What argue meant (haiku) * 7/31/12

didn’t came to blows

all punctuation, no words

caps but meaningless

the us inquiry * 7/30/12

If we take away our bodies

and the gender orientations

we pronounce,

if we take away

all of our familial roles

and our positions of authorities

and our functions as good listeners,

all our service as our deeds,

if we take away

all our places held in time,

the weave

of our peer compliances,

our stories

as bystanders or accomplices,

all our inferences

from age and circumstance,

all our intelligence

towards accomplishments,

our attention

towards earned respect

and just rewards,

if we take away

all the gratification and longings,

all our reasonings

and rationalizations,

all our particulars

that fill our needs to know,

all thoughts done as avoidance,

all ill will

and all the separation

behind gained perspectives,

all the responses

now approaching as compliments,

if we take away

all the representations

that justify full feelings

and go with

what is simply available,

this space: we occupy with motion,

this time: of timelessness as now,

this expanse:

of emptiness re-embraced,

this oneness of us all,

then what is lesson?

What is learned?

What is passage

and then remembered?

What is that work of keeping track,

of a knowing towards feeling safe,

of being busier then be?

How did this all become

so over endowed,

so oriented beyond deed,

so accountably problematic

as if frame by frame?

How did it get to be

that we are so separated,

so pursuant

and so superficially relational?

How did literacy and language

and order

get so much

so helpfully in the way?

When did being

become an operative

and when did fear

become the kibitz

of self-consciousness?

When did living become a style

and when did life become a story?

How could experience become

so encumbered

with measurable results,

so falsely ordained

by contents' bequeath?

Do we loose ourselves

with understanding

of how all this is?

Do we give up on each other

by withholding who we are?

Do we leave each other

by the silence from our hearts?

Can you and I surrender

through whatever is before us?

Can we create through whatever

as our next moments' breath?

Can we empathize

without knowing what that means?

Can we give freely

from the flow now coming through

and consider self-trust our upper limit

and feel with no need to identify

nor be met?

Can we be that us?

Can we be?

imagine for yourself (haiku) 7/29/12

try to imagine

how living affects dying

how soul lives through it

But is . . . * 7/28/12

Hope dies

in the eyes of transition.

If it dies

in some sense of realization,

it is saved for face.

If it dies in complete failure,

a religion echoes its refrain.

Hope’s precious

but subtle volatility

lives on ethers from memories

and half breaths

from fractured expectations.

Hope maybe a composite

of emotional textures,

wrap in momentary images

to sweetly suffocate from within

yet for the comforts it provides.

Hope can live on small whiffs

for filling the now

with washed out possibilities.

Yet hope, is that singular bus stop

on the mountaintop of being

where you can see forever

in a friendly distant, though muted

yet inviting way.

Hope handles imaginary crayons

with precision to color the heart

inside every emotional scenario.

Hope has a permission clause

to invoke a deep soothing cleanse

to be comforting

through the passing of time.

But all those comforts,

consummate in service as they are,

for this blessed cause

have been eventually

termed into emptiness.

Sure scent trails remain,

some lucid and still monumental,

beneath the stark of a now’s

immediate insistence.

Hope is as convoluted as this:

Illogically a barking truck

picks me up and drives me away.

It looks and feels like it is trotting.

As I sit in the passenger seat,

I notice it has a I.D. collar

but I don’t want to read its tags.

My hope is,

maybe it is taking me home . . .

Any tears that could come

from this story,

are hollow with a vacancy

that cannot be filled.

Even a solid slap of full dismissal

can’t provide resolution clearly.

Hope’s tears are too limp

and slow pooling to follow

the manmade tears tracks

gravity would provide.

If I stood up and faced the wind

from hope’s announcement

slowly and thoroughly,

over and over again,

would I be crazy to want to

just go to a store,

almost any store

and buy a vast array of things

giving the appearance of normality,

just to hear

the checkout person say to me

“paper or plastic”

and feel again the impersonalness

of the world kissing me

with feigned attention,

while I am still guarding my hope?

I am consoled, truly consoled

by the humor of that.

My heart aches from the longing

but my spirit is quietly smiling

at what emotionally suspends me

from existence in a real way.

My spirit takes me

to fly interior kites,

kites with sensuously long

beautifully colorful tails

against a sky of sanguine sorrow.

These kites, as hope would say,

are pushed up, head over heels tall

by the wind-sweeps of dismay.

How beautiful it would all be

if I just stepped away

from this canvass of feelings,

put my private paints

of feigned existence aside

and allowed my spirit to breathed.

And know now as I knew then,

that we still share

in the same breath

however awkwardly hope exists

as it is does for now.

Other dimensions wait patiently

for me to reemerge,

for a liquid of hope in me

to see the wide expanse,

once again.

