even indifference has a pecking order 1/31/20

paradox is always meaningfully 

smiling at understanding

truth has the shortest shelf life 

that belief has ever known

recognition is just a perpetual greeter

shimmering simplicity always gets my heart 

to escort a clear passage to my soul

I bother with details 

even though they forced themselves 

into my attention line

when I have projects to do, 

I have sheep dogs of concern

deal with the mess directly

when I go out into morning sunlight, 

I treat it as a date 

in which I'm exceptionally late 

but warmly received

there are times when framing it that way 

seems too drab 

to even bother with comparisons at all

when 'happenstance', 

I seem to get philosophical-on-the-brain, 

yet feeling wondrously blessed

'I'll be damned', 

is me, 

drawing a line in the sand with a stick 

that doesn't exist 

and on a beach 

I've never been to

given a courtesy call, 

makes me feel like I just came from an orphanage 

I've never been to 

but yet still I'm presenting discernible needs

a break in the clouds 

is like an anonymous smile 

in the midst 

of a disinterested crowd passing overhead

we all get happy 

when a wandering 'pathetic' 

is so triumphantly lost 

yet sharing with us

in the beauty 

of their circumstance

if sunlight broadly present 

was not accompanied by 

the secret service escort of shadows 

I'd be in a slow burn of panic

rooftops in suburbs 

hardly ever have anything to say 

compared to billboards 

that at least make the effort 

to say something

wise-cracks hardly ever have the seepage worth guzzling

you went, 'where for the holidays '(?) 

somewhere stuck in your body, 

experiencing a baffling array of time passing?

give me liberty or give me death, 

in the end, how are they different?

when the ghost of the past appears, 

refrain from photos, direct conversation, 

sidebar remarks, or remorse 

you thought you had a good idea, 

is when you let your critical mind in 

on the internal conversation 

you were already having

the end of an outstanding career 

can become a bust, 

in the commemorative hall 

of past's recognition

we truly are the main event 

listlessly wandering about 

cluelessly looking 

for the main event

stuck in traffic 

is when timing meets its match

'can't we all be friends' 

makes assumptions 

that we have spent our entire lives 

attempting to disband and deny

in a collective and cooperative manner

the day you got out from under, 

is the first day you discovered fresh air to breathe 

and a sky that was inviting

don't hold me to the truth, 

one of us has to breathe first 

and that changes everything about us

I asked to be excused, 

as a form of politeness 

triumphing over blatant disregard 

you keep looking at me 

as if I am posterized meaningful to you

what can't be helped 

is the view of a mountain 

from a molehill perspective

and disease and cure traveling in the same circles 

occasionally taking selfies 

with those near by

dispositional weaponry (haiku) 1/30/20

a battle royal

can't fight negativity

with positivism 

the conundrum of achievement in less time 1/29/20

the conundrum of achievement in less time,

who makes one an audience to oneself in that light?

first to ascribe achievement that status of worth

and then to steal the wealth of presence as involvement 

into a strategy of assignment, 

where time becomes the proclaimer, the anointer of value,

producing the wardrobe of false claims as wearables.

when less-time implies a pejorative sense of involvement, 

when achievement is in the eyes of others' view

but not a personal worth treasured from within,

where audience approval is a means of life passage.

but in no way engenders a self experience of evolution,

just more of life passage in the traffic of existence.

a skill, measured by speed, completely ignores inner worth.

the context offers compensation 

for the faint of self as worth.

acquiring skill-sets that have no passion of inner joy

while in execution as their ultimate intention,

feature a mantra of negative outcomes.

yes, there is notoriety

as if fame is more than a burden of distraction

and an invasion of being by bystander directives.

personal delight to the audience of others

only plays for limited periods of time in their lives

as attention given moves on to others things

while the person of interest is left with their takeaway. 

and what was the internal cost of impressing others

to the self's version of private self-dialogue and being?

tell me where the initial source of self love comes from.

tell me how resourceful one can be with that in mind.

