what is meaning the fill of?

when meaning is only an archaic answer,

a still-shot taken, 

amidst the philosophy of the on-going,

a constant flow of contradictions

as memory's offerings.

so if time is a philosophy,

then our sense of time is its own rebuttal. 

if flow is mastery

then we, as humans, 

are the process of being but intermediaries. 

we are the techniques 

of reductionism into nouns

and the sensory denial

of the essence-work of verbs,

yet ever the edifice of that as rebuttal.

we are the porn of comprehension

in the over-rides 

of the means of conception,

where every moment of awareness

is a potential selfie reward, 

taken experientially,

where our wonder is waisted 

on the proof of worth.

we are the creation of surround

as proof of our bystander status.

we have a god as referential

and an earth 

as act-out of ownership.

we are circum-inventive

to pass as the time of the day.

night-times are our earnest attempts

at the essence of honesty.

where wake-ups are blow-backs

and sleep-times are registries of regains.

'let me help you to help me',

is our reductionistic version 

of a common mind.

the use of language 

is its own form and format 

of socialized distancing.

you, in your mind,

and me in mine.

to be in hearing range,

is a format

for the subtleties of emotions to occur.

linear thinking is represented by

the two dice hanging

from our experiential rear view mirror 

in the car of our conclusionary existence.

each die, the counter conclusion of the other,

as in, right-wrong, up-down,

left-right, moral-immoral, 

good-bad, black-white,

and ever onward.

yet both representing the worth of the past, 

going forward.

each of us, having a self 

as our own vehicle,

making time and space 

the hi-ways we are all traveling,

having at 

fill-ups, gridlocks, drive-ins, and garages

and medicals for our motors.

we run on high octanes 

and even sometimes on fumes.

for the planet itself, to us,

is covered in hi-ways, parkings lots, and junkyards, 

in referential service to us all.

we can refer to each other

as blasts, upgrades, efficiencies, 

or even heaps.

for mindfulness ever motors on.

this is how spirit is compromised 

into our passenger status. 

we are only circum-inventive

and call that species advancement.

and what we are that our minds do,

is of a vehicular orientation,

while the rest of each of us 

gets to emotionally ride along . . .

we is french for yes

I reflect on the future's search for me,

yet only have happiest happiness 

through the livingness ooze, 

coming off of that possessed by others.

the wisdom of this, as nextness, 

is that it never dumbfounded arrives,

but always oozing was.

and I am the humble of arrival,

as if puzzle pieces never forget the whole.

yet I dwelled in the self of edginess, 

feeling lost in a boxed sense of sorts.

I was airborne before physically seduced.

the download had/has a gravity to it,

like a chained junkyard dog, it does.

yet if I had wings,

they would only act as intercessionals.

my ideal of flight has no occupancy. 

it is more of a presence with everywhere, 

consummate without the need of focus,

no sense of being an instrument

with a foreground-background frame,

just essence hiding out as presence,

but without need or contextual or circumstance.

what is coalesce if not an action verb?

to have emotion that has no surface to attending.

where common mind was the last costume worn

and debris was the last version of separate from. 

in this form and format,

we are the rhythm of breath unrealized worldwide,

heartbeat of the drum skin of human as existence.

to have a thought that leaves meaning behind,

to feel beyond what experience can claim,

we are there and bound upon returning . . . 

what is of humanness conveyed?

does that which lives in us, 

within the confines of its own intimacy,

yet of its own nature, 

ever tremble in place

as stallions of its own fits and starts,

yet covering no ground of temporal gain?

in its occupancy of a presence,

is it yet energetically explosive 

in its silence of withholding,

in its stampede of stillness,

resounding of a thunder withheld?

is it of a boldness 

yet not mature enough

to have a surface presentable, 

going forward?

for these commonings of inklings 

into the elements of force,

to have not yet spoken of themselves 

and are they not yet readied, to be heard?

as if so unspecified 

yet be of the nature of subtleties 

that are forever in the build.

for to question,

what makes a fiber 

before realization 

comes to a consciousness to confirm?

are we of this myopic precision 

before it is possessed 

as if to become declared?

and how does that which anoints us 

declare to the christening of action? 

are we, from underlings into elements

that take up mood as their presence,

thus assigning to behavior 

act-outs in accordances? 

is this the release of the essentials 

that are otherwise unacknowledged 

and subsequently undeclared? 

that eventually, comes to be humanly known

as the existence of a smile, 

a weep, 

a touch, 

a glance, 

and a certitude of presence 

that in need,

is humanly conveyed? . . .

oneness transforming (haiku)

audience to me

that I then wear as wardrobe

until we're one, nude

nature's covert messaging

for what's deeper than

glaciers speaking up

by a confessional, 

melting into the sky?

fog traveling, 

as intimately breath-aware 

when meeting us,

for puddles proposing 

as mirror time 

in our face-down greetings?

for sunups, 

that pull the night-covers back 

to reveal the light of the day?

for rain, 

that is only the carwash 

for the vehicle of the mind?

for volcanic lightening 

that is really the static cling 

from their own thermal hose?

for a green flash to be

a make-a-wish, 

in which the sky comes to approve?

for a rainbow 

that is a prismatic adventure 

into sunlight wizardry?

for static electricity 

to come to do such a wack-job 

on one's own hair?

for rust, 

that is slowly storytelling, 

to be beyond 

a listen's want to grasp?

for a supernova,

that is rarely visually appearing, 

yet functions as a deep sky-light yawn?

for an earthquake 

presenting as mother-nature, 

that slams the downstairs front door, 

really hard?

for a dam break, 

to be as a flood of tears 

from an earthbound emotion?

for a landslide, 

to be as if a reason for 

gravity telling the truth 

that is a real comedown?

for thunder, 

to be as the next-door neighbors 

getting unexpectedly rumbling loud?

for a cloudburst to be

as if sky-counter-top spillage

from an accidental clumsy?

for tornadoes,

to be as if the heat and wind 

are formally in rutting season 

and are out of control?

for a tidal wave to be, 

as if that water's version 

of a Black-Friday crowded shopping spree?

for a volcano to be,

as if acne of the earth-surface 

was somehow made real?

for a heatwave to be,

as if somehow 

the county-wide air-conditioner broke down? 

and for a snowstorm to be,

as if weather had pillow fight, 

that got really out of hand . . .