That will happen, eventually.

I will trick myself

with next moment’s enterprise

until all of this is

very much compressed and dried

and put away from a constancy

of beckoned attention.

After all,

there was never any mass to this.

This was just, a presence expressed,

feelings smothered in co-minglings

and celestial realms entered

by permission shared.

And so it is,

as hope would say of itself,

not withstanding,

I am an ongoing

ever so slow,

eventual, unhurried eternal death.

One we wouldn’t have wanted,

for this to be so,

but is . . .

Time (haiku) * 7/27/12

without memory

time is not precious to me

it’s unbecoming

Polite insincerity * 7/26/12

The secret

to polite insincerity

is a supposed

pseudo self-agreement.

The verbiage expressed

by polite insincerity

towards another party

is authored

from a deep subterfuge

of internal resentment.

The resentment is based

and built upon

not initially being seen

authentically as oneself,

earlier in life

respectfully by significant others.

Therefore internally questioning

the realness of themselves

is their own disparity existence.

There is pending low self worth

but not necessarily a given.

Being seen as of value,

meaning and validation to others

is now somewhat sabotaged

by their self-image of denial

as presented back to them,

reflected

in every first person exchange.

Living as a self-scripted pawn,

yet meeting expectation’s decree,

cultivates this talented projection.

Polite insincerity engenders

its own self-imposed

life of imprisonment

on daily doses of candid display.

It garners an effective distancing

from others implicit demands

but does not , by any measure,

implore for help from another.

Aloneness is its method of escape

yet promotes further means

of personal invalidation.

It becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy

based upon

bogus appreciative manners.

Polite insincerity becomes its own

private valid survival of deeds.

Secretly saying to oneself,

if you buy my act, my projection,

then you really can’t see me

or actually help me.

In this case, low self worth

is living for consensual

though undeclared proof.

Polite insincerity,

although it leaves clues

with everyone encountered,

basically is seething

as a substitute for self-worth . . .

Polite insincerity requires

excellent personal skills

to compensate

for the feigning

of personal charm

and a caring presence.

Once discovered for what it is,

people accept by absentia

and this lack of attraction

from others as a person

becomes a way of life.

The self-insularity continues

and no one has access

to alter it except the person

who professes it

as a means of protection

to function in their world.

Polite insincerity,

a mask without true merit

for the person wearing it

as their presentable means . . .

There from here (haiku) * 7/25/12

quantum version of:

“well, you can’t get there from here”

why? (because they’re one!)

The grip that has no grasp * 7/24/12

This tiny newborn hand

docking around one adult finger.

The colorful eye dazzler toy

meeting eyes close up

with a handful pushed to face.

Those crib sidewall handlings

beg for baby hand yoga

of approach and apply.

The ever-present pacifier

in multiple clutch-held positions.

Then onto small steady hands

of trust

confirming towards first steps,

thus squeezing towards standing

and then onto push forward.

Taking hold of the bottle,

various positions to self-feed

and the launch

of odd shaped foodstuffs

mouth-bound.

Then later in life,

grips applied to stairs, chair legs

and what curiosity soon brings.

Even later,

onto swing chains, jump ropes,

and climbing trees.

Followed up with

laces that need nimble tending,

as do buttons, zippers and snaps.

Crayons that roar out of the grab,

the hand-seize of ‘mine’ possessions,

the snatch that then leads to share,

the clench that features first fist,

the pinches and tickles

that go back and forth.

Later still,

handlebars compressed for steadied,

the pencil gripped towards legible

and the keyboard played

out of scramble into song,

and all the books

that get handled, page after page.

In a while, the shake of hands

and the snap of fingers,

the clasp of shared embrace.

With keys in hand,

then two-hand clamps

upon the steering wheel for driving,

eventually free hands that cup

at the wind in moving car.

Somewhere in this mix,

a tensioned tendering of touch,

accommodating that first kiss

and then on with kneads of skin.

To grapple with hand assistance

fumbling towards sexual presence

and then-some.

And soon the grip

that has no grasp

may come,

and when it does,

as accompaniment to orgasm,

in either gender,

it is truly, a first,

as the grip of itself

that has no mindful intent

of grasp . . .

Thus,

the grip that has no grasp . . .

The sound (haiku) * 7/ 23/12

well, what is the sound?

of one hand clapping, sound like?

quantum, as applause . . .

white cane 7/22/12

Experience is my white cane.

Reflectively I learn from grip

through interpretation as response.

Tension is me, hidden in my hand.

Is this, by sweep and contact,

the letting out of me?

A presence, through experience,

invisibly passing as cane work,

studied-ness into purposeful acts,

directedness into strategies,

accomplishment as if by display.