no act, in the presence of others, goes on

without a deeper undertow undisclosed in the carriage.

achievement better not be stealing from there 

to make the appearance of worth.

achievement should be a byproduct

of the expression of wealth from within.

achievement is never a result 

but more so an initiation of expression as talent.

talent that finds for itself a medium 

to provide for others in a common light

as if a permission presented for all to share

from where they are rich from within,

and never an act done vainly in time

for an audience of experiential approval. 

such is the conundrum 

of achievement in less time . . .

playing (haiku) 1/28/20

playing is all zeal

everything problematic 

a perspective off

home is where? 1/27/20

I keep a front lawn of beliefs 

and a back yard of cynicisms. 

I have a three story house 

with a basement full of the past.

the first floor is all business

while the second floor has emotional appeals

and the third floor is living, in the highest sense.

no, not sight, feel, taste, touch or smell

but more so of the realm of spirit.

I get distant views as if wings in flight.

conversations drift up from below as melodious tones

with buoyancy to them, 

filling the now.

I am grandly hugged by space from great distances.

yes, there is the neighborhood surround.

the survey, there of, 

gives me comfort and hope.

there is timely bustle

and occasions of remembrance do occur.

the whole of this, 

gets dressed up as a person, myself.

and I wander about the rest of the town

as if my real-estate is not a conscious consideration. 

after all, home is where the heart is . . .

cutting edge (haiku) 1/26/20

I am down with life

in living the worth of it

as cutting edge calls

the burnout of time-off 1/25/20

the burnout of time-off,

was that time spent aware and watching time-on (?),

with apprehensions and remembrances,

avoiding thought patterns 

that are needed to be extinguished immediately,

before they crept into being full blown.

of course, behavior has its tricks.

the cuing into amped up could come at any time

but then it would be in response to burn out,

not the burn-out feeling

but the recovery time spent avoiding it.

burnout is not an original source place of intention.

it is driven by the internal past in reaction.

at some point there is waisting away.

there are, were, wounds, of course,

within the mindset of avoidance and recovery.

where was this going to take one?

there was no original thought in that way to start.

and now of its own making,

it's the burnout of time off.

the itch and the amp want to have a life again.

not a crazy life 

but something breathable 

with full frontal life again.

got tired of depression's toes

sticking out from under the closed drapes,

fatigue from false nervousness over nothing.

at some point, when playing tag,

if nobody is ever going to tag you,

it's not fun any more.

invisibility has an itch to it,

but there is no satisfactory scratch

when inactivity has no arms of intention.

maybe there was a mania to being on

but this is listlessness as full bore,

as if chasing ghosts of memories.

and with a nervous system looking for action,

let me wear robust again.

I need booming and hearty.

vigorous could be just around the corner.

yes, maybe I get that it is not the busyness

but the source-point behind all of that.

find me the vigor switch

and let me turn that back on.

I need low-key throb and tremble

in my daily life again.

enthuse needs to be a daily input  

and reverence for the unexpected to resume.

burners on, churn me back into simmer . . .

Back in the day (haiku) 1/24/20

so, “back in the day…..”

memory gets proclaimed 

as stage entrance speech

oneliners in passing 1/23/20

familiarity is a rape of a curious mind

freedom is just a perception's seduction

trust is an alibi from a bystander's beliefs expressed

joining is giving appearances to what already internally exists

old friends are endeared memories with faces put to them

brand recognition is what short-attention spans do

logic is an inborn trait to have robots eventually act out

privilege on stage is the result of curtesy-fear in the surround

timeless skills are not learned but innately granted

work is an impending gravity-based awareness environment

and context is the wallpaper to a rational mind

how about now (haiku) 1/22/20

facing the future

now is not in front of you

now is your, living

now is a pillbox 1/21/20

for us, now is a pillbox.

defended from inquiry,

unapproachable by obvious means.

its secret compartment is unaccessible.

we have no explanation to get to its means.

it seems to be hidden in plain sight.

can't get to it or get around it.

we are prisoners of its taunting presence

but not really availed by its know-how.

it exists for us as the eternal carrot

and we are the ever-horse in tow.

all of our methods just keep us in line.

the more we are all horse,

the more carrot is ever the attractive glow.

it's more than just a nut to crack

but beyond our tool-skills to do.

now is a land beyond experience's grasp

but we want weekend passes provided.

it's the great invisible mountain in our days

but also readily in plain overshadowing view.

now provides weather as climate,

mass as relatable,

next moments in passing.

and yet, now….

inscrutably enigmatic,

incomprehensibly undefined,

a towering blatantness in disguise.

