the train ride

the cruel world of differences

is the endless negative affirmations 

associated with being separate from.

I am really connected to everything

but I claim touch as an appropriate means.

I have sensory monitoring my every intake.

I start each day as a separate island

in a sea of nearby. 

I float along on top of all of the nearbys,

maintaining my soul as separate from.

all I can articulate are distinctions set apart.

language ever gives me guidelines for this approach.

common ground is a group associating,

but never a oneness of presence or being.

it's a wonder what I fill my brain with.

relating is a sophisticated existence 

done from the start-point of alone.

assumptions are the baggage of unsaidness carried.

the day is a labor of toppings spoken.

hard to ponder,

the world of differences as oneness expressed.

I don't see that endpoint happening in my lifetime.

the train comes.

I am born.

there is the train ride.

I get off by dying.

the train moves on.

destination was a false fronting of my existence. 

if oneness happened,

I was too preoccupied to really notice.

maybe gross movement in the collective

was a given clue

but I was only equipped with spectator wisdom.

it was a train ride.

I never felt I got to drive the train

and it wasn't a route that birds would fly.

nevertheless we rubbed up against the earth seamlessly.

I know that's not true 

but for the purposes 

of ongoing commentary 

apparently moving us along,

I will say that, 

with no further thought about it.

speech is based on so much gloss

and yet that is what we agreed to.

aberrant confluence is a way of understanding life.

I got a window seat of a mind.

half truths pass me by, 

daily from my view.

the other side of the ride is all hearsay. 

I need specifics to express my ability to show concern.

I can't just wholly care.

that would be an absurdity of being out of character,

a definition of love without articulates in mastery.

quite simplistically, 

movement justifies my existence.

everything else is presumptuously human-antics.

for some of substance, movement shows.

for the rest, subtlety reigns.

and if there is existence without any mass,

I hope to get there in passing.

I wanted the train ride to be metaphorical in nature.

I wanted real to be without accreditation.  

there is so much occupancy to real,

that it disgusts me to have to play along.

although I must admit that showering 

while riding on the train

is a must of sensate and sensual combined.

when the water not only falls by gravity's design

but by travel's lateral with the train in motion,

I feel embraced and immersed,

as the water's motion is holding me close and adoring.

otherwise my ass is as much a sense as my eyes.

one sees out while the other sits down.

there is achievement 

within these confines of assessment.

I can create false purpose as well as anyone.

there are stoppages for illness and nonevents.

but generally, the read is the feel

and the feel is ever the ride.

I don't have a final resting place in mind.

at some point I just want to get off

on everything that will be left behind.

I practice that everyday.

experience is, for me, a form of disrobing.

so when I am finally out the door,

its ashes in the wind

and please don't stop the train to toss them . . .