Simply humbled into pointy presence

as tapping is a tenderness of feel,

a prominence of touches as knocks

providing sentences of logical fill.

By my experiential grip,

I learn of soul,

perched with my talons

alternately upon this pole.

As if by search and deftness,

a script pores out of me,

signatured in pokes and passing.

If spirit be this long white lantern,

do my senses come to know

by cast or by contact

as reflection about my character?

Who of me

negotiates doing's elaborateness?

Who sews with these plots of intention?

Who of me seeks, with the lay of hand,

further definition of my existence?

What grip of mine

transfixed as personality,

expresses this patient angst applied

as fingers articulating cane?

I am held and withheld,

portrayed as fistful leads.

This hand puppet of me

holding on

as a white tongue of elocution

amidst life's colorless

three-dimensional void

presumed by most others

as an inevitable choir of pain.

My spirit leans task forward

as if a presence engaged

and so much consumed

as phantom to fill stature

is behind my actions

as my ever purposeful deeds.

So much of flame obscured

by this avalanche of contacts,

by this flash flood of response,

by this quicksand

of short lived acquisition,

by this famine

towards self insistence,

by this lust for inclusion's sake.

What upheaval strolls

this experiential life as me,

apparently as blind as stone

and yet as soul that knows . . . ?

Presence (haiku) * 7/21/12

you being here now

not being positional

is how presence works

A drop is an ocean * 7/20/12

A drop is an ocean

of consciousness.

We are all part of that liquidity.

Given the scale of the universe

and ever expanding,

we are the current compromise

to the understand of it.

Yet we are rendered

to be that hum of occupancy,

that cohesion of sacred

unspeakable apprehension,

that smatter

of indecent blessedness,

that we timelessly go forth

but call it out otherwise,

giving most of us

experiences of years into decades,

and for some,

decades into a century

with millenniums

as reference points.

But we, as in the throws of it,

are not eras into epochs

or epochs into eons,

as oceans

would have come and gone

and then returned,

more fully then before,

unaccounted for ahead of us.

We maybe prized

to be self-conscious

but so far,

dumbly so by its constriction.

For our sense of self

is only by isolative means,

a ceremonious pronouncement

in which we further cosmically delve

into our petulant indecency

of presence.

We laboriously work with

the simple tools of mindfulness,

as it interfaces with matter,

as matter is a subsidy

of engagement,

sort of as breadcrumbs

to give us a heritage of context.

We all have the senses of myopia

and trust in them

to the crudest level,

defiling any sentience

of refinement

with our abject dismissal

to only feature the evident,

the consensual,

the concretization of memorabilia

as foodstuffs of advancement.

We invented time

as a form of mind decency.

We have cultivated

conclusive thought

as if an essential currency

of approval.

We made language

as if we, as marionettes,

are more than amusing.

And then we became audience

as experience became

a popularized medium of choice.

We are woefully labored

as a consciousness of observation,

as always in the parking garage

but with new models to test drive,

immediately at hand,

that will philosophically only get us

from here to there

and yet never to question,

beyond the beyond.

We are a snobbery

of mind-tourists

casts into our ocean liners

of conventional wisdom

as if only by complete failure

of means

will we be allowed

to drown ourselves

back into the heartfelt ocean

of consciousness

from which

our original

and essential essence

of oneness is means . . .

The box (haiku) * 7/19/12

think outside the box

no, think outside of the room

that the box is in

who is at gut of these feelings Part 4 of 4 7/18/12

Why does it go on

and attach itself as if it were me?

Am I the bystander

of so called innocent cause?

Am I the demonic shadow

casting my form?

Why are my questions

howled yet denied?

Am I an invisible phone booth

of presence

that is crowded around

by faces full of wide eyes?

Everything looked at

is eventually ooze.

Even my grip is becoming

just a liquefied grasp.

That I hurt only seems

to be a bobbing to float.

What is in this bowl

that soaks me away?

Why is my heart

without boundaries and throb?

Why does this collective

weigh as my feel?

I keep waiting for this coma

of macabre animation to subside,

for a sense of containment

to represent me as my stand.

I keep waiting for all these fluids

pouring through me to dry away

and for this adrenal overdrive

to get out this body

as only my chauffeur.

And for him to curse me

under his breath

while kicking all the tires,

slamming the driver side door

then pissing into the gas tank.

Only then, for him,

walking gleefully away,

tossing keys and gas cover cap

over his brooding shoulder

into the four winds

now swirling into a void.

Who is at gut of these feelings?

Who is the fulcrum

of this teeter-tooter

with both sides always bent down?

Who is the anvil that pings

stricken as my soul?

Why is collision

now a form of embrace

and consternation

some sort of wry smile?

When did disturbing

become my calm

and how did this thunderous phrase

"get over it"

become my koan?