For
some, desire is as common in the mind-medium
as
occurrence is,
as
chemistry between two people is,
as
all things with handles are,
or
as subtle as composing a propositional koan
to
puzzle the day.
We
attempt to make this kind of inner reflection
intercedably subjective,
in
a similar way as a puppeteer shills puppetry talk.
We
make the desire experience seem veiled
behind
the liquid of prominent sensing,
endlessly
pouring over the surface-consciousness
of
our being.
We
make formal thought appear as walls,
plastered
in frozen frames,
and
memory as a slow patience of a fragrance
to
the edges just outside of personal time.
Desire
is potentially a remake of our entirety,
feeding
us a new form of self-interval,
just
short of one eternity life of our being.
Desire
is the river's bottom
always
pledging solid steadfast assistance,
this
as the hidden side of life force,
seldom
sighted
but
none the less honoring the float of our icons,
which
eventually beach,
laden
with meaning or relevance
and
then somehow onto dust.
Where
in this process, this migration,
is
the heart, desires' deeds do not fully serve?
Desire
celebrates "new instigation as a need,"
then
desire becomes the seepage of joy
as
an "expression of being."
For
without desire,
we
seem quite heartless . . .
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