love plus love (haiku)

love triangle?

geometry of the heart? 

math of immortals?

memory is a wardrobe worn

that which dresses up as memory

are the faints of familiar, 

escorting it into view,

formalized as if now face-to-face,

wearing an environmental wardrobe

from a closet of one's familiars.

this presents in tones of shared commonplace.

it is present without introductions offered. 

the storyline isn't initially stated

but instead continues as if always thereafter.

memory hands me a script

as if I know my lines and place.

we carry on in a momentum 

as if I am totally aware.

something lucid is trying to tell me,

in a language that we can not speak,

as if by second thoughts. 

I now become totally aware

that there is a point to this, 

for it to becoming a moment in passing.

and it wasn't nostalgia 

presenting as a latent after-burp.

no, there is something keynote in passing.

something, in the soft narrative presenting,

is for me to further gather in.

am I to key on a fixture, a phrase, or a conclusion?

from that which was taken to be

but now offers a very different point of view?

memory now has a different backdrop,

as less the camouflage of then in passing.

and now more the poignancy of perspective,

taken from a different point in time.

maybe even an added sense of preferential,

as an implied meaning, 

that now surfaces,

as an import of motive, 

that was never seen before.

memory, without the sheen of passage flashing by,

but in this now, 

the hands of focus can readily handle.

stop-frame happens. 

new thoughts are provoked.

the script, as memory presents, is halted,

and inserts are now added.

my character of then, 

as the reenactment, is somewhat altered

at least as for now.

and the looking back, 

that is taking place,

of what I was made of, for then,

is now not what I am taking forward.

a kind of patchwork has been done.

my embodiment of now is re-centered.

I am composition-added,

a broader spectrum awaits my presence,

a memory gets to live in the lift of now.

as for faint as it was,

the real of it carries on.

and I am a wardrobe lighter for its presence . . .

before sensory settled

before sensory settled 

for the license plates of surfaces

and sound settled for 

a sense of source.

before mass presented 

as a definiteness of stance.

before liquid accepted its legitimacy

as when sensory accepted 

awareness as its confinement.

yes, we went for sensory, 

yet imagination held out 

against an audience perspective

and the novelty of light,

way before sensory became an admittance.

even before the oddity of thought,

as if legos or rubiks cubes at etheric work.

before time had a language on its own.

can you just imagine 

a sight that did not settle 

for surface's stance?

a touch confounded by

a recognition as separate from?

where hearing would lose one's place

in the constancy of the ever-choir?

to be, 

before taste became a tattletale

and smell declared the such of intimacies.

before they evidentially came to pass?

even before equilibrium declared 

as a residence,

with the constancy for the need of balance?

before direction had a need 

for a learning curve?

way before synesthesia was even thought of 

to dance,

before movement had a sense of reference

in the surround?

of course before the debate over hot or cold,

before velocity became the whisper 

of a self as a storyteller,

before body presence had an occupancy,

before spacial became a sense of permission,

and before the passing of this time 

was ever duly noted.

so why would I be starving here

and longing for the void?

I miss the all of everything,

without confinement, 

without the selectivity of these narratives,

still longing for the way it all is.

story-ness without narrative.

awareness without retention's waste.

and being, 

before sensory settled,

without knowing's burden of address . . .

higher fiber of being

 

the high fiber in knowing 

is not the knowledge 

but the means of knowledge, 

as no fact actually exists 

without a context as a framing.

and that framing is of itself 

for a factual existence

that predates its current usage.

in the procession of knowledge

the technique of knowing seeks refinement.

for what do you actually get by knowing?

the framing of an ongoing narrative,

a perceptional style that seeks it's own enhancement?

to be in the know 

has it's own imprisonment at stake.

knowing is a commitment to an occupancy

and that occupancy is than a presence of awareness.

and as a mentally ordained occupancy, 

it is an assumed reality presence.

all of this is subject to the ongoing of influences.

and those methods of influence are deemed to be

more knowledge by its method of attainment.

