gratification's woes

when gratification left the witness stand,

the stream turned into a swim, 

into a flood.

the rain turned into a storm, 

into unavoidable wetness.

the conversation had words, 

that stormed into topics,

that wore clothes 

and dressed me up as a traitor.

the day had its presence, 

which lost its mood,

became an endless list 

of annoying babbling sheep.

and I, as the shepherd, 

somehow become the pastureland. 

this is when receivership lost its handle,

became a tool 

of effort and concern,

built stuff I didn't want,

had no clue for usage,

gave me a garage sale of a mindset.

somehow forgot 

the what, the why and the how,

of gratification's efforts, 

of being in one's life.

maybe gratification is 

only an audience stature.

and I ventured out

onto the playing field . . .

how to, from where within

how to give birth to a pause.

how to CPR to a breathless moment.

how to give a fixation a sense of free reign.

how to sigh as an intimate means of embrace.

how to garden emotions, 

between next thought's that chase.

who is how?

and where within do they come from?

what great registry of frame makes that so?

is this the self-angel, 

waiting in the wings for the self-call?

what witness of self is this (?),

that responds when beaconed,

that perceives with more depth of being,

that has somehow emotional import,

that otherwise is senselessly lost in the moment's pass,

that offers embrace while tending to task as hand?

so why would anyone be nose to the glass

and fog their personal view to myopically challenged?

to want for a long view with intimate eyes.

to be one's self-angel, 

with access to a conscious means.

to have action as a medium of intercession,

when a frame-break of magnitude is calling.

to garden,

to sigh,

to dream beyond apparent means,

to awaken in a next breath

and to give birth to a pause . . .

fear rather than flow

tribalism of association

is the mindset of surround with agreement.

not expanded to include,

but just see and sense what is securing.

don't name the fear and inwardly rebuke it.

just game it out of the way as life.

make life as a living chess match played.

boredom is then what we all play from.

is exploitation a medium of human enjoyment?

is reality clearly from only a mental reframe

and one of need for emotion and soul?

fear seems to be in control of the shutter speed used.

camera aim of consciousness is subject to frame.

and frame chases after self-consciousness as seduction.

we, as a species, have fear as a learning method,

way before we have love as a knowing needed.

if you get ten thousand feet above sea level,

on an ocean costal view,

one can see the curvature of earth

and the miracle of gravity in action,

as the ocean hugs in a curving fashion.

from there it makes no sense to normal logic.

there should be flooding everywhere on either side.

how can this be so and not realize, 

at the sea-level logic of every day life?

there are principles that govern, 

but are not intimately realized as such.

we only play on chess boards

that are worthy of float.

so much for us as a species 

is taken for granted, 

as if to be out of our mindfulness,

yet governed beyond the gaming of it. 

we indulgently, as a species, play.

we're species tribal, into the sub, sub, sub-tribal.

we are willing to war amongst and between,

before we even begin to address 

the playground we war upon.

where, in the human sensory range,

is the view of the blue planet we are on?

where is the honor in being a self,

lost in the paradigm of fear as imposing?

what is it in our makeup 

that seeks to fill our know

with fear rather than flow? . . .

fate abated (haiku)

reversal of fate

surrender of future claimed

by being the now

idleness is blessed work

everything by recognition terms 

feels blunt.

had to go into a mindset 

to feel separate from.

always nude inside of clothes 

but project as if being human 

is apparel. 

say lots of lines that are scripted

but most of meaning 

is really just alibis. 

ask others, 

to mirror the truth in me.

language is a form of leakage. 

all of say is really homing pigeons, 

losing their way.

could live on the tones 

from other peoples' voices.

so much of curiosity 

is spent on sensory input.

time is spent 

on keeping the abandoned bed sheets warm.

often wonder why sight gets to overrule 

what's heard.

have looked at spillage 

as unappreciated art.

have thought of cars on freeways 

as ballpoint pens,

all tracing the road with ink of intent 

yet wandering.

find it preposterous, 

being a person meeting another.

what human act 

would end the whole separate-from game?

never have played tag 

where everyone is it, 

but want to.

what if caution was really the wind 

yet still disguised?

if faith was on a pogo stick, 

it would be more evident.

so what does a mirror do 

when it's all by its stoic self?

how do I come to know 

about the brain activity of wonder?

have a chatty-Kathy for a mind.

it is so inward of me, 

to just passively watch,

as if idleness is blessed work, 

done in silence . . .

glance as self embrace

when a glance is an operative,

is when emotion remembered 

is a lower look to the left.

a glance to the upper right 

is searching the apprehensive for appeal.

a glance to the upper left 

is for an approximation 

of anticipated agreement.

and glance to the lower right 

is for the capacity 

to dull down into forget.

visual operatives as mind assistants,

allowing for emotional 

to be in the interplay.

for see has feel 

besides having sight.

one of sight goes to recognition,

while the other of glance 

goes towards immersion revealed.

one is self in recognition declaring.

the other is being in the swim of the see.

don't ask me 

what my eyes can't say first.

language is 

just a long lineup in passing.

eye to eye 

is a dance that takes itself upon.

we are all the ink

behind our ballpoint eyes. 

my sight writes me upon you.

read me in the feel-language of flow.

each of us, diaries of the moment,

written upon the page of another.

if I happen to glance away,

know my emotional me 

with patience offered.

and I, the same . . .

answer without question

 

there is an answer 

that has no question.

it does not exist in response.

its certitude is ever changing.

its reception is ironically the question.

the mechanics of answer

lives in a state of constancy as denial.

the philosophy of stillness is self-inflicted.

holding frame is a still-camera's delight.

image is totally a political enterprise.

senses shackled to the manifest,

are a servitude as coinage for reality's play.

there is an answer 

that has no question.

it leaves its formalized approach

for a vast cast,

a deeper sense of essence dignified.

there is no static in livingness. 

even fluid, as a sense of audience observance,

dies its natural death in the sensing,

brought to the false dignity of words.

for reception is a distant form of embrace.

the occupancy of closeness, as separates do,

is the answer that has no question,

is immersion ever in its ongoing.

until oneness from within.

is what it states . . .