the real inner-work of indulgence

the real work of indulgence

is to initially not be serenaded 

by the framing done, 

by experiential high contrast, 

as a way of comparative truth is the viewing.

experiencing but without an audience sense of that.

yes, still seriously and essentially searching intently 

for the non-eventful benefits of indulgence,

is to leave the world of self, as in spectatorship,

and to self-witness a mastery, 

now aware of the shortcomings of experience, 

until it all becomes refined from within,

as a special essential awareness 

of the immediate nanoseconds of the now,

in the now.

then to delve into that indulgently,

until there is a loss of any sense of the self, 

as with self-attending to one's personal account,

and to surrender fully immersed, 

beyond any sense of experiential framing.

yes, still fully aware, 

but in the streaming of it.

even your experience should loose 

its mediumship of cognitive translation.

that is, to go where no mind easily goes, 

in its own right livelihood,

to go where feel, your immediate feel, 

becomes consummately holographic,

so as to go where any sense of touch 

feels weightlessly almost vibrationally tonal,

where touch is not realized as connectedness 

but is a deeper sense of inter-connectedness.

all of these elements, as stated,

are just as referential experientials in passing.

as one's mood becomes non-positionally ongoing,

where witness is realized 

as you in your being-ness, 

but more so as beyond your being,

"as the noun of that 

becomes the essence of the verb".

for there is no more the sense felt 

of a self as assertion or restraint,

with no forethought of expectations 

and no mental intakes as results.

nothing in the presence of this 

is previously known as behavior.

for within these dimensions, 

the impertinence of awareness 

as audience is gone.

for 'let it be said', 

is then an out-breath from eons ago.

for there is a now 

of no self-presence of occupancy

and everything has become 

what this is, 

the real spiritual work,

the awakening of the within, 

from the inner-self mastery 

of what is generally called 

the self of identification 

behind and through

the self of ego in indulgence . . .

when self-intimacy wants to dance

when taboos and stigmas dance together,

does the music made 

make them more intimate 

than their closeness should allow?

does one lead and the other follow

or vice verse in the ever-change?

are they ever, in listening,

hearing the same song?

to me, it seems

that taboo would always lead 

and shamefully but adorably, 

stigma would follow. 

their every dance could be a healing process,

for stigma to find its true source.

and for taboo to find out 

who are its offenders.  

nevertheless when they do dance,

the self intimacy of being is present,

as the dance in all of us.

we, of course, go about this

more lighthearted 

with real audible music,

a physical presence, 

as if two bodies that ignite.

but deep down

much the same is secretly,

possibly very privately, happening.

the same is actually, almost unconsciously

going on, 

with not a edge to catch

but certainly 

many it-seams-so 

to cross . . .

when notice goes without saying

 

ever is the unfolding of notice.

yet when there is no one here 

to the notice of nothing,

the custody of expectation starts dissolving.

cognition is becoming an evaporative hollow.

the senses and activity of this dormancy

resume an elevated kind of hibernation,

where the breath breathes 

of itself in passing.

these words that I wrote, 

as of then, they said goodbye.

for pronouncement now of then 

becomes without origin.

I was surely there, 

that said that.

that which your recognition chases after.

so what of then, 

will become of becoming?

even this ending 

had a beginning

and the end of this

has an ending.

all of which 

is only in the eyes of the beholder.

and the beholder too,

is only all of which? . . .

focus penetrates what experience features

experience is adversity. 

focus is to witness from beyond within.

experience is fringe, dressing, and apparel. 

focus is generative in override.

experience is sensationalization

while focus is elementalization. 

experience is layering with approval.

focus is alchemical beyond mastery.

experience labors and placates.

focus is fluid beyond fixtures' stances.

experience is sensory trudging.

focus is essence-sourcing.

experience creates precarious embodiment.

focus is effortlessly anti-consequential.

experience attempts to outshine 

the shadows of gloom ever approaching 

while focus finds what's ignitable 

to un-tunnel the endpoint of light.

experience is all verbs 

that are intending to die as nouns.

focus gives deadweight attention 

an option of abiding in light.

experience is bowls of soup

as corrective footwear

while focus is in-breathes expansion

and out-breaths discharge. 

experience tells many stories in the same voice.

focus is multilingual to inspire.

experience labors to laminate.

