when unsaidness speaks

as a mother, 

who has been only a woman 

for a thousand consecutive years,

through lifetimes ongoing,

would say to her daughter 

becoming a woman herself,

don't allow any man

to masturbate inside you

and call that having sexual relations.

don't allow him to come

until you are weeping with joy,

until you are the fountain of engorgement,

until he awakens to the symphony

and is taken up into the humming along.

don't show him the map of your deep sky

until he sees how to look at the beyond.

if he has to learn the value of slipstream 

then know that he has a knack for that.

allow him to lead by how he follows,

how he becomes stable 

in your reach into the sky,

how he bends time 

into curvations for your needs,

how you add dimensions

that he has never seen before

that allows him to be transfixed in pleasure

and how your mother's words

do not fall on the deaf ears of yours,

but awaken to a destiny of permission

and to a watchfulness of carriage

that every man

in his right livelihood, 

should have come into awareness to employ.

soul secrets come from the heart.

and woman has the keynotes to preach.

man needs a choir-book open 

before they use their body to harmonize . . .

the double-down of words

beware of the double-down of words,

as the secret of secrets,

or the breath within the breath,

or the sigh within the sigh.

to know of the meanings behind the meaning.

this is where all nouns live the life of verbs.

where livid and lucid take up their secrecies. 

where emotion overwhelms thought's demise.

where essence takes on the disguise of form.

where understanding is beckoned, 

but thoughtfulness is also brought along.

if you ever get to see what sight does

or hear hearing at work

or fall into a synesthesia state, 

then you come upon the false front of language.

where the feel always exceeds the description.

where the immerse is more dimensionally rich

than any account can come to measure.

the work of the mind has to be further witnessed.

not just for results presented,

but for the delicacy of the thoughts as they are placed.

words as double-downs give rise to a sense that,

one is not their thoughts or its outcomes.

it may even appear as the wrong tool in usage.

where feel or intuit or gut were more righteous

and poignant of for the focus needed.

words allow us to travel on a frozen lake,

made of understanding's gloss.

but all the lakes have seasons of passage.

and emotions run deep beyond what surface offers.

intuitions may function without time restraints.

even psychism can travel in a strange means.

words are chiseled to reflect a past,

to bargain with memory and subsequent regard. 

double-downs reveal what falseness can pass for.

at some point in the evolutionary process,

we will know what know does 

and what feel feels

and how awareness saunters about.

and then a deeper presence will arise

and become more common place. 

each of us to our own, 

until that too is realized as a fronting of being.

then the camouflage of double-downs will cease

to be the mysteries that we come to reveal . . .

blindspots (haiku)

beauty of blindspots

inviting light to enter

where emotion hides

fabrication of my-own-ness

every step of approach 

is also a denial of what's already present.

I am affirming absence 

by requesting inclusion.

I make action into advancement

that experience leads me

and also fails me,

and therefore I am in need of more

tidbits and storylines,

perusals and accounts.

all of these as hints towards essence

but not ever the reveal forthcoming.

it is a gift given,

wrapped in layers upon layers,

to make the discovery

that the unwrapping, is the gift.

and there is no endpoint 

to the process of unwrapping.

if I wanted to get to isness

yet I pursue a process of getting to,

how will that skill of getting-to translate

into the talent for isness as a constant

and not ever a continued awareness of its arrival?

for if it arrives,

then I am in receivership

and not wholly of the presence it is.

I am distracted by the concept of inclusion,

which also infers that it was not here before now.

and that my now was unaware

of that which I claim to seek,

not knowing that seeking implies a denial

which keeps me in the search there of.

so that when it arrives, so to speak,

I have trained and been conditioned

to be not suited for its existence,

to have always and ever been there. 

not before but always within me.

what is it of me

that denies in order to pursue

yet the pursuit dulls my sense of being it?

once, by this obscure method,

I sense that I have arrived

only to be disillusioned by my own version

of the self that always was 

but somehow existed to me 

in me as an unknown.

not that my me would ever be the arriving being.

