had supreme dignity 

and blend was intoxication.

where two distinct pitches 

reach a harmony beyond accord

and pathways of entry give way

to plains of ever-sight,  

then intimacy has its givens.

intricacies were only prayers 

of mindful attention, 

consciously given

as kindling towards the fire

of the floating deadweight of now

into the lighthouse fumes that generate spirit. 

ascendency is seeking its maker

as intricacy giving way

to what intimate seas . . .

oh the madness of moolah

oh, the impertinence of money.

it has a lip-service mentality.

it will sleep around,

has the moral code of an accomplice.

agrees to anything that looks like action.

has the soul of a departed.

has the reputation of a mindset.

its true value is a matter of life or death.

it goes by a variety of names,

from slim pick-ins to glory-be.

it has no recognition for the past.

will travel in disguise with anyone,

to anywhere. 

is hands-on in the most important of situations.

it's every smile is also a smirk.

is only afraid of burning to death.

has distant relatives of a hearsay nature,

sometimes gold-backed,

others times, the counterfeit.

has a pleasance about it 

when introduced.

appears to be needy

likes to be in bunches of its own kind.

almost goes unconscious when asleep.

has no problem with denominational differences.

knows one dance style really well.

would watch SPEND as a travel-log show.

could write amazing novels

about the human sideshow.

is all ears for the sounds of intention.

would really dress up,

if it mattered.

money never learned the meaning of blame.

does well with impulse and irrational excursions.

is best scene at the execution of circumstances.

dreads the future of the electronic age.

easily carries more weight

than any written spiritual text.

lives somewhere between profound and dumbfound.

doesn't really care about its birth or death,

just about its currency of action.

is most disguised by reputation at hand.

knows the pertinence of now,

better than most humans can.

can't tell the truth by circumstance

and will lie with the best of them.

if human fingerprints were its make-up,

than massive deductions could be made.

its actual DNA is potentially dubious

by circumstance and also account.

makes you wonder 

if it was born during a plague.

functions way more like grasshoppers than bees.

really has a celebrity status,

when compared to most dirt.

not very good at multitasking

but highly skilled at one.

generally works in a ritualistic fashion

but has never been good at hand to mouth.

for it can be used to buy food

but not good as a substitute.

you'd think humans could 

come up with a better representation of trust.

but money has the claim 

and subsequently all of the fame.

so get back to me

when rich or poor 

is not a means of self appraisal.

and money is off the value table

as a method of human's enterprise . . .

Tourettes of the mind

 

what is the cutting edge of 'could you really?',

when you have gotten to the premiere  

of decision's result?

is there ever a nanosecond of consideration 

for something else?

is this the consequence 

of what linear thought proposes,

that there is no turning back,

that decision is in fact the leap

even though in time,

there is still more time,

before the act-out takes premise?

is the momentum of decision so intent

that there is no calling back,

no potential for stall-point intervention,

no otherwise mind query that instigates 

and subsequently presents,

even in the imminence of release 

into physical action?

does the inner experience of decision 

seem so strong as to finalize 

what action maybe taken?

personally, I have experience-decision override,

where some other force from within

grabs the reigns 

of decision's attempt at pronouncement

and sets off quite differently,

to my apparent self in surprise.

so who was that?

and do they, who they are,

just sit in overwatch 

from more deeply within.

and if and when

do they take the reigns, when needed,

over this ritual that I consciously use,

which I call a decision?

is this just merely from brain-time show

as if I am prepared to decision-defend 

if needed be?

when actually, decision is just a defense mechanism

to use when in the custody of another's inquiry?

like I am really a self in authorship

but I need an editor to proof read 

before I go public with my sense of being?

so how do I question that part of me

that is in refinement,

past my sense of self I can claim?

can we be in dialogue?

is this past 

what I am apparently capable to understand?

is this where destiny comes from

but I am just the act-out needed?

and how did my dumb get its relevance 

in the first place?

no, I am being sincere in questioning.

I just seem to be possessed with an innocence 

to dimensions that otherwise don't appear

in this human phase.

this is definitely without adequate instructions provided.

and decision making 

now seems outrageously overbearing.

why did we invent this technique to start with?

it's definitely a mind ritual 

that I might have learned.

it sort of gets me through the day

but not everything is decision pronounced.

lots of the time, it's sort of a flow,

where there is no prominence 

that forms as decision time.

decision is like a form to honor 

in defense there of.

