irony of the mind

irony in the mind,

may possibly lead head-on into 

the irony of the mind.

when two conclusions,

standing so close to each other in time,

turn and face each other,

as if topic bound,

yet having such diverse views held,

possibly in direct opposition

and yet, they paradoxically kiss.

they pander. 

they are amusing to watch,

as if observed is sarcasm's joy.

the mind is such a meeting place

for oddities to meet,

for assumptions to gather.

they speak their peace

and yet, reveling is taking place.

surely, as self audience,

there can be slights of under breath banter,

jewels of internal bitterness exchanged,

cynicism expressed from either side,

the inner embarrassment of irony facing off,

a self-audience uptake of amusing satire.

so heart warming

to watch the mind at work,

in its production mode

and yet not in sync altogether. 

conclusions bumping into other conclusion,

supposedly all working for the same cause,

an intimate assembly line 

but in joyous consternation.

side banter of the self-witness kind,

when paradox reaches for the standstill,

as if there is a standoff.  

dare we call the opposing thoughts,

a conviction becoming listless. 

one's orientation possibly stalled.

on the one hand is called out of retirement.

either or is, both making forthright demands.

distraction seems to be a necessary deploy.

but watching one's own mind at work

is the most intimate of comedy available,

the momentum of conclusion's constant effort.

now, pitted up against itself.

how fitting a discovery,

for the audience of being to become aware.

who of oneself 

gets served the eventual outcome,

as if intendedness was presented, hot and fresh.

conclusions do provide for the roll out.

but in this case,

the beauty of inner observation,

mindtalk made witness-able 

and a peculiar kind of glee can be had,

not just as irony in the mind,

but possibly the delightful exposure of 

the irony of the mind,

as one of the most beneficial joys of

conscious inner dialogue . . . 

gaugement (haiku)

criteria's use

circumstantial's demanding

elegance of frame

the sound of your voice

there is a secret place 

in the sound of your voice,

that I could underwater swim for hours.

as if it was swimming me, 

for me to discover,

how effortless is

this frame of mind.

where if passion is the effort

then everything passes as embrace.

there are no memories generated

but grandness expanding,

riding a wave of this moment's sensory blush.

where linger is in a free-fall of constancy rising,

where intimacy has more presence 

than embodiment can present,

where consummate has all moving parts

presenting as adoring stillness yet beaming.

your voice, as home,

without the need of experiential confirmation,

beyond what solid could attest to,

a vastness without being quantified,

a quench without the search from thirst,

a hum so deep it precedes mouth's articulation,

a source without origin or cause.

bask as if boundless only slow dances.

your voice, an instrument, 

I bow to listen.

my tension across your smooth, plays me.

I'd give up on being 

to be assigned as your echo,

as if in utterance, 

there is the ecstatic shaping of space.

it is a wellspring of appearance without arrival,

mysterious without secrecy, silence or solitude,

resoundingly hushed as overwhelming and loud,

tonally permeating throughout the within

yet coming out of you, 

a loss of separateness occurring 

from without notice interrupting.

your sound-current functioning as my blood.

my aliveness, a frequency of you.

for there is a secret place 

in the sound of your voice.

where now, I often hear myself, 

speaking you . . .

so you asked

so, here is my body.

roam free.

wonder there about,

for the canvass to express upon,

even if to make deposits and withdrawals,

pauses or refrains. 

please leave me no options,

but to travel along.

be the ink of my say.

this is what I want of us, 

to be able to look past 

what seeing offers,

to hear beyond 

what audio declares,

to feel beyond contact's response,

to benefit from breath

beyond vitality's seduction,

to feel beyond the intake

of separate from,

to think of beyonds, thoughtfully,

beyond what is thought's capacity

to cognize as if to realize.

the graduals of me 

from which I make my stance,

be the elements that weather me.

I pallet your brush.

I canvass the expression of your being.

make no bones, 

that we don't mutually tissue.

share your breath,

as I with mine.

may we grow wise

overwhelming what aging offers.

come to please yourself

by leaving me behind

for the sky-bound that I really am.

come to know that separateness

and self do not eventually serve us.

I am myself in the offering

until we are of the complete.

we are both a lightness of chalk

until we become the dust of the board.

I want to feel the wind upon me

until we are of the breeze of ourselves.

I want to be the smoke of alert and alarm

until we are the burn in resolve and dissolve.

we, to become the mirrors

but never the study-ness of glass,

to become the listening to each other

but never the source of the say.

let daylight brake me open upon you

and nighttime to be the depth 

with which we mutually pray.

I devour every morsel of our embodiment.

if you leave your body,

I will take you with me onward.

for this is the journey of two wings

from one heart,

a one way migration ever soul bound.

we are of the flock

but gathered within.

I wipe myself off and clean 

using your behavior,

as you with mine.

for us, common thought

is just peace of mind.

we are going no further 

than what now face-time offers us.

if we perchance become the waterfall,

may we evaporate before the splash.

I have savage shape my lips 

in speaking to you.

I have the innards of desert heat

as my coming out

into the words that I say your way.

we are the nuances 

of when two oceans meet.

liquidity is our religion

but flow is of our human needs.

I bite down hard on understanding

but it is the taste I'm fundamentally after.

nurturance is our just reward

while pleasure salivates in the passing.

be a humble rock in your steadfastness

and I will then pillars my looking at you.

then, to know of us

is that cathedrals are just statued memories.