this is where to concept of time exists as interference,

as if there is a then and a now and a future of arrival.

time is a crutch we have created

that keeps us moving in circles 

that are accounted for by time.

as if the crutch defends itself into existence

by our perception in this light.

it is dependent on the lack of it,

ever occurring, 

and riding the cutting edge of that means,

as if time is an assisting help in that process.

so why would I have a perception of being

if it places me in time and space

which were already fabrications 

of my own-ness? . . .

vacuum of tears

a vacuum of tears,

in a wallow so vast,

that space has no occupancy of worth.

words with bouquets of meaning

come forth to kneel at the entry.

pray for some sense of access.

petals die in the waiting process.

deliberation admits,

there is no such thing as time,

yet shadows as bystanders lengthen.

stories admit to their fabric of lies.

curtains open to no other side.

creation rests on its insistence of laurels.

the sight of gold and the breath of kudos

became a vacant passing glint.

and a thought is launched for utterance's sake,

yet the moment is fragile then broken 

into nanoseconds, shattering mightily 

on the resounding absence of time.

how to exist,

in a vacuum of tears,

in a wallow so vast

and cling unto meaning

as if as a buoyancy of passage . . .

the homesickness from before nostalgia

there are these longings, 

as if memories wide-scoped.

they fill more than mindful, 

as if recalled.

they don't have surface so clearly received.

they are environmental rather than pictorial.

when this strong, I am not even this personality,

that which I seem to hold close for now.

I don't even have any recency to recall,

just dropped into a sense of being,

though not current, 

not even gender bound.

but somehow distantly familiar,

like having heartfelt treasures 

as if remembered from there.

roots of me, 

seemingly from another forest

then this one, 

that I currently wander.

my common sense-time is laughing at me, 

while I laugh back,  

not haunted by what appears to be so.

feel steadied and deeply moved,

yet not with the surround 

or the senses 

that take me from here to there.

some part that grows me and defines me,

comes from a there, 

by a sense from other wise.

there is an elongation of person occupancy,

as if I have taken up other bodies in other times.

I have a carriage that has no other purpose

in this now's circumstance or occupancy.

but it is there and now here.

maybe now I am homesick for those roots,

not as a past, 

but as a deep presence of now,

not otherwise revealed.

maybe not even to live into,

but launched and yet still grounded.

maybe there is an unseen, unsaid agenda,

propelling and compelling in carriage

and I am becoming in it.

no, this is not a lament of nostalgia.

there is nothing of emotional weep-age in this.

this is clear sky with different eyes.

this has a wildly consuming approach to time,

as if not orderly or in sequence,

but high-points in an ever-flow,

waves from an ocean that spontaneously appear,

yet not beach related,

but deep currents with that reflect and posture.

maybe I would have liked to claim homesickness

but the current is too now to express as a longing for.

surely I am claiming of a past, 

a far distant past, 

from this apparent now,

but yet not really so, 

within me.

I am deliverance.

I wear my message unknowingly announcing.

I could be suspect that it is not worldly in origin.

I don't have a sense of like or dislike.

it just is so, passing through me,

yet memory wants a shot at its worth,

a plead for a narrative at placement,

an account that justifies its presence. 

clearly none of that really applies.

anything of that nature is accessorizing.

it doesn't even effort to approach words.

but the feel is a well-spring

I drink without effort or real need.

and yet I am not trained for conscious carriage.

it seems privately reputational within me,

as a sense that seeks no other contact but me.

almost as if I didn't travel from there to here,

but they are now simultaneous,

as a sense of a larger scope.

and I don't have experience skills that grand.

I struggle with being both at once.

find myself as one or the other,

yet there is a witness within me

that thrives on this, as developing.

I am willing to let this part of me

call it a form of homesickness.

but a deeper part of me, 

a part of me 

beyond what knowing can defend,

is in realization for there,

as then and also now.

as if what is body occupancy for,

besides the expansion to include

that which makes evolution

not an action of change

but a metamorphosis of conscious embrace? . . .