I am damned to ignore 

but duped to pursue.

why is now such an open door policy

that denies entry so thoroughly 

and apparently complete.

now hurts me by absence. 

I am a forever-wound in yearning to.

now is the god of my dreams,

the ever-presence, 

just outside my sensory range to partake.

the eternal wisdom with nothing to say,

the stimulus to my every response.

I am a life of inquiry

without a language that works,

without a mind of integrative as embrace,

and a heart that crosses over that line

but now won't tell me how . . .

self-loathing (haiku) 1/20/20

self-loathing's wardrobe 

is critical mind's closet

with nothing to wear

liquidity is deity 1/19/20

so I have come to identify myself 

as if I am stream-bed land adjacent.

I am ownership of self that way.

I am land amongst lots of other land, 

hillsides and landscape plots all around.

for everywhere I look,

it's people as owning their land.

it's a gross way of looking at it all,

in that physicality identifies me

and I sort of go along with that program.

it keeps my mind preoccupied

and my dailies fill appropriately so.

but quite secretly,

with no apparent support or shared knowledge,

I deeply identify with the stream 

that travels through this land of myself.

that water-flow is me.

I know it does not appear to have the staying power 

that lands represents.

but there is a constancy to me, 

but not like land.

sure, with land I have seasons

and tending activities come and go.

but this flow has wonder

and a free spirit of movement to it.

there are highs and lows

and stories for both,

but mostly I connect 

with the energy of the liquid movement.

maybe even the viscosity itself speaks for me.

I seriously think of this water as lifetimes

in the making and the passing.

maybe some of this, as water,

has passed here more than once before.

everything about the water is appealing.

sure land has its constancy,

for a lifetime of living upon

but the water has mystery 

and an energy to its movement 

that speaks to my soul.

definitely I pretend the ownership of land and caretake

but the water is my vibrational source.

much needed

as my spirit goes out with it in its passing.

I am expanded with every dip, sip and gaze.

all of my emotional comprehension 

aligns with water, 

yet not so much with land.

land is such a sedentary mindset of existence.

maybe it is from mountain to the sea, 

truly in its migration.

but we, land and I, 

don't talk to each other that way.

land is stoic and tolerant,

passive to the point of obedient,

while water will have none of that,

even by containment,

for there are always evaporative means.

my emotional existence is more in that vain.

water is so much more the collective of us,

the common mind empathetic in passing,

the emotional swelling into downpours, 

and as if gravity giving praise.

my spirit moves like that.

I am drops among many.

there is always movement,

even by undertow.

I am stream to embrace the river-ness

and the destiny of river to the sea,

as if all sea succumbs 

to the ocean of a oneness.

only there, to dwell into the transcendence, 

the evaporative, the spirit of oneness divine,

to the rebirth in sky-bound wonder

yet forthcoming into deliverance 

and there upon a journey anew 

but of the oneness as diversity expressed.

I am of that longing.

it so calls me in deeper ways,

more than land could ever.

my bones are truly made of liquified soul.

surely I wear the rational boots of mind

as I walk the land.

but I am of emotional wings

that long for the evaporative means, 

to leave mass behind.

only to return, 

but less of its solidness 

and more its mysterious blessed fluidity.

I would gladly give up mindfulness

for this fluid facility of being.

my thirst is a prayer.

land-ownership of my being has no appeal

except to honor those who have that as their crave.

if I have to substantiate my existence,

I am ever in motion.

