one sense in time

how do my eyes sense beauty?

is it the exactitude of focus,

the comprehensive and the details featured,

the mental rendering that follows,

thematics in the value terrain already established,

comparative truth in a workout?

is it experience as a medium of familiar 

versus cutting edge interest of novelty? 

is it excitement into visual engorgement,

advance beyond familiar into adventure,

something so visually rich 

that the self is moved beyond just seeing,

moved beyond audience perspective?

there is a reaction as a response.

the self, as sensitivity, has taken up the cause.

internally a shift is noted. 

and self is very moved within.

yet the real work,

the real difficult work is

having that response,

that visual response, inwardly activating, 

with that which is normally seen as mundane.

where the real work is not on the experience

but the response to it.

that one is dynamically turned on

by sensory input only to discover

that one is always on

and that experience is celebrated as the reveal

rather than the account.

the means of spirit of the conscious self

is finding expression as interactive.

not that all is beauty per say,

but that all is active as it is of itself

in the interplay being with it, 

as it is of itself and shared.

the isness of the concrete, the tree bark,

the slow dances of the sky,

the animation of movement by all as aware,

are conclusions stayed from observation.

all of this, dulls down the intake 

into an account summarized.

thus next moment has elements of boredom surmised.

we are all experience junkies

just looking for the next fix.

living in the idle-doms 

of from now to then,

where view is so rich.

but the real work is on the viewer,

but not the need of the world to expose.

the burden of sight

is on the beholder

and not on the frame of reference.

we made that all up unto ourselves.

imagine seeing a curvature,

say in a line or a shape.

where the view is so titillating

that the intake sets off an inner state sensed,

that it's as if breathtaking to view.

where there is an actual bodily response taking place.

all of us suffer from the lack of that skill.

we are reduced into exceptional stimulus

to get that kind of internal response aware.

and yet, life there is so rich

in the presence of each second experienced,

going forward.

experience does have a conveyor belt sense to it.

ground-figure has become common place,

unless it leads to words to say.

hard to really take in,

for otherwise, inner stimulus rewards.

it all leads to an aliveness. 

as in this sensory case

as visually represented, 

to rekindle the zoom into the hum . . .

never you mind

never can intend 

what is happening.

all too vast to grasp.

pick out particulars

to secure a sense of control.

even every intake is selective.

choose that which makes for familiar. 

it's all a free-fall of inner narrative blather.

my senses know what I want to feel.

explanation is in rough translation.

everyone else seems mostly calm

and so we pretend a projection of knowing.

somehow we all get by,

by simply agreeing that we generally agree.

being mentality preoccupied 

helps with this process,

even if my feeling state goes unshared.

for I dwell in a waterfall of emotions passing.

only touched by those very close at hand.

assume the rest as significant in passing.

but only directly aware of those that I inwardly wash.

wet is at best the experience I have.

cleaned will be my excuse to the world.

next moments are narrative gravity suck.

knowing seems like the air I need to breathe.

if I went numb and blank, 

would time still pass,

and I would have to account for that? . . .

hope, as if an anti-refrain

hope is body heat, 

still rising, 

ever so slowly,

from under the nighttime covers.

hope is an incomplete sentence,

yet still 

with emotional support.

hope lingers, 

outside of languaged,

but exists before the formative

becomes statements said to oneself.

hope has residue

from previous successes

that were beyond expectation's reach.

hope can not be

time dated, 

as if memory provides 

for the search.

hope is initially camouflaged,

hiding within,

either yearning or lurking

for discovery 

to be the mood of approval.

hope is always asking

future time

if now could or would 

be appropriate.

hope bargains 

for a dimension of appearance

to end the invisible drought.

hope is cluttered 

with emptiness

in heaps and abounds,

yet perceives in such a way

as if to give perspective

a chance at wing, light or ground.

hope is a searchlight of thought

with an emotional generator,

that does not short out

in whatever a mind-storm presents . . .

method is its own madness

every method is the seduction 

of its own confinement. 

every sensory feeds a self 

in its aloneness.

thought languaged is a credence 

as separate from. 

recognition is the religion 

of observation's cast,

as an assurance 

of isolation's journey. 

where experience is 

an endless cesspool of particulars.

where time is 

only a shadow of presence realized.

and space is the medium 

of existence as separate from.

and consciousness is

the dedicated rituals 

of negative affirmations

as experience's relational reward.

and if we are of a 'we',

we of that 'we' 

are in need 

of sensories of confluence

rather than differentiation's galore.

we are in need of mind melds

rather than postures of agreement,

where language, in its referential usage,

becomes profoundly obsolete, 

where positionality is revealed

as just the modeling of fear,

where holism has no medium 

of or for second thoughts.

and understanding is but a vagabond

of the linear-mind on its journeys. 

to be where referential eventually discovers,

that there is no here-to-there,

that there is no individuation 

of the whole,

and that comprehension does not give

the self a stance.

but eventually, there is, 

a melting medium of verbs,

where they all eventually immerse

into a constancy of implied motion.

and mass, in its stance,

is given up as the stature of residence.

there is then a mystery in liquidity

as full wonderment, 

until there is no more

a sense of audience as observation.

oneness then leaves 

the time-bind of meaning.

oneness is no more of the relationals.

for the sacred essence of isness

leaves behind all of its decoded state.

where for, in the now, 

rapture has no experience to it

or sense of itself as existence.

'be' is without confinement.

and 'now' is without 

its wardrobe of time . . .

a linguistic nightmare

in any current conversation,

the topic is mentally linear

yet the feeling is holographic.

the topic is directive

but the tone is circumstantial.

the topic is mentally privileged

but the tone is reactive to emotional oppression.

no conversation topically can tell the story

without feelings as if a continuance of the story.

every conversation is syntactical 

and subsequently, a linguistic nightmare.

it's topically an overview

yet tonally it's an ongoing emersion within.

mentally, it is designed to be descriptive.

emotionally, it is representational as disturbing.

mentally, it is constructed to be commanding,

but emotionally it's demanding of need to be reactive.

language is organized to be mentally directive

and emotionally disruptive of the full-blown context.

it's storyable versus circumstantial. 

symbolically, it's mental privileged-ness, 

versus emotional forthright righteousness.

truth is not what is topically said

but more so, what is currently felt 

as a tonal account.

yet mental is the directive of that account,

while emotion is the oppression silently expressed.

mental is principles recited as rhetoric, 

while emotional is an anthem 

tonally sung as a backdrop to the words.

this is all a linguistic nightmare ongoing,

presented paradoxically 

as the currency of the moment.

where mindfulness hears for order

and emotionality feels the oppression of restraint.

whereas, it is assumed, 

that the construction of language seeks order

and directedness identified, 

while the carriage of language tonally 

feels for the currency of being,

beyond what is represented as circumstantial. 

feel can not fit itself into language,

yet mindfulness, for now,

has no other recourse but language.

therefore the predicament is

either speech spoken

or song sung.

yet simultaneously,

hardly ever the presence of both . . .