before feel became

the imprisonment of recognition,

the dalliance of recall,

the backlog efforts of memory as retention,

familiarity as the sensory greeter,

the drive-by's of recognition's past,

understanding as internal lip-service offered,

speech as a form of self proclaiming,

conversation as braided shackles woven together,

the avalanche of unending comprehension,

the mind with a pick, an axe, a shovel and a hoe,

a rake, a crowbar, a knife and a pitchfork, 

a hammer, a drill, a saw, and a sander,

a phone, a t.v., a bank account and a car,

a projection, a career, a motive and a self,

a closet full of experience,

expectation as a forward sense of gravity as gaze,

can't stop for an imaginary moment,

time will run ahead.

could exist as a rewind of twine,

an invisible octopus in an imaginary sea,

a collection of out-breaths 

that gathered as a collective of themselves,

robust without the potential of appearance,

a statuesque phantom of solid yearn,

the space between space 

that seeks no acknowledgment. 

what am I getting at 

that never had words?

that only had thoughts as far distant neighbors,

that had feel 

before the intermingling with intelligentsia.

feel, before words,

before linear is mentally lionized, 

feel, as holographic, as embodiment,

as generative.

feel, beyond the stall-point of recognition,

maybe before conception

had its down to earth features.

feel, where no words come forth as greeters.

feel, like now without observance.

all within the integrity of being,

not as the noun,

but specifically as the existential 

yet hypothetical verb . . .

rust (haiku)

the story of rust

truth-telling done in real time

reddish brown that frowns

what? say what?

who would be doing,

being aware of their awareness?

now, not for content,

but for the study of method?

pick something to initially be aware of

and see who of oneself attends to that.

then begin to witness,

who of you does the attending 

for awareness purposes.

then find an inner you within you,

to study those techniques used,

to be in witness of that.

and after awhile, 

it begets a deeper level 

of who is the beholder,

the who of you who authors. 

and then, who of you 

is beyond this dedication of consciousness,

to that which precedes the sensing,

then to that which is in residence 

to these cognitions,

and then to that which provides for

all of this in-residence, 

as a self-consciousness usage.

and can further questions arise 

from even further 

beyond this grasp?

maybe the sense of a you,

who does not occupy 

a body, a mind, a feel for?

some very distant overheard conversation

that has no basis to be heard

or made sense of, 

but as if it personally applies.

what about you there,

beyond accountability,

beyond beliefs about self and existence?

somewhere where the constancy is not impeded 

by all of this methodology, 

now striped away

to get to this, that has no basis or bias,

but somehow is.

yet no,

but registers in some inner conscious way.

who is that, that features no-way,

yet that you vaguely identify,

but have no clarification beyond

that it is?

and somehow is, 

a you . . .

coloresque as correspondence

I asked color for its source, 

as if we were eye to eye,

there was a sudden change of presence,

as if tears gathering before 

a crushing truth declared.

your eyes are those of your fathers.

your father only saw

what he saw.

but you,

you can seeing beyond seeing.

is that why you asked?

because you are aware of frequency range,

you know we are all the prejudice of sight.

we are of sensory privilege

yet no one before you, 

ever spoke up.

you know you are asking

for beyond what understands.

maybe you want to become

rather than audience sensorized. 

the age of you and your kind is coming.

no matter what resistance has been in play,

no matter how much in depth

mind dalliance has been presented.

visual sensory as reach is coming,

is already present in you as drawn.

this is coming to the fore,

so go where it takes you,

not expecting it to come your way 

or by your humanly habitual means.

time-travel through visionary sight.

take no weight of sensibility with you. 

be the cosmos 

before you come back with spoken words.

don't even think as if to come back.

take that think 

before it becomes thought provoked,

and be.

no more the prejudice or the gossip of color,

be the stream of being

without a need for referentials.

let us leave behind the need for meeting.

for having even that as a need. 

yes, you have a birthright

but it doesn't offer containment. 

it lives even for beyond the essence, 

beyond the claim of a you.

ask of yourself, 

to leave the soil of the soil

I see you as wings,

where you have come from sky.

I sense you as night sky

and you face me as cosmos.

I am only gifted to sense you as another.

go, where oneness takes you.

you have my dream of being, also,

as your blessing . . .

spoken (haiku)

 

so when entering

by a spoken word's backdoor

notice, where said from 

about my mother

my mother was a metaphor.

always acting out,

what I was eventually to deduce.

her childhood, as she interpreted it, 

her parent's conditioning upon her,

and her basic daily fears, 

as hidden her motivations escorting.

there was nothing real,

as in the moment.

every interaction had script and motive.

I was planned 

as an extension of the story of her selfdom.

she always had a working model in mind.

most of her scripts were resoundingly boring.

what was sincere was mostly kept in deep privacy.

I was managed, as caring could provide.

she had many one-liners verbalized.

but by repetition, 

they eventually died coming out of her mouth.

the best gift I could have given her,

was to not be born.

after that premise disappeared,

it was negotiation about the oddity of being.

luckily by the time I was five, I gave up,

and proof read the script before responding.

my lines were all she had to go on.

lightness of beings does not overwhelm 

her endless shadows of fear.

oh, she meant well,

given the invasion of her otherwise life.

behaviors were delivered as appropriate

but otherwise void of deeper insight.

many years later in my life,

I discovered that she really, sincerely, 

had no clue.

after being gone for decades,

for her own sanity, 

she had declared to others, 

that I had died.

it was shocking when I reappeared.

and then, for her to say,

so tell me about yourself,

and what you have done with your life?

can you image that being said to you?

what to say in words

that would somewhat meaningful to her.

after all, it was revealed relatively early on,

that they wanted a girl after two older boys.

but then to amend that premise,

that, at least, I would have become a priest.

both insanely happen to be true

but not even remotely in the vain 

she had in mind.

for I was truly blessed 

by her native insularity ongoing presented.

didn't realize its essential worth

until much later in my life going forward.

being a third child-orphan was destiny's calling.

self reliance and inner dialogue became my standard fare.

basically she should have been a nun this time around.

she had such strong pullings in that direction.

yet life just took her by the circumstance

and compelled her into marriage, maybe,

but certainly motherhood and its boundaries.

think of it this way,

I was not a reasonable child.

I was ridiculously phrenic, quick mind,

with boundless energy to use.

I had a mouth and used it. 

I was principled in my stances

and eventually didn't mind 

the physical punishments sent my way.

it was all worth it, for the way I felt.

early on, I adored my older brothers.

I did say, early on.

those days came and went.

they were eleven and six years my senior.

we all lived in quite different worlds.

my mom was central but also very limited.

she had tendencies to be a poor-mouther. 

and I learned from the rest of the family, early on 

how every one of us ignored her.

she had sainthood in the back of her mind.

she was blessed unto herself.

I quite privately,

remember her that way . . .