I have tears of speech.

my blood flow is concessionary.

I am an ocean of soul,

traveling to you and through you,

in many disguises,

most likely as the presence of we . . .

myopias (haiku) 1/18/20

one's myopias

are false perspectives in frame 

as experience

procrastination 1/17/20

procrastination does not exist

the bigger timely deals are: 

frame of reference,

what drives a person 

or where drivenness comes from,

the overbearance of this time-perspectives,

the styles for solicitation of other’s approval,

the over-simplification of first-hand task perspective,

the muted carriage of the aware-self within,

from where within is this commentary 

that anything gets done

and what is the source-point 

of one's personal brow-beating.

procrastination is just a summary remark,

made by a self-bystander indulgence

in their self-evaluation 

without any further inward passage possible.

is it as if to live to achieve? 

to prove one’s worth is ever the mantra

that is one’s eventual suicide note,

written in the longhand 

of living it to death . . . 

tells (haiku) 1/16/20

the diet of tells 

lives interpretation's worth

as if it were real

the gun-response 1/15/20

how did the gun-response become real?

where in the whirling psyche of being

does the impulse of gun usage 

become rationally real?

what self dialogue has gone on and on

that answers to one's emotional inner rage

where acting out has crossed human respect boundaries,

where the scale of valuing another is minimal,

where the pain and isolation felt 

demands outer world reality response,

where the sense of the story

takes on character qualities

as if thriller movies are real

and this one is just one more in actual time?

when does the math of victimhood 

exist in factor-ten of raised response

and how does one's personal yet private pain

translates into this factor ten equivalency delivered

as if a death tag is the eventual answer required.

for all the common elements that a society provides,

why are most of them taken to emotional heart

that then bare witness to tragedy made evident,

the isolation of self-dialogues that lead to shootings,

the weight of paybacks seen as first-person acceptable. 

that we have to first know of another's pain 

by tragedy's account and the lateral damage concurring. 

where in the psyche of being does gun usage reside

as if this is a form of mortal tag

that lines are crossed 

that demand death-dealing response?

how distorted a perspective to feel so absolutely alone

where these acts are also a poorly written suicide notes delivered in the first person 

with actually consequences in play?

where in the cohesion of culture did we get this so wrong,

where the rules of reaction go overboard in response,

where the sense of self is so in denial played upon,

so much personal instability as if not to be a self to recover,

where a life of victimhood has its own heroes in play?

are we of a culture 

that proceeds with this undertow profoundly happening?

are we of a species that can't help itself in this need?

we make fear the king of the religious mountain at heart

and then deny it ever actually exists

except by recall and tragic account.

so what is a gun a metaphor for?

what is behind the say that guns speaks?

when did we make that noun of an item 

a devastating verb?

when there is gun-play involved,

how has our emotional terrain 

always had this as a viable option?

there must be a free-fall of pain for this usage to occur.

human emotions run such a vaster terrain 

then rational mind is prepared to encounter.

surely no one is claiming insanity for gun usage

yet no one has come up with a viable solution to the cause.

a culture of isolation can be just like that,

unable to express, claim, respond, and mend

as individuals or even as a group in need.

a gun is a great cross to bear or to bare.

both versions can meet in such devastating ways,

in just one person's private hell delivered.

a gun is a secret religious symbol for all in fear.

mortal is the baptism.

and rest in peace or die in hell,

the prayer used 

for moving on . . .

awareness (haiku) 1/14/20

awareness is greed

information overload

as indulgence served

the language of disc-flight 1/13/20

we all speak the language of flight,

as emotions in our hearts. 

and vision in our minds,

as the whimsy of leaves in their free-fall,

the dedicated passage of cloud-herds grazing,

super fast jets stream-sounding their signature.

even the hand-scripted flight of a disc

is a personal message sent out by every launch,

where by the carving of air 

is its message and its deliverance.

so much to learn from the articulations themselves.

they tell the story of air occupancy in carriage,

earnestness released by the hand,

to let space carved, speak for me

as the invisible choir of buoyancy pervades.