I am from a pride of lies

that live in my vast-lands within. 

in my ever-afters,

some will live and some will die.

all will succumb 

to the savagery of our ongoing.

please don't ever quote me

but remember me as you are then.

we are just incense on-fire.

lit up into the feeling state of aromas

to then end the sensory as it is

and to live beyond its means to acquire.

to become no more

of the self in need,

to come from 

beyond what begins and ends,

to be more whole 

than what of before or there after,

to be resounding

without audience to embrace,

to be vortexual 

without spin or boundaries,

presence without thought,

to be without declaratives,

to be more than the stillness  

that loiters like vacant insensitivity . . . 

the subtlety of being

the subtlety of being,

before experience becomes 

the consciousness of its takeaways,

before being a self 

became a consciousness contact sport.

being of the self 

that sneaks up on your being,

with the softest, subtlest, suspicious sense 

of deep intimacy.

having no three-dimensional permissions or restraints,

with just peculiar holographic views and remarks.

one's intake of these is a reductionism

into versions of very-understanding.

yet it's one's intake

that can be, 

beyond the normal range of sensory incoming.

one that is like being spoken to, 

from inside of being the being, speaking from.

the words make come and go evident,

but the presence of deliverance ever remains.

and that presence is not possible in language-capture.

it's like when it rains

and the rains, like the plural of drops,

is specifically and succinctly speaking to you.

but in no way, can you find,

from within your presence, awareness and understanding, 

to speak back to the rains

and feel conversationally confident in the exchange.

so upon hearing this, to experiencing this,

one goes on in the communion 

of relevant private self-dialogue.

imagine this to be like walking 

on the sea cliff of self sanity, safely,

and yet staring out into the deep space, beyond.

these walks can come to feature daily frequency

and an interface with a dimensional sense 

that otherwise is unavailable. 

they can take on unusual properties, 

such as unlimited sense of time-dimension displaced,

a reference to oneself, 

that is always immediately yet eminently unknown, 

coming into being, as the know,

as something that's comprehensible, 

but is more than meaningful.

possibly there is the realization 

that life is lived in the trickle-down,

from where this becomes sourced,

from this inner dialogue. 

there is no evidence made obvious,

and no retorts to say, that ever justifies.

it's worth noting 

that the energy of your being is permissive,

while the presence of your self 

has curiosities, questions and doubts.

it's as if you can express your circumstance, 

that with hope, 

than one day, everything will become clear,

acceptable and without restraint.

but until then, 

the journey seems so dreamlike 

in its own somewhat baffling way.

it can feel like your practical life 

is living on solid ground,

on an island of subjective awareness,

not knowing that, 

that island is floating in a larger sea, 

that can't be readily observed or sensed.

but then you have an awareness of this mystical gravity 

that otherwise can't be accounted for.

such are the pitfalls of the rendering of circumstance.

and then slowly, over time, 

you come to realize 

that you are where you are 

and you are who you are,

but not to be limited by that definition 

or the capture of your apparent circumstance.

you could realize yourself to be at a dance. 

but it's a challenge to realize 

that you have become the dance.

that the music of being 

now plays through you 

even though you don't know the name of the song.

and that all of the people 

that are in your dancehall universe

are there, dancing,

unbeknownst to their own sense of self recognition.

yes, we are all such a mixed media, 

beyond our dimensional sense of awareness, 

as selves undisclosed.

at some point, the rhythm of the music of you

becomes earnestly your seventh sense.

and that dimensional wisdom is not reducible 

to thoughts into words.

but your feeling nature, 

in a heart-full manner, 

can hear perfect pitch

and the listening of itself 

becomes ever invitational.

every human being is blessed 

with being self invitational.

eventually, we will all be 

as this concert . . .

how it is (haiku)

my limitations

your availability 

never to discuss

it gives me a lot

I can see,

but I can't see. 

where see is in the big picture

that I'm looking out at.

and there are things out there

and my naming doesn't catch up with the imaging.

there is a stampede of named things coming this way.

I have an inner dialogue about it

but that does not match my physical actions.

we are at different rhythms and timing.

I watch as myself watching a self as me.

am I making any sense?

I am trying to stick to my words.

there is more going on simultaneously 

but I can only speak it 

as if one thing at a time.

my vision sees more but speech only says

what focus delivers

and even that keeps shifting faster than recognition.

nothing's really rushing around

but my somehow sensory reception is jumbled.

it's like I have a conveyor belt in here,

where there should be a juggler,

a small flash light on,

where there should be a floodlight blazing,

and a director of myself

who decides who of me speaks next,

for me to effectively listen and respond.

I am standing at a bus-stop

and planes are landing all around.

I seem to think it is raining

and it's a confetti celebration

but I can't hear the sound in a timing way.

did I wake up in a dream-state

or am I awake in my dream.

neither presents as reasonable.

are my words making order to understand?

I seem to be a person inside my person,

like living through myself

but as a different self.

I am not so attached to my habits

yet they go on without me, I guess.

I'm afloat inside the ship of me,

on a sea in a bottle that I am holding upright.

there is some part of me, yet to announce,

but it wants to christen the ship of me,

with this bottle of me 

and yet they don't quite meet.

I don't seem to know of the ceremony of passage 

that makes that happen.

I am not saying sanity is in question,

but certainly deliverance is the call.

I seem to have lost outer worldliness

and yet it attempts to intercede.

so, as you can well imagine

this gives me a lot to think about.

so, you?

what about you?

what do you have to say?