horseshoes together (haiku) 11/30/11

clang of two horseshoes

one held in each of your hands

makes for tingling feel

time is myopia 11/29/11

Time in the mind

is applied myopia.

An elastissue

of self-consciousness

blooming permeabaubbles

of temporality

as thingyness

with up close self-encounters.

The mouth of now

is wide-open, large and looming.

Reframed monoliths

of name-ables

are imposing and impressive

as if an invisible conveyor belt

towards maximum zoom is on

and repeatedly crowding

all things recognizable into frame.

This is as if a theory

for presenting scary movies

overcame all odds

when mundaneity became

the chief enemy.

And now our philosophy for living

is a nonchalant

adrenal patch wardrobe

worn in a timely,

for all occasions, manner.

All these bludgeonings

are signatured as recognitions

as if somehow sacred

for calming the soul.

Time is myopia

as I latch on to

an hourglass's sequential grains

as a saving my ass lifeboat.

I am down

through the bottleneck

of my attention span.

I am worthy

of only a single linear grain

at a time,

attuned to the down swirl

as if this, in time,

is an elixir's fix.

Time, the myopia,

is as the body heat

of experiential metabolism churning.

Timyopia is somewhere

and I am noting it so.

This is the death of my being

from the stage fright of particulars.

Twenty lash questions

are smiting me.

Piranhas of accountability,

smelling my blood,

are a canned fury

while I am a human twitch

of a can opener.

Tie-me-up opia are all

of these teatherings

that each have

their own small deaths

within me.

I am a self-pinata

looking for a whack-then-spillage

of personal freedom

out of all of this.

It could be

a cause worthy occurrence

yet my balloony

boa constriction containment

is sensing, more or less,

a little death-opia

still timely coming my way.

greeting (haiku) 11/28/11

radiant full moon

peeking above jagged ridge

greeting you with light

I Find Empty 11/27/11

I find empty

sits beside me,

even as me.

We, seated,

amongst the unclaiming.

We make plain and natural

our business.

We are going nowhere

since enough of what we do

is everywhere else but here.

We are waiting

to convert our incessant talk,

to make religious discovery

out of our otherwise

sacrilegious noise.

Expeditiously,

the we of me,

occasionally finds

empty has temporarily gone.

And now is replaced

by my new friend, discovery.

All of a sudden,

I, that is we, are busy.

Discovery has brought me lace

in medicines of exotic symmetry.

Ebony, now too

greets me as a friend.

Discovery has made silk and steel

into verbs for me

and leads my speech

to finely woven narrative actions.

Discovery though,

makes me hungry,

but discovery eats alone

and so do I,

so very alone but not empty.

Usually, when like this,

I eat from a nowhere pan

of fried and crispy anguish.

It is too cumbersome

to long endure

yet it is too bothersome

to eat out of expectation’s call.

And so I have a dismal snack

of nervous fats and leans,

abashed in shallow bowlfuls.

And I wash it down soberly

with liquored disenchantment.

We, that is the we of me,

abandon any idealistic thoughts

and forsakes any romantic feelings

as refuge during this meal,

but I do belch to myself

with a connoisseur's detachment

as later in the form of a next then,

comes calling.

Discovery as my muse,

has not returned again.

Ebony has gone political in my view.

The lace has become a soupy mess.

Steel's temperament is for now

much too brash.

And silk begins to remind me

of mucky memory days.

The life of my verbs has become,

let’s say, professional lushes,

while this night's speech

is to an audience of cloistered voids.

And actions, my actions,

well, our actions,

are simply make do anachronisms

keeping me as amber

where I find empty,

not a fluid state of being

but solidified of being in time . . .

new shoes (haiku) 11/26/11

trying on new shoes

with that little walk around

to tell if they fit

Time in flash backs 3 11/25/11

Time is a broker of clichés

bent on summation’s reward.

Time is a picayunish detail

first murmured off of a headstone

for the D.O.A. of now.

