love is stronger (haiku)

before life’s measure

after life’s final refrain

know I am still love

“Problematic” is a sting operation

Problematic, as a state of mind,

is a sting operation.

Problematic as a method

is a set up

not only to get answers

but as a style of perception.

All the efforts

towards building an observation

are ordered towards

this style for an outcome.

This is the way of perception

that weaves expectations

and judgment

into precipitous results.

When reflected as outcome,

the reshape contains

what could be observed

about “problematic” as process,

for there is a promotion

to the foreground

of those stated elements

that more easily link

to the story

of “problematic is outcome”.

What could be noticed about this

is now weighted towards

that which is accessible

to the momentum of the storyline.

That which is lost

is discreetly lost without mention

or initial inclusion

and then subsequently presented

as a hard conscious rejection.

Much is simply abandoned

in thought as not part of

the observational need

at that time.

Therein lies

an unsaid righteous expediency

that has rights

to abandon in-thought

or what might have been

an offering as in-thought,

without limits as conclusion’s

acceptable compacted nature.

In many ways,

language works against

the elaboration behind thought

because of the way

it is lobbied for by words

insistent on their meaning

as it’s essential

representational nature.

Understanding,

as a co-conspirator

is always a medium

to represent a truth

from the getup of words

as a sort of wardrobe

or momentous ensemble.

Unto itself, it works

to achieve the name it is given

and then withstand and comply

to understanding’s

functional display.

It may not have been

the original idea

in thought-form

but for now,

it becomes the guardian

of what meaning can do

in the estranged way

we agree to understand

in principle, anything.

And since

there is no requirement

for things to be

empathically conveyed,

the fallback is cognitive

which by technique and habit,

is in the nature

of the results of thought.

The cognition, not the essence

of thought, as process,

in and of itself, seeks recognition.

Why then is it that meaning

does not possess spatial presence

or an embodiment of essence?

Why is it then that meaning

has a fixative nature of specifics

fighting against the fluidity

of what is implied?

Thought, as so represented,

seems under-dimensionalized

as it natively occurs.

Overt language seems

more depictive and less fissionable

of the being-essence

in the emergence of all frames

of thought-presence occurring.

And “problematic” is like

an appropriated three-card Monty.

In a more true light,

a question is an invitation

to channel a more absolute answer

that reveals

a more absolute invitation

into the next question

until being there operationally

is inclusive and expansive

in both a full energetic

and emanative way.

If not for this,

why have thought at all?

It feels like most

of acceptable thought

is a dry-dock for feelings

or a way of relating

but in a distanced fashion

as the seat

for the pronouncement

of the ritual of objectivity

in an ongoing manner.

We, as consciousness,

fall short of this state.

We settle for the fill

and then claim a kind of custody

for its life

as representing our life.

Reality then becomes

the metaphor

that we foster as ourselves,

empty of being

but defending and evidencing

that this is not so . . .

the method of problematic

is just this,

as a sting operation

done unto ourselves.

emptiness of trust (haiku)

I am committed

to the emptiness of trust

more than belief’s pledge

Experience’s experience

Historically,

my experience is

a compelling of results

while I sleepwalk

through motivations

I cannot identify,

starving for a conduit

of fluid connections.

A flood of invisible juices

run through me

as eventuality yields

unexpected relief.

My paradoxes are

by perspectives’ hand.

My conclusion’s grip

is untenable.

My expression has

some undisclosed quirks

about it,

a zeal without residence

a passion without prescription

a spiritual viscosity for everything

as intimacy without evidence.

My interior short-term memory

of “Post-Its”,

now a gum-less falling cascade

while timing is the composition

of self-permission’s slate.

I capsize my emotional boat

by salivating a vibrational ocean

that I drown my fears in

as a timeless nectar.

I do not know the hand

that delivers

or the heart that serves

or the source

that nurtures as me.

My prison was always a float

in referral lullaby.

My self-analysis is

now’s wily mad compass

of directional angst,

pardoned by memory’s sweep

and subsequent gloss.

All my themes and motives

slap stick fall over

each other’s mirth

as my self-directive

that use to provide stomach acids

for the ink of my words

nowadays features an experience

of all my experiences

as now’s simple drool

and an interior lightness

to gratefully but inwardly smile

at the seamlessness

of everything . . .

balloon abuse (haiku)

way deep in the swamp

frogs bond through balloon abuse

croaks, clever remarks

mother to daughter

She, as the daughter,

is the glacial waters

returning to the cathedral

of her spiritual origin.

She has thawed

into this fluid state of being.

She is all her elements

brought forth from gestation.

She has prospered

and is forthcoming

through her means.

