Carving spirit

Spirit carving itself

out of a being.

Born into a witless grappling,

language-less,

caged in a body

of containment and limitation,

a trial and error method of impulse,

the constant labor of consequence,

bombarded and beleaguered

by sensory input,

in a task master’s delusion

of breath after breath,

hounded by repetitious flogging

into lasting impressions,

baited by bodily demands

without behavior’s refinement

as a first language,

featuring the intrusions

of sight and sound,

the tactical invasions,

unceasing on all fronts,

the i.v. of a new data base

called experience,

cold, expansive and diverse,

overwhelmingly diverse,

with sense trailers

layered all around and intrusive.

I think I mean intrusive

now that I have the intrusion

of meaning itself (!) upon spirit

and to show off as blandly radiant

as a presence to others!

I am welcomed to my foreign land.

Everything envelops.

What seems to be a constant

is what I will eventually claim as me

or at least my act of me,

me and my shtick

and my props that is.

So here we are,

me and you you and me?

Here only to discover

how I am not you

and then leave as if I could leave

as if we are separate,

as if our display,

the way we are in bodies

and the lives we lead

verify that we are surely separate,

unique, and all that blather.

I am so bloodshot separate

yet I find it hard

to itchy scratchy believe.

I am compelled

at the gunpoint of now

to believe

and believe in this

as well as the doom of existence

but I don’t.

I have been captured into an exile

but I am not alone

in that we all are a convention alone.

We are all that alone one,

sharing our unique aloneness,

almost imprisoned by it

and definitely self-restrained within it,

that no one should give it away.

We are drilled and practiced

into our isolation

so as not to give it away

but we can’t help but share

our methods of remoteness.

We trip over each other’s aloneness

but leave no clues,

feign acknowledgment,

declare nothing to be evident,

march to the different drummers,

and be wary

of a our common drummer union card!

For this amorphous

is all towards answers

and this experience

is only a mirror means.

The physiology of stress or relaxation

are our bodies as given tools.

We are thermals, melting ice

as weather permitting.

We are wind-transported

grains of sandstorm

as passion lived.

We are as the sun’s mystical involvement

with water

in a cloud-rain-ocean-vapor praise.

Each moment in time

has our body of record

as discreet creation or diminishment,

even as reconfigured

and possibly replenished

yet eventually self-evident as aging.

Cell death cell life cell death,

We, as if minds,

are then peering at the chemistry,

as if imbibed and excreted.

We, as if bodies,

live the inferring of the electricity,

as vitality over life force.

We are phantoms

as creation in transport,

brightness displays

and glimmers reveals,

senses intake

as sense outputs and outstays.

We are the interface of surfaces

with implied boundaries.

We are gender offered

as our medium-ship is levity.

We are hereditary

and habits give compositional display.

The journey fills with manifest.

Spirit is deniably the journey’s goal.

This is always so

with endearment buried deep within.

Each of us is for our wants,

seduced to welcome from every breath

while we wear ourselves outside in.

By cell by tear by breathe

by act by outcome by consciousness,

we are the carving

that is living as itself

and it continues.

Hey when this is over . . .

where do we meet?

Well I don’t mean meet in that way!

I mean where do we freely one?

Where we never really left from there

but sort of somehow added here in passing.

Clearly . . .

to just reveal

the trivial and trite of here,

we are carving toward spirit

as human beings,

just in passing . . .