this flight takes me aboard in deliverance.

this is what I have to say to you,

by spacial elocution,

by our back and forth transmittals. 

we converse in language of declared sacred space.

sure, every catch is punctuation added to affirm 

but each release teases my soul in confirmation.

we speak in a language that uses the breath of earth

to pronounce and confirm,

to make oneself sight-heard,

lest we forget the mystery of flight itself.

for we are captivated,

to then speak this other language.

and to know of each other in deeper ways

from what is said in flight 

and acknowledged by catch.

we now share of a greater whole

with the planet’s dynamics in service to our needs.

for the disc is the tongue in the mouth of flight

and, I say to you, 

what can’t be said 

in any other way . . .

musings of the introspective kind 1/12/20

‘consistency’ is forever contradicted 

by exposing the rigidity 

of its limited point of view

‘order’ is where you think you are 

but chaos is where you are at 

and they tend to mysteriously arrive 

unannounced at the same time

‘experience’ is the bias 

of the time-space predicament 

sensorially presented as if now

‘nothing’ transcends 

what impermanence presents 

and yet we cling to the free fall 

of the objectified

‘change’ always travels 

with the luggage of what it was 

asking comparative truth 

for directions and lodging

all ‘questions’ 

have hidden rigid boundaries 

of assumptions to inadvertently discover

the myth of ‘certainty’ 

is always staring me down

as a dark mirror’s reflection

right here 

but is an absent sort of way

‘frequencies’ are that 

which quivers and quibbles 

at the same time

as it glitters and glimmers

and I am at the mercy

of their existence within me

I am just a nuance away 

from a ‘nostril spread of breath-ascension’

it’s a long smooth pull into a tranquil lake

rising up within me 

the feeling state of ‘understanding’

has embodiment with currents and flows

close-knit ambiances

and an embrace that defies 

any bystander’s comprehension

can’t be where we have want 1/11/20

we can’t be where we have want to be

by having the justice of questions and answers.

it can’t be the lead-in of knowing as the driver.

feel has had to come to language on its own,

emotions, always pervasive 

without the words to justify.

common mind is declared more by shared presence.

true motivation comes with soul.

the heart of recognition always has spirit and respect.

they, heart by emotions and mind

both of being, declare in each person as one.

there is then a greater sense than a whole.

oneness sees of itself in everyone.

blessed is the nature of movement and address.

there is nothing external about what has to come.

selflessness embraces the all of the surround as one.

oneness is channeled through everyone's ongoing.

it is not of the mind to be regarded as the present.

everyone is the living-feel generatively

as many chords across all the octaves brought to light.

there is not residence in this coming

but only presence in the being.

for this, share is not a term of usage,

for there is no declaration 

to express separateness as fundamental.

the mystery of diversion is resolved.

everyone is seen through everyone else.

oneness is the unrealized birthstone until now.

time only has a reverence for this outpour as the flow.

there is no cure for the past and its limitations.

we can’t be where we want to be

by time references as if past, present and future.

that riddle has ceased to be relevant in this now,

for there is no audience in anyone to the present.

there is no measure to love as if objectified.

comparative truth has atrophied by the lack of need.

even need is not a current frame of mind.

channeling a higher sense of being has occupancy.

there is no position taken other than fulfillment expressed.

we can’t be by a where-definition existence.

we can’t want as if lack has any occupancy.

and the future has no forwarding 

driven from the longings of the past

as defined by appraisal and confirmation.

there is no self of isolation that remains.

the great concept of oneness lives in aliveness.

that concept, of it-self, has served its purpose

and is no more. 

there is no more swim but ocean of itself.

there is no more flight by sky of itself.

everyone is of one breath grandly taken,

one heartbeat beyond distinction.

love has no face to face as if meeting. 

where you tingle and writhe, others are also there.

for there has no solo sigh nor single tear of joy.

no one is ever the alone-story any more.

the universe is not out there

but fully exists

through the oneness of you leaving you . . .