I was her home,

at one time,

her living habitat

to be of each other

and carry on from there

in a deep kinship manner.

She is an expression

of my attributes.

She is a byproduct

of my themes.

She finds me

in her every breath.

Maybe I am behind

her every thought.

Our emotional spirits

share within our every deed.

I spin in her

as she melts within me.

I am touched by her

where she is my sacred waters.

She has blessed me by being.

She has taken as instruction

from where I am my surrender.

I hold her by my method

towards the light.

We are shape shifting

in shared celebration

where our spirits recognize.

She has anointed me

with her coming from afar.

She has passed through me

on her way

to soul resourcefulness.

She releases me

from my willful methods.

She has demystified my sense

of control.

I have an emotional richness

from her passion for life.

We bathe in this embrace

for our lives to carry on.

analysis (haiku)

analysis leaves

all the ninety-nine white sheep

to gather one black

Prism to set me free

There was a time

when I watched this movie clip.

I saw it over and over . . .

In it, a small

squat boxy little car

had driven into view

stopping abruptly

as a side door

swung widely open.

One by one

an endless line

of clown-like folks

with so many

wildly colorful outfits

kept getting out.

I imagined it to be

only one person,

as that same person

getting out

over and over again.

In my mind

because of my condition,

I kept seeing this one clown anew

while none of the others

who had already gotten out

ever went away.

It got so crowded

until I couldn’t see

the car any more.

It was much like

staring at the sun,

one unit or less,

right before sunset

when reverse image darken suns

appear in multiples

from every eye fixation print

I was having.

There became so many

of these dark images

as to actually block out the view

of the sun itself, setting.

This also scared me

in much the same way

but I could not stop

watching for the last

nip of sun then

or the colorful clown flashes

of now.

So this too

was a person to me

who was a prisoner of a prism.

But for me,

for a short time

on that one-day,

this one image-replicating clown,

rather than like the dark blotches

blocking the setting sun,

seem to set me free.

Just thinking about it now

sets me free again.

Given the rise of anxiety

from both circumstances,

I wonder why.

Could it be prismatic delight

giving me relief?

Do you know what I mean?

Prism too

So once I saw

a visually inescapable clown,

pulling an endless string

of scarves out

from the front of his clothes.

At first

I thought he was magical.

There was a prism stream

of color pouring out of him.

His gestures

were like swim strokes

in reverse,

up this thin ever changing

colorful stream

coming out the front of him.

I knew he was drowning

from the inside out

but he was laughing

every stroke of the way.

I wanted to give him

mouth to mouth,

to fill him full of my words,

and my feelings

to set us both free.

But he was a prisoner

of his prism

that I could not

save him from

but loved.

My Prism

With personal boundaries,

every thing is looked at

as separate.

I am handed mirror-like objects,

where I am looking at it

but then, it is looking back at me.

These keys of transformation pass

right through my hands

but I am not finding them.

Candid self-conversations

give me new directions

though I do not follow

very well in deed.

I am able to identify

prominent stuff

that truly means nothing.

I can name all the colors

I see as immediately fascinating

but that soon fades.

My body is an anchor

so easily slipping away

unless I touch or am touched.

Senses seem to have trap doors,

suddenly giving or taking away.

I use imaginary string

to tie most thoughts in sequence

that is if I loop and knot

then I have short-term memory,

if I simply encircle

then I forget in the forward flow.

I am not sure anything ever repeats.

Blink and it rarely reappears.

My greet is simply clutching things

before they innocently vanish.

I sense I am an incessant

and embarrassed about that.

When there are quiet times

I feel I am being punished.

I become a fading phantom

if I have no movement.

This scares me

into violent inward gestures

that keep me awake.

I wish for fast spinning road tires

speedily bearing down

and running as me at sixty.

I am a rocky point

at a constant downdraft

of cold air violently rising.

I am forgetful silverware

out of order

in every drawer that opens.

I am a sadistic keyboard

filled with simple circular smiles

along the sidewalls of each key.

Clouds pass over in code

but I am not able to decipher.

Everything I am constantly aware of

has imposed limits I don’t understand.

I feel like I am always downstream

reaching back for something attracting.

There are these

mind grabbing post cards

but they are glued to a rack as samples.

Identity is merely applied paint.

Sleep gives no relief

to this lucid view.

What I recognize as cogent,

I can’t fully focus upon.

Life’s rainbow Popsicle

leaves for me stick remains.

Everything is jewelry

but not really to wear.

I am easily captured by motion.

These gallows are anything new

stoically staring back at me.

They obscenely yell

their colors at me.

Their shapes falsely abuse

my expectations.

I tried to hide from my inner voice

to escape from engagement.

But I am a prisoner of this prism,

confined on cloud nine.