the choir inside

I have a choir inside me.

they are use to singing without words.

sometimes high in the cathedral of me,

but many times in limbs,

as if adjacent. 

I liked it when they were in the forest of me.

I couldn't know of them firsthand there.

they were the mystery of me for me to find.

I hated it when they played an instrument.

just one instrument in my frontal lobes, 

as a constant throbbing.

sometimes I would hear it 

down the hallways of my ears

or a tapping foot would set me off, 

somewhere inner searching.

I like rhythm as this sound

but not itching and needing a scratch.

I like it when my torso picks up the beat

and claims that that is me.

and we, the sound and I,

go with that as a movement together in whole.

not dancing but buoyantly pleasurable.

but the choir parts of me, 

they have their own agenda, 

rather independent of what my think and say would do.

they could be in the other room of me humming away

and not care 

that I am not an avid listener for then.

it's great when my head hits the pillow

as it becomes an acoustic speaker 

and they are so uniform, soothing, and close.

I sometimes think that they sing all of the time

and it's me who is in varying stages of proximity.

I know I can't make those sounds out loud

but they do it inside of me.

it's not like music to dance to

or solemn like a choir, with purpose I intended.

no, they attend to some notion I can't quite grasp,

but I don't inwardly avoid if they are singing 

to or for me.

with that, I am reminded of being close to flowers

when bees are there or nearby.

surely I don't hear the flowers calling,

but I do hear the bees 

in all of their lower octaves.

I am incidental ears to their actions.

or say, when water has a stream chortle, going.

some sense of trickle-down making laughter sounds.

again, blessed to hear 

but not an intended audience.

I wish that sneezing qualified.

I just love the pronounced that gets sounded.

that one instrument of one breath.

me, I'm not much for immediate repetitions,

but what gusto it is, being sound-said.

it's like a sound shower that refreshes me.

otherwise, the never-ending inner choir continues

and I am back to pleasantries that can't be named

but dwell and well up inside me, 

with their ever-penetrative sounding.

it's a homeland more than can be directly remembered.

an acoustic that answers my embattlements,

that accompanies my self sense

and delivers from beyond my capacity to create.

occasionally, well rarely, do I meet up with

another person of an inner choir base

that so harmonizes as if without complimenting.

there is rhapsody profoundly in the shared silence.

what worlds are these 

that embrace rather than collide?

however this happens,

I move beyond what thought makes out of coincidence

and feelings emerge 

that are more expansive 

than self has ever come to define.

I am choir beyond inner mutedness.

and these feelings that come,

give my very inner secret away . . .

think without thought

what if, when you attempted to blink,

eyes still closed, 

but then, you came visually back 

to a different view?

what if, when you took a step, 

and no gravity was there to greet you?

what if, when you go to think, 

and no thought registry awareness follows,

but void by another dimension appears?

when you are there, present with think,

without other than void handling,

is this where, 

a whole different sensory aware becomes evident?

where there is no apparent framing for recognition.

sensory somehow has permission to be immersive,

and little is reducible to the comeback of language.

a dimensional depth is forthcoming, 

as expectations, not rewarded, are overwhelmingly blank.

just think, without any attendance 

from the momentous habits of linearity as thought.

yet everything from observed thought-stillness,

is now think, vibrationally dancing.

there is no real distance 

to have as separate, 

as the observance of this dance. 

just the presence of being, 

is the feeling of this, as dancing.

and experience does not exist as a takeaway.

the transition from one to the other is a leap,

better a sense of fuse or merge or dissolve,

dependent upon the attachments to the former thought-state.

but surely if conceivable, as a dimensional leap.

once immersed, there is void, yet without emptiness,

as if light without the production of shadow.

everything that we, from an experience standpoint,

would call substance is,

emptiness energetically filled.

and there is little juice-perspective for sensory referencing,

as if separate from is not an observance skill in use.

we historically possess 

all the thought-form mind-skills of swim, dive and float,

but nothing to carry us into the dimensions of immerse.

it's where we thought nothing existed.

and nothing doesn't exist, 

as if for the reward of sensory appearance sake.

even the habit of notice gives way

to the vast, yet vainly still in an attempt at scoping. 

