the gaze that becomes the glean

in the inner canyon cast behind, 

one set of eyes looking out,

how the otherwise invisible

becomes so emotionally evident

in a language base of presence, 

otherwise offered as, just straightforwardly,

seeing what's so.

there is an emotive script, 

somewhat concealed but yet present.

a story told in emotives expressed.

some seen as if looking down a deep well 

with eye gazing depth,

while others with billboards flash-by presenting.

some with magicals, flying skyward,

others with horizon-wide walls withholding.

there are energetic secretions presenting,

always, a story is being told.

it is the reader that makes mention

into either prohibitives or provocatives.

the broadcast, itself revealing,

is ever in the subtly of advancing,

both in the stillness 

and in the ever stated.

everything said is in braille-face spoken.

what eyes you have to feel, 

is what sense you have to grasp.

the artist of oneness seeking, knows,

while the audience of observance does not.

all eyes are inkwells,

deep pools of withdrawnness as possible,

are for what mediums of emotional endeavor 

that call.

so, do you see, 

what I feel? . . .

my pet, Peeve

if my emotions made me into a puppet,

it is to honor my house pet, 

as my emotional puppeteer,

as if to be in reaction and response.

they, of animal stature, lead

and I, as human, follow.

they, of unconditional love,

and I, of conditional love, follow.

how they, who possess the moment

and I, have long forgot how to,

get reminded ongoingly.

their facial zest of being reminds me,

what in each moment, I miss.

how can they be so present

and I be so preoccupied?

it's a war of preoccupations

and they eventually win, every time.

you'd think, I would wise up.

but no, my know distracts me,

while their knowingness, invites each moment.

how the hell do they do that?

we both have being.

but mine gets self-preoccupied,

while theirs is alluringly present.

we both have impulse,

but mine is reactive. 

while theirs is ever invitational.

theirs is about, let's make up this moment,

while mine is about, being suspect of this moment.

can simple joy conquer complex conditioning?

while I have reasoning to say its so,

they have say as presence, 

that it is always each moment, 

ongoingly so . . .

the feel of reality's passing

emotion is all the flow of art,

while the mind is all the self as an artist.

experience is a prerogative of conscious style

and each human dallies between these two parlances. 

one of feeling being, the other of knowing,

one of presence, the other of presentation,

one invoked by impulse calling, 

the other in protective response to fear,

one seeking evidential certainty, 

and the other demanding a groundedness of certitude.

each day, in each moment,

this balance is sought 

as the signature of self identified ongoing,

defining every human's conscious awareness.

some are from the search 

of that which is their manifest,

while others are from the assuredness 

of their confirmation of beliefs.

no one is neither

or is anyone equally both.

all humans exist in a consciousness 

that is vulnerable to, 

either mental as override 

or emotional as indulgence. 

Our versionary sense of self, 

in our linear fashion of thought,

does not allow for both simultaneously.

in general,

mind oversees and interprets emotion as encore.

for some, that is implicitly so,

while for others,

mind is in override

and unpleasantly so,

given that culture features mental equivalency

as a necessary prominence

and emotionality in necessary subservience. 

there are those for whom

this dominance is impactful

and profoundly a cause for frustration. 

since thought has thousands of words for feel

and language ordains think over 

the ambience of feels' presence.

there is ever the internal battle ongoing,

where the feel of sensory perception

is ever accosted by mindful interpretation's grasp.

for a feel-person, 

that is clipped wings,

a flurry of run-on sentences as capture exposed,

a limited palate of color by thoughtful selection,

framing as a form of closure,

pillage of essence for itemization,

audience without the pursuit of isness,

confluence giving way to construction,

and agency rather than emersion. 

this is, the loss of the art of being

for the sake of the narrative pronounced.

we have cultures based on thought provoked.

we have species entitlement

based on retentive human mind narratives.

we have science as overwhelmingly a prominence

and art as a tagalong of cognitive interest.

we have topic as the meal conversationally served

and tone as the serving staff in an aiding pronouncement. 

there is this sidedness to the human consciousness predicament,

apparently not directly addressable.

for the linear use of the mind

is ever associated with a falseness of claim.

while thought has generated,

feel is generative.

thought will never conquer 

while feel is ever the the essence approaching.

the linear mind can not fathom

what the holographic presence of feel offers.

thus we have the ongoing,

of depiction versus immersion,

of conceptual versus outright ambience,

of presence versus the interpretive there of,

of spirit of being versus sense of the self.

how the ambiguous becomes 

the constant stampede of the cryptic,

how know is ever the audience

and never bathing beyond

the cognitive of isness,

where emotion is soul language

yet unspoken by the accountings of the mind.

we are of a mindfulness

as savages ferociously hunting down sensitivity, 

in mindful attempts to conquer essence,

to slay all of the mysteries of mass, form, space and time,

yet hardly ever to be of that which is,

what we mindfully chase.

sadly, there is no real mindful story, ever,

just story attempting to approach 

the feel of reality's passing . . .

thought comes (haiku)

thought is indulgence

from the vast voidness of think

birth of future, now 

is, how, why and if

how far across the frozen pond

do I have to journey,

step by step,

to realize a sense of levity at work

within me,

against the questioning of thaw 

in the secret mocking 

of approaching spring?

how much of demonstration

actually answers the questions

that internally rise,

that need physical proof 

in order to calm

my inquisitive mind?

is internal self dialog

ever more valid than

intimate conversations with another

about subject matters 

that seem so worldly out of place?

if I ever question the use of belief,

am I up against

a more basic substantive part 

of my human nature?

why do I ask questions

of myself

that will get bored with themselves

and soon walk away

from my attention span?

to make any sense

let shadow do all of the edge-work of framing.

let one's eyes be the braille effort at seeing.

let imagination internally bleed into one's presence.

take deep breathes as if to save oneself

from the impending, though not declared.

feature behemoth nouns conquering minuscule verbs.

find speech to be out-breath rage, 

disguised as topical worthy of informed resourcefulness.

have anguish as a source-place to be speaking from.

make touch be the scorn of tactile as rejection,

that separate comes to hunt efforts at failed closeness.

let sanity chase down every thought process forthcoming

and every glance back is a conclusion closer to insane.

be all of the wardrobe of consciousness one can muster,

knowing who one really is, 

is always dressed in projective drag.

know how frail needs a life of existence 

to provide for the wisdom before eventual demise.

how awareness is a fractured plain of personal perusal,

how next moments blatantly come 

as if time's primary existence 

is to prod for features to personally experience, 

but not all as of herd, passing momentously at once.

maybe sanity is just the in-breath pause

and all of the rest of breathing 

is an endlessness in passing.

so if one of us,

any one of us,

actually had a sit-down conversation with stillness,

would any of this make for any sense

like maybe a sixth or seventh or eight? . . .