focus perceives to penetrate.

and experience has focus as DMV skill assigned,

as in, read row two, now row three,

while focus has experience as kindling

fuel for the insightful fire . . .

back at ya

I seem to have succumbed 

to the condemnation of conclusions, 

a residence of opinions in resolve,

a quick study of preview 

and then either glib or gloom, 

in internal remarks made.

nothing of in-depth-interest in passing,

just dismissal as a readied response,

as a kind of introvert self-feedback

to external circumstance in passing.

no genuine interest, 

either in curiosity or surmise.

wanting mood dominance to pervade

and persuade each potential topic into passing.

wanting a language base

that speaks to mood that is override residing. 

not sure what mood wants to say,

but it does not want to be interrupted.

no depth in discovery present,

just reactiveness abounds.

mood is of emotion's jeep,

stuck in the mud of the moment

and not interest in goal or travel.

just a need for some overriding circumstance 

showing presence.

maybe it is the weather of feelings,

as some shift unsourced but dominant. 

it's kind of drizzle raining 

but unnamed as a storm,

just a procession of dreariness proceeding.

it's got its own thickness to endure.

can't talk my way out of this.

the voice tone is unmoved by topic

and I don't seem to be able 

to listen internally deep enough

to hear who of me is speaking

and from where within this is at source. 

just passive grimness presenting

to every external interactional exchange.

even an ambush of fresh flowers

would only cause a further fatigue in response.

somehow I have missed the excitement potential

of the moment in passing.

I have preoccupation yet nothing is named,

under siege from an unknown internal source,

can't embrace myself about it.

it's all too one-sided 

in a first person witness stance.

need a dance floor of awakening to arrive.

something so spontaneous 

that self is fundamentally shifted,

as if emotionally chiropractic

in the knead of a sunny day's entry.

a sense of humanity 

as a collective, once again.

yes, there is clearly a sense of isolation, 

talking to itself and not really listening.

just venting but over what?

some rudeness of reality has been experienced.

no turn the other check capacity available.

just the reread of the book on passive aggressive,

done in a privacy,

yet somehow in mind-filled silence.

even a deep sigh 

offers no second language alternative.

mood has to walk this out, 

until boredom finds a trail to inner sight.

each moment now has to present as cathartic,

as a self conversation 

finds a topic with grip appeal.

curiosity has to take up the gait.

wonder has to impose, 

as a secondary response.

one has to overhear, 

as if listening is invitational

and mood is back to being widespread inclusive.

tasks have to take up melody from the surround,

as in-breath has to become inviting.

a closet full of conclusions, 

is not the wardrobe to wear.

at least talking to myself,

as a second person helps.

you'd think I was positively schizophrenic 

and yet that really helps.

back at ya,

and I was really only talking to myself,

what you inadvertently were close enough 

to hear . . .

wardrobe needs (haiku)

I could have answers

I'd rather dress in questions

wardrobe of wonder

the evolution of feel

as familiar as feel can be reckoned,

as in referencing by name,

usually as a technique, 

as in questioned.

what does that feel like?

as if in comparative truth,

naming comes to identify.

it's as if, a forming in a mindful way

of objectified identification,

as if in language,

the task is accomplished as revealed.

but feel,

when emotion is implied.

feel as in feelings,

asked. 

so how does that feel?

once again,

from a different level of comparative truth

is needed to emerge.

a feel with more inward animation

than descriptive account,

measured in a preciseness of words presented.

the feel,

it has its inner actions as process,

intended towards representation,

possible of an inward emotional state.

but feel, in and of itself,

as an incantation of sorts,

as a subtle ritual of self in focus,

as a method self applied.

what if feel itself, was the interest?

how to feel for the feel,

for the feel itself,

in its mechanics of manifestation.

to question feel, for its framing,

for its use of contrast and compare,

for its eventual arrival into words,

as if the mind is overseeing this as process.

feel, for its registry of content,

for its fluidity of pursuit.

what if for feel,

there is a depth either beyond or before,

a stasis of self as rendering occurs,

a motion so subtle,

as to not previously be observed,

a sense of self not used in this regard,

a sense of being, though present

but not pursued? 

if for any reason that could have claimed.

a self that now penetrates the feel,

not for the claim of results,

but for the enterprise of vibrational entry.