that which exists as a fact

has a carriage of import

as influence on next moments by a mental process,

in what is believed to be motivation or momentum

to further the line of reasoning as thought provoked.

the maze work of influence becomes subject to input.

knowing is vulnerable to its receivership style.

the cosmetics of fact-ness adds to the deliverance.

knowing by knowledge is open to being staged.

credible is a belief method as a functional process.

how knowing works is subject to influence

beyond the subject matter intended.

but within the methodology of how knowing works,

the impetus for next thought is under this kind of influence.

there are assumptions made about truth 

as thought held.

they are fragile in essence 

and vulnerable in usage.

all thought unto itself

is without the input of feelings.

not fear feelings 

but generative feelings of connectedness,

is suspect to false purpose, 

and perspectives that serve that.

the feel-think may become 

the operative of consciousness,

as thought is subject to capture 

of methods of purpose and deed.

linear thought is subject to 

this kind of ongoing influence 

and subsequent directives as advanced.

our minds will have to master paradox

as every moment's offering

within the linear modeling as presented.

we are in a maze of our own making

when how thought works is analyzable 

to the degree of manipulation and control.

deeper mind-scapes must be reached

where witness is for creation

and not for retribution.

how you feel has to arise above

how your think administrates how you feel.

fear can not be an impetus 

as if thought provoked.

the essence of feel

is an immersion 

and not an identification.

separatism has to end its rule and function.

oneness of species, life and planet has to emerge.

it is on us as mindfulness

to evolve, not change, into that awareness

as immersion has an emotional holographic presence

in all of us and oneness becomes the arrival

and we evolve to be the means . . .

mind-full

I want to be mindful 

beyond what think has to offer.

feelings, as if stolen,

like blossoms of the heart

that are harvested into cognitive bouquets,

for the endearment of the potential say. 

the garlands of lip usage, 

providing verbals of delight.

no, I want for mindful,

that does not come to register into words.

I want for the mind

to surrender its false dignity presence,

to journey beyond what makes sense,

to have logical and comeuppance release the hounds

of their doggedness, 

to take their pursed lips of quippy-ness

and swallow their readiness of upkeep,

and deeply bow

out of the picture, 

out of the frame,

out of their kept-ness,

and find humble to be 

their relaxed state of being.

yes, mind, 

without the wardrobe of presented-ness.

just mindful,

as if a born child,

before the inception of human indoctrination occurs.

mind without the pretense of incoming as aware.

where before sensory overload occurs.

to be there

and be of that which is

in its own forthcoming.

where feeling was its own mentor 

and mind was just a tagalong. 

getting back to the mountaintop, 

way before village life becomes 

that which occurs.

before life in the tapestry

became awareness of the weave

and usage of the garment of me.

where the distant call

that is heard 

is without reference to direction or source.

that is so far away, 

but of the depth within me.

that voice,

that goes on without saying,

that speaks to me, of me,

is without words to readily assure.

I want,

for the mindfulness of that,

even if sensibilities are all set aside,

even if I can only say in sounds

and have no words, 

for meaning to render 

into states of understood.

mindful as connectedness, 

as fluid of a oneness gene,

that takes me out of time and space

and yet places me well within.

where only the mind is possessed

with paradox and duplicity.

it is there,

as if there is a that there

and when there,

I want to be mindful, 

beyond what my think has to offer . . .

life by default

had this theory of life by default,

that from whence, 

still, as travel's within.

so I took some very expensive 

high fashion shoes,

both wingtips and stilettos,

made of very fine animal leathers.

and slowly disassembled them,

piece by piece unstitched and unglued.

trying to favorably contact back 

to the creature source of each of them.

hoping to be able to reach deeply enough,

with either pair,

to connect directly with their soul of origin,

from their slightly worn sole of wear.

for I walked in the re-mixtures from others,

whether that be species, elements, 

botanicals or compounds.

all their stories carry on,

however radically disguised.

eventually coming to the same source

yet journeyed as such,

in other forms of endeavor 

other than human occupancy.

sacred is eventually discovered to be everything.

physical mass is the evidence of their disguise . . .