for that which then atrophies, 

was only essentially efforting at being story bound.

so, in our normative lives,

if I said, go sit in a stream, 

immersed in the water at shoulder height,

and I ask you. 

how long would it take, 

until you became stream-speak 

and realized it didn't translate into words?

if you were an albatross of eternal flight,

how long would it take

until there was no experience present,

to the passing through air

and no language can speak further of your existence?

what if the only measure of time-dimension

had no reference for calculation or judgment?

and your being there

has no referential sense of a you?

conscious, but lacking in temporal perspective.

in motion, but no definite mass defining.

within the dimensions of void,

but not capable of separate observation.

and no experience taken to the sense of oneself.

even self seems to be, 

as a vague potential of reference.

the notion of attention exists as holographic.

there is no self as directorship-aware.

it's as if you were ocean

and understood all the wisdom of liquidity.

as if you were space

and knew it to be boundaryless.

and that there is no worth to living 

in mindful conclusions.

that now has no sense of closure.

there is no summation, 

from awareness possible.

what was comprehension,

now has no conclusionary status 

or any effort for that to be so.

there are no positions taken, 

as if right or wrong,

good or bad, 

as in no commentary of comparative truth.

even articulation, as if observance formed,

has lost all of its audience initiative.

that you are 

is not now verb definitive.

this is beyond what essence was, 

as if to come to express.

even the notion of action 

has no frame of being aware.

just think,

without the wag of thought,

without the sense of motion 

framed by stillness,

without cognition's lusty grab,

without dimension's subtle assertions in play.

no time-space dependency evident.

even locational referencing, gone.

all of comprehension is self-emittance,

arduously effortless,

ever expansive, 

without awareness as any measure.

think, unbounded,

without any sense of surround.

in the consummate of, of 

and no itness 

either appears or matters.

just think without any itness 

that conceptualizes, signifies, 

or becomes memory memorialized.

just think, 

now is ever there . . .

the embodiment of sacred

the embodiment of sacred 

came out into the open.

proximity took notice.

conspiracy theorists were ridiculed, 

as if by a rhetorical sleight of hand.

where's Waldo wasn't fun anymore.

sight is now taboo laden.

fear has a gain of function, 

where before unrealized.

please realize, 

we can't know, 

what is not already known.

we can gather only additional information.

nothing can be stark raving new.

we don't know how to proceed.

nothing should alter sensory input.

it should be commonplace in its function.

sight should just see.

taste should just preference.

smell should just perceive to detect.

touch should just effectively acknowledge

and hearing provide an alertness of input.

but none of these

should be a construct for the unthinkable.

energetic truth has no right of occupancy.

therefore no forms should be taken.

all observance of such

is subjective and hypothetically engendered. 

so, the embodiment of sacred 

came out into the open.

and so, how could you possibly know 

that to be true? . . .

the how of now (haiku)

your evolution

is based on presence offered

not knowledge given

the butterfly of oneness

there is a place within me, 

that will eventually come forth,

that is more than identity can handle or justify,

an inner voice that sees past 

any of the horizon lines constructing meaningful,

an inner environment,

impervious to outside influence,

a residence of being behind the beyond, 

but immediately face-to-face when called forth,

a knowing not tied to words

or the etiquette of meaning's presentation,

a grasp that is immersive and not linear,

a hologram of self-sense 

but not experience reduced,

an expansive sense of being

that knowing does not adequately provide for,

that maybe even understanding 

is not what attempts to compensate

but certainly, this is not a mind-game running,

but is more of a sense of on-rushing expansion

where experience is a slow draw

yet being embraces in passage within and through. 

there is no self-as center sourcing this.

self is a bystander term from a watcher,

not one who is taken in and taken up.

I don't want knowledge to impart.

I want to be the conduit of energy in passage,

not reduced to story or account,

where narrative is too late to the moment in passing,

where ignition takes up the attention

and momentum is not headstrong as cause.

this is where the conviction of the heart collectively convenes.

there is no say to be heard

as all within is moved by being. 