I may have initiated decision 

to defend against my doubts.

but how did doubt get to be in existence?

is this, as my innocence,

having to honor 

what I don't align with or fully understand?

and therefore I make up a pretend 

as an environment within which

decision has a righteous existence?

so I decision as a limp

for an injury I don't remember really happening.

but it did and therefore I do.

I now make decisions

as if in fear and protection there of.

decisions feel like walking upstream with intention,

when really all I ever really wanted was flow.

I wanted life as an expression of flow.

I don't really want the decisions of drivenness.

I wanted the intimacy of drawnness prevailing.

sure, decisions may mindfully exist for their reasons

but not as my prominence of existence.

if I have to have decisions,

may they be

of passion seeking expression

or for the art-fullness of inclusion 

and so much less about the overbearance of self concern.

decision is such a nervous tick of the mind.

it's a form of Tourettes, 

as if we all had it 

as a mind syndrome . . .

the fate of thought

the fate of thought,

as if the work of each breath taken,

as if mindset ever represents health. 

those of us with this dementia,

we all talk amongst ourselves.

it's a species trait,

generally accepted as the norm.

we suffer, widely suffer,

from the effects of what is called

'dualistic thinking'.

but it's not the think

that is the haunt of the problem.

it's the thought.

for what thought goes through,

that so thoroughly damages. 

the species that defines it,

is what we do with thought. 

it is a form of incarceration

and we intentionally commit it,

to the imprisonment of memory.

but in that process,

we further confine its usage,

as if in a form of time-bound slavery.

this enslavement becomes a daily activity.

we have become slave owners of thought.

we have memory plantations,

upon which we all eventually come to work.

we subjugate thought to menial tasks.

we make thought do outrageous contagious acts.

we show them as speech shared amongst others.

we bare them,

to show their teeth, their shape and their genitals.

but worst of all,

we compare them.

we deem comparative to be a search for truth,

right versus wrong,

left versus right,

moral versus immoral,

and that list goes on 

into its own eternity of the mind.

we live in the afterlife of conclusions made.

dualistic thinking generates these conclusions

and they then become the residence of consciousness.

we inhabit decisions, 

rather then take up the think-risks of the moment.

we shun the now, 

for our versionary truth intensified.

all of our mind-cells are infected 

with conclusions as closure.

we are trench-coats lined with still-shots as thoughts, 

out to exchange with all humans as others.

we have fashioned lip-service 

into a linguistic art-forms of generalized speech.

most of our say, 

predicates the use of this affliction.

the lifespan of these conclusions 

out-ways the eventuals of their benefit.

we become a plague of verbal hearsay.

conclusions in the mind 

are the thrive of thought unregulated.

where thought is the translated-bible of think,

we succumb to a religion of conclusionary existence.

we have rites and practices that slay us.

we are the stone of a concretized existence.

oh think is real,

as first light, first before thought.

but then it is cast into memory 

for further devilish usage.

fear is the original invention of 'versus'.

linear thinking can't see it or have it

any other way.

the chrysalis of our human existence

is in a permanence of false hibernation.

we all have think

but it is, for now, thought stolen.

we are the grandness of a tribe of thieves.

we use experience to front us

and then we pillage with grandness in mind.

we set sail with the distinctions of thought in mind

but we travel on the sees of conclusion's making,

as if conclusions safeguard us from our fears,

a somewhat practical yet pragmatic approach 

to the adventure of human existence.

we are all cell-mates in thought-form prison.

our judgment-god forebode us, 

of a break out to happen.

think has no fear in its original stance.

but thought has succumb 

to conclusionary's stance. 

and in the legendary of now 

we are none the wiser . . .

soft brought to bare

when soft has no surface,

the feel is sent outward,

from deeply within.

never to embrace in the concrete,

yet interface is often tingly.

recognition has no veneer.

affinities are those first inklings.

soothe overtakes any oddities. 

soft becomes embodied.

embrace becomes energetic in nature.

reverberations are commonly revealed.

all words spoken fly out,

up into the tonal sky. 

their flight is visually appealing.

soft escapes contextual grasp.

even this, as ambiance, 

has a fragrance to it.

some elements of feel are flotational,

yet nothing leaves the heart,

that vacantly comes from the mind.

awareness has embrace all over it.

soft has its own viscosity elements.

embodied is its fluid state.

where does soft come from,

when launched from deeply within?

everyone is their own self experiment.

it's on the palate of being, 

somewhere there.

canvass is not necessary,

just conveyance of intention 

will do.

know the artist of self,

by the contact of being to life.

soft, as a skill set, 

is learned from the heart . . .