Time is the inevitable strip search

of commitment

when doubt is the checkpoint.

Time is the bottleneck of scarcity

producing a refined echo

as this very instant of awareness.

Time is the roll bar of importance

on the vehicle of expediency.

Time is a dyslexia of how now

is not a brown cow.

Time is a reductionist's excuse

of, “I’ve got to go”

at a sandbox fantasy play party.

Time is the exposed closet

of a clotheshorse

abruptly turned nudist and gone.

Time is the secretive concubine

nature of space,

always salacious

yet constantly supportive.

And lastly,

time is a myopia of breath

personally realized

in one’s own close quarters

that self-attention

brings into frame.

Holiday time (haiku) 11/24/11

turkey will be served

roasting anticipation

brings Thanksgiving meal

Context (haiku) 11/23/11

context is a shill

until surroundings exists

where spirit is real

Time in flash backs 2 11/22/11

Time is a partially melted

family photo album

found in a charred house fire

slowly being viewed.

Time is the haven for liars

as it supplies shelf life

for lies that are still living.

Time is a child's

lost mittens’ journey

from then-hands to now-found.

Time is the flutter

of humming bird wings

seen as a tuning fork trapped

in a time lapse warp

slow down show.

Time is the dead weight

displayed as shear mass

of all unread printed instructions

posthumously now gathered.

Time is the top burner

on a stove

that shows the most wear

displaying the least care.

Time is an angry person's

pension to spit,

filled with lost moments

while salivating expectations

as disappointments now launched.

Time is a medic alert wristband

disguised as a voluntary lead story

for opening conversational lines

to tell it all in one sad setting.

And lastly,

Time is the fisted rolled up newspaper,

postured as all threatening,

at a dog obedience school.

Bored (haiku) 11/21/11

bored beyond belief

when what you believe to be

is an alibi

Time in flash backs 1 11/20/11

Time is a bald eagle perched

on the minute hand of extinction.

Time is a proudly printed page

pitted against sunlight’s

promise to fade.

Time is the elephants of rust

trampling steel icons of longevity.

Time is the eye of the hurricane

as conversation

that calmly evades

but destructively encircles.

Time is a bloodstained bloodhound

at a crime scene’s conclusion.

Time is the last pirouette

before a curtain call event concludes.

Time is the scaration of sensibility

as photographs irrationally exposed

as sensationalizing covers

on a foreign newsstand.

Time is a posting on Facebook

of a fossilized family

from a recent holiday kin cruise.

And lastly,

time is a boomingly large

many days spent, red balloon,

filled with copious amounts

of stale breath in wait.

Notoriety (haiku) 11/19/11

notoriety

buzz from others about me

so what did I do?

robbed 11/18/11

Experience has robbed me.

I have taken to acceptance

of the place

where experience touches me.

I only attend to where this touch

as gross contact occurs.

It is my religion of attention now.

All the implicit rules

about interest as such suggest

that without this recognition

I am a lost and isolated soul.

So I identify with it

like a lit flashlight

in the otherwise darken room

of the isolation of me.

I live for where the spotlight is

and then what it is framing.

All else, in the darkness

is of no consequence.

But secretly,

I am beckoned

by the dark room itself.

There is the all of it

coming through without fanfare,

without the abusive recognition

of face-to-face particulars

as if this void were not empty!

For me, it is the universe.

I am an embrace

of empty focus away.

I am my opposing thumb sure of it.

I fully expect this to be so

as my dreams are my creation,

and that world will come to me

in this way, night or day.

Until then,

I am a parade of bystanders

claiming that all motion is upon us

as a next of kin.

And that experience has robbed me.

It has replaced my life

with an almost exact replica

in every sensory way.

And now my life is

all about the faintest remembrances

of how it really is

without mental equivalencies.

It is all clues from deep wells,

faint reflections in dim light,

and echoes from voices within

who speak with pertinence,

phrases that set me free

and yet place me

in other dimensions

by other means of understanding

for how it all is.