to enter into a feel

that has no frame for depiction,

that has no screen capacity,

just a deeper immersion.

a feel that leaves rendering, account,

even self as a relevant basis.

just feel beyond a relative sense

or presenting a reason for worth.

feel, as wholeness consuming,

it's own sense of motion, animation and fluidity.

none of which translates into reality.

a beyond what reckoning can receive.

a feel of a vibrational nature

if having to pass the use of words.

an immersion that looses is entry sense

and is just confluent unto itself. 

feel, that is quantum in nature,

that is the all of everything,

without entry 

or of a separate sense of existence.

feel as the isness of the universe.

no more of any mechanics,

just an efficiency of integrities,

that nameless exist,

only as a unity undefined.

feel, take yourself there,

without the need of return . . .

this method of experience

the method of experience 

is a worn out shoe.

the toil of awareness 

is new socks or bare feet daily.

attentiveness is almost a form 

of preferred style consciousness,

as subtilely ever the immediacy explored.

this is still a predicament of fixedness. 

the confines of self-consciousness rule.

comparative truth yields no higher ground.

everyones is still a colored palate

in other people's eyes.

familiar is an acceptable unsaid compromise.

we all go about our busyness, 

rowing on a placid lake of conceived intention.

what makes the lake

is the constancy of recognition's assumptions.

sensory reintroduces us to the ongoing.

somewhere within,

we are all carried along.

purposes becomes our excuses.

deeds become our act-outs.

the real juice of my being

will be used on interactions.

we all serve up splendids of care.

we could have been bartenders

of mood enhancements.

some instinctively know,

when enough has been said.

we all, well mostly all,

wanted planes rather than canoes,

skyward rather than land-wise,

a faster film speed to living's rewards.

most have concessionary page-turns

to their life narratives.

cross acting in multiple musicals simultaneously

is common place among adults.

having one's character in other's show

is almost a given, across the board.

each day, a plethora of experience is afforded.

but method is never really in question.

intake surely gets refined

and output has character traits presented.

it's a wonder how magic ever happens,

given the evidence and the overlay.

but there are occasions of the unexpected,

vitalizations from the beyond,

stimulus unwarranted.

and oh, so readily received.

wrapped either in spontaneous or surprising,

revealed by glittering cues or baffling happenstance.

the feel is richly rewarding

and experience is duly altered,

making room for the real self to emerge

fresh from the comatose of expectations.

oh, to live for the wasteland of astonishment

to eye-openingly appear.

a chance at zest as impromptu to surface,

for bland to fall asleep at the wheel.

how childlike of all of us,

to have played astonishment 

into a reality format, 

as a game of worth, 

worthy of commitment

yet hard to state the rules

and get others to also play along.

this is a necessity

when experience becomes the land of clutter.

like a bad game of tag,

when every one is it all at once.

we all do better with the in-breath

when electrifying in on the mind,

as if exhibited 

from the manifest of one,

in heart-fullness . . .

energy belies us

is energy an unapproachable state of truth?

is stillness, as opposed to motion,

an illusion of the human mind?

does any truth have a lifespan 

longer than its essential existence?

is it that we have truth as existential,

but living in our minds 

as way past its prime?

self-consciousness is its circumstantial use

of awareness to acknowledge rather than be.

we seem to abide by design

rather than essence to be.

our idea of consciousness is remote viewing, 

done is favorable self-conscious ways.

we have dilemma as logistic selfies of need.

we have consternation as reflectives of how we appear.

we have problematic as justification of our mind-style.

our most direct approach is eventfully circumventive.

our idea of adventurous travel is to take ourselves along

as our interpretive guides.

what if there was no translate, no equivocate, no legitimize,

no substantiate, or objectify?

now what or what now?

we can never be gifted with life

for we are ever the keepers of the containers.

when was the last time you bottled some air,

right from where you are

and mailed it to friend somewhere else

as a gift of your intimate presence in time?

I feel overly equipped to be separate from.

my entire life is about disrobing 

from being that separate from.

I'd like to catch a break and fall through.

I don't want the self-consciousness 

of liberty acknowledged. 

I want out of the syndrome of want,

and the affliction of 'I',

to be the heart-ship of being.

to be the energetic of being,

without the moral wardrobe of truth . . .