Art has no audience
as impetus has no time.
Art becomes documentation
as we all share in debris.
The tools of our craft of the mind
have become our prison.
We have no escape
for we take what we can claim
with us as method
and only as understood
and thus we are our own
house arrest.
We are our consequence coveralls.
We are our self-referential boundaries
without lifting an ounce in resistance.
Projection is our electric monitoring device.
We are our home confinement ongoing.
Everything we render
eventually contains us
as custodial laborers
of propagating ourselves.
As long as we agree
to collude with ourselves
we have the lives
we lead into oblivion.
We are terminal suicide
by collective agreement.
We only abide by judgment
but not by aliveness.
There are no words
that are not eventually
our obituary
set forth as self-doctrine
displacing us.
There is no ascension to certitude.
Defining is not disrobing
nor expansion to include.
Everything is all that is
left over.
Every day is always
Christmas day.
The floor of our lives
is a layer of toys.
None of them play any more
and have turned into a debris.
But we live in anticipation
as a form of evasion.
It is always Christmas day
as before.
Layer upon layer
of thought-form impressions
are laid down.
The floor is clutter-bound
and layered with reflections.
We are building a high-rise of heap.
Each life
is a geologic column of retention.
Upheaval soon will come.
We have avoidance and denial
as our liquidity
but no gravity of spirit
to embrace our deeds.
There is no art
to our living
just artifacts
as if cryptic breadcrumbs
would give us
a use of a sense
for return!
Where within us
we create as art
art has no audience.
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