It is a crisscross of dimensions

that do not honor the senses' take

very straightforwardly

but leave tail whips

at the end of lazy explanatory replies

and propose trap doors

beneath all

conversations that fill the now.

Experience has robbed me

but somehow I can't explain

these gun handle impressions

still embossing my palms,

all the little scribbled notes

in every pocket of my awareness,

and the collection of odds and ends

that potentially cuff my attention

with uniformed memories

and stories as flashing lights

and sirens blaring away

as truth that I can't avoid.

I can't explain

this loop tape of existence

as it seems to me to be so

yet I can't catch an edge

to prove my point.

I can't humiliate language

with more words.

I have no act of silence

to shout down the roar.

Experience has robbed me

and I am only my own accomplice

at every

self-service experiential store.

Here and now (haiku) 11/17/11

in the here and now

experience appears as

a backseat driver

There is only 11/16/11

There is only one prayer

but with a spectrum of invocations.

There is only one meditation

and however participated in,

it never ends.

There is only one undying habit

and it is

of a mega consciousness accord.

There is only one calling,

to witness and rise within.

There is only one voice

and it is searching to speak

from its truth without saying.

There is only one mind,

delving to be

beyond its content,

concepts and construction.

There is only one “many”

as experience is its muse.

There is only,

as differentiation spreads it wings

and recognition is its beneficial task.

There is only,

as surrender becomes that “only”

revealed unto itself,

and then, just for then,

there is . . .

Darken mirror looking back 6 11/08/11

I can declare my

baseline cynic's worth.

I cannot condone

any sense of ego

in my spirit's rise.

I am possessed

in an empty way.

Mind will only defend me.

I truly love the light

in all beings.

It is for me to honor them.

I prefer smoldering

of dark lessons

to any blessed levity

coming my way.

I am critical of hope.

I have deadpan faith

that the worst is always

the doorman at my gate,

and denial is always

our greeting exchange.

I shun merit as a means.

For me,

innocence has no value.

I have spiritual power

currently exhibited as denial.

Helping others mandates me

with mine.

I disallow

all kindness towards others

as release for me.

I would accept as fate

that a collective act of spirit,

coming from others,

could release me

from my karmic crimes.

Through my victims’ hands

evolution comes to me.

In their passion for the light

my eyes are softened to receive.

I am as hard on my self

as language can hold up.

I am cursed by a woundedness

that rarely can display.

I am truly thirsty

as any next moment's darkness

becomes a cup for me to drink

from any quickening of light.

I remain transfixed

until my karmic bones

are scoured and pitted

with the sacred showerings

from these offended souls

within me.

potency (haiku) 11/09/11

potent elixir

this ambience of ocean

rears loud roaring waves

darken mirror looking back 7 11/10/11

Ascendancy may come

but as skeletal remains.

I am a doormat of isolation

but thrown down

into the fire of oneness.

I remain humanly combustible

but spiritually consumed.

I live now

to complete the over-soul link.

I have thickened my soul

to knock on that door.

Aloneness departing from despair,

is my sacrifice

to move from demons

to a god within.

I release my cause-burdens

as benchmarks of my journey.

Avoidance

and preoccupation dance

into the full moon night,

as my times of struggle

are dismantled and dismissed,

to come home to a oneness

as a presence from within.

Gone is a rock star

of tragic sincerity.

Surrender is a sacrifice

of evocative grace.

It is a roast

of provocative lost soul.

Dignity and spite

provide the hands that craft.

A jagged edginess

gives authentic

comfort and support.

If I hold your undivided attention

by topic

and by charismatic means

then I have tested the waters

of a darken mirror looking back

with my emptiness.

Now, I am most comfortable

in tumultuous chaotic settings

where some soul force

takes over me

and makes me come forth

from within

in a burdenless way.

Somewhere

within these lessons,

we are all free

when we come from

this oneness

through the darken mirror

looking back

as our personal means . . .