I do not want to take the time 

that understanding honors 

as if a mind-lead is needed.

how it comes to pass rises up from within

and the mind then follows, 

what the heart has sighted as relevant and sacred.

no one is living this for the story to come.

each moment is its self-full-filling.

nothing is besieged by time-honored residence,

for the scent of each moment 

has no time taken to account.

it's aliveness lived into it,

as alive as the scent has unrivaled existence.

I have that as the drum-skin in movement

before sound is the result forthcoming,

as all of thought is but gravestones of the thereafter.

for there is no claim of speed or intent.

it is immersion without captivation by sensory means.

it is rapture with comparative truth to define.

it is ecstasy without the confines experience.

it is an enchantment without reception aware.

a fluidity without surface or manifest as feedback,

that which takes up without space as occupancy.

to come into that stage of being 

as if a butterfly with wing-colored petals,

made of uplifts rather than breeze itself efforting,

that travels all directions at the same time,

expansive as flutter is needed,

all within an open wings-span ever full-time occurring.

released from the chrysalis of mind-fullness 

is as from the cocoon of previous reality spun,

when time was an attachment to hang from

and migratory callings came from the oneness of the moon

as if emotion is the one divine heartfelt sense needed.

where passage of all of this 

has past as an obsolete sense now evolutionarily advanced

and being only has oneness as senseless occupancy.

this is where the butterfly of oneness arrives,

where mind molted as if sloughed off, not needed,

where the universe is but one species,

and that, that presence is beyond 

what knowing has then, 

to offer 

flight has but wing occupancy

space has no there

and time only has the unbounded present . . .

the butterfly of oneness

 the butterfly of oneness

there is a place within me, 

that will eventually come forth,

that is more than identity can handle or justify,

an inner voice that sees past 

any of the horizon lines constructing meaningful,

an inner environment,

impervious to outside influence,

a residence of being behind the beyond, 

but immediately face-to-face when called forth,

a knowing not tied to words

or the etiquette of meaning's presentation,

a grasp that is immersive and not linear,

a hologram of self-sense 

but not experience reduced,

an expansive sense of being

that knowing does not adequately provide for,

that maybe even understanding 

is not what attempts to compensate

but certainly, this is not a mind-game running,

but is more of a sense of on-rushing expansion.

where experience is a slow draw

yet being embraces in passage, within, and through. 

there is no self, as center sourcing this.

self is a bystander term from a watcher,

not one who is taken in and taken up.

I don't want knowledge to impart.

I want to be the conduit of energy in passage,

not reduced to story or account,

where narrative is too late to the moment in passing,

where ignition takes up the attention

and momentum is not headstrong as cause.

this is where the conviction of the heart collectively convenes.

there is no say to be heard

as all within is moved by being. 

I do not want to take the time 

that understanding honors 

as if a mind-lead is needed.

how it comes to pass rises up from within

and the mind then follows, 

what the heart has sighted as relevant and sacred.

no one is living this for the story to come.

each moment is its self-full-filling.

nothing is besieged by time honored residence,

for the scent of each moment 

has no time taken to account.

it's aliveness lived into it,

as alive as the scent has unrivaled existence.

I have that as the drum-skin in movement

before sound is the result forthcoming,

as all of thought is but gravestones of the thereafter.

for there is no claim of speed or intent.

it is immersion without captivation by sensory means.

it is rapture with comparative truth to define.

it is ecstasy without the confines of experience.

it is an enchantment without reception aware.

a fluidity without surface or manifest as feedback,

that which takes up without space as occupancy.

to come into that stage of being 

as if a butterfly with wing-colored petals,

made of uplifts rather than breeze itself efforting,

that travels all directions at the same time,

expansive as flutter is needed,

all within an open wings-span ever full-time occurring.

released from the chrysalis of mind-fullness 

is as from the cocoon of previous reality spun,

when time was an attachment to hang from

and migratory callings came from the oneness of the moon

as if emotion is the one divine heartfelt sense needed.

where passage of all of this 

has past as an obsolete sense, now evolutionarily advanced

and being only has oneness as senseless occupancy.

this is where the butterfly of oneness arrives,

where mind molted as if sloughed off, not needed,

where the universe is but one species,

and that, that presence is beyond 

what knowing has then, 

to offer. 

flight has but wing occupancy

space has no there

and time only has the unbounded present . . .