lust is a dustup

 

the rush of lust

is never the actions taken.

it is the unsaid 

way before the actions.

it is when the long awaited 

is the simmer before sunrise 

that has been impending 

deep in the murmurs

that leaps full mouth open

into the sky of animation as action

that those first blast of dream-awake rays

are staring down the throat 

of one's night-sight presenting as happening

and lust is speechlessly displaced

by nighttime action.

there is the lust 

looking for an onrush 

as if as an answer

to a buildup of inner unsaidness.

it is when the ever so 

layered in silence as kindling

is from fine-tooth slivers of pang-whispers

then stacked as inklings into twigs

then rolls of broken branches 

memory-added

then outright lumber piled on

pyramiding towards the inner craving sky

that has finally caught up 

with the desire 

that lead to the spark

and all of that false-wood 

seething with desire's dryness 

then burst into what happens next

as lust is lit up 

beyond the thievery 

of what was thought possible

into full blown override 

way past the onrush as expected

the flames become outspoken

and lust, goes up in smoke

find me the lust 

that fumbles with body parts 

in the mind of the night

that strains and flexes the visuals

as if trembling in shameful celebration

that breathes in the seething

as if aliveness ever comes

that towers as the director of intention

and simmers as the subdued

that never arrives 

yet to beat the emotional drum-skin of self

with continued layers of cravings

as if to be the libido 

that knows no soul

but fakes it for the glory-mind untold

only to awake to the frank-openness 

dressed as the obvious as dreamed

the entourage unraveling

sleep is just becoming as day breaks

night falls by the roadside of the morning

and lust becomes another roadkill 

of an emotional existence

for driving oneself madly along

passion done in one lusty color

with the strong off-hand of desire

yet pressing too hard 

on the self-page 

of the awakening mind . . .

to have the feelings

 

I wanted to have the feelings.

feelings so strong, 

that I have no more definitional needs, 

that words can come to represent.

the feel before self-presence 

recaptures me again,

to be beyond the guardianship 

of recognition skills.

before I am handicapped 

by sensing reclaiming me.

that this feel takes me so deep, so vast, 

beyond my need for birth 

or awareness of my separateness of being.

that feeling, where no boundaries present,

where I have no need for storyline,

where I would loose the comma state 

of being audience to anything,

where I exist before my recognition of trust,

where there is emersion 

beyond the need for discernment,

where I am steadied without sensory's fill,

to a place at the pointlessness of time,

beyond the admission 

of conscious surrender 

where background and foreground 

eternally embrace.

just eyes to eyes, 

in that soul to speak.

where subtle was always calling me,

to that ocean is toasting 

to epochs of existence.

where thought lays down 

without content to bother

and quantum is without compromise.

where feel is summational presence 

without self.

the feeling, being, as oneness . . .

the mantra of time

 

the constant mantra of time,

every heart beat honors,

every breath feigns interest.

the mind is subject to the drone of it.

daylight lobbies,

while night time is casual. 

nature is more dedicated to the religion.

there is precision

but not ongoing exactitude.

we are all the stepchild, 

the hand-me-downs.

we live from the stolen diary call memory.

with time no sentence is ever complete.

the story is totally made up,

yet we only know versions for ourselves.

with time, there is a front stage and a back.

we only consider acting,

never the role of corpse 

or pre-birth readiness.

never, in a million years, 

is an insider time-joke,

humans don't get.

if time was a sound,

like a very loud constant silence,

then maybe we would 

more clearly understand.

time doesn't have wounds or defects,

not interested in first alerts either,

could pass as environmental 

and does not care in the least,

holds our understanding of all this 

as hostage.

and few ever escape.

you'd think that we just invented time,

to have a means to process, 

have thoughts, do memory, 

have a storyline in some sense of sequence.

but nobody in the right mind,

would believe that to be true.

and so we keep to our muttering

and time easily honors the all of that,

as if.

just saying . . .

poetry

poetry is picking up the litter of words,

looking for the crumbs of meaning

and creatively making new perspective,

delicious for mind consumption, 

once again.

poetry is an origami of mindful awareness,

taking meaning and reshaping it

into recognitions otherwise unnoticed

as exploratory and impactful to ascertain.

poetry is a curious honesty

finding its own words,

embracing meaning for its simplicity

and laying it down, line by line,

as if life was that straight forward. 

poetry is a soup-kitchen

in which feelings are served

in bowls of self 

as articulately announced,

as intensely as it is made.

poetry is the barnstorming of the brain,

performing emotional aerials

in the understanding sky

that others mutually participate in.

so what the poetry are you? . . .

oneness of the whole

walking in the concrete mind

is every step taken towards certitude.

where all nouns are excess baggage

for the carry of audience perspective

and all verbs are the nutrients 

of light-being activity towards confluence.

where all of our sensory activity

is to get us in the river,

as the river,

to use the light, 

to become the light

and to live into the livingness

as the alive.

experience is initially 

an introductory technique,

eventually time-bound ineffective.

we are the leave-taking of; 

thoughtful for presence,

particulars for immersion,

and happiness for joyless joy.

we become the vast of essence

and the void of time and space perspective.

we relinquish seek, for original now,

to eliminate all definitional means

and be.

we discover self as unnecessary wardrobe,

and thought as a futility technique.

language is an in-time handicap

and that observation has no currency.

we sense mass occupancy 

as a slowed down version of doing being,

that know is a manifestation of fright,

and self as an awareness of the diminutive.

we realize space as a metaphor 

of the pin-down, 

conclusions as just adhesives of reaction,

and all of memory is emotional theoreticals 

made into scrap.

please become from beyond the surmise. 

give up on the all of the evidence 

and become the essence, 

as oneness of the whole . . .

okay, the meaning of life

what is the significance of meaningful?

meaning offers a sense of confidence

in response to apprehensions.

the construction of meaning

is the card house 

that plays upon linearity think.

if any of us thought of everything at once

that myth would be over.

our method for the construction of thought

features observation as keynote, 

separate from

and then applies 

for the fill of understanding 

which supposes acceptable distance

and a method of relating 

that underscores that profound 

but undeclared separateness 

as a constant given 

yet beyond mentionable.

we are forever on the outside 

but steadied and stabilized by 

the preoccupation 

with the impactfulness of meaning 

as an awareness occupancy, 

masquerading as self-consciousness.

we are to each other, in that way.

we have the technique called experience

as the medium of this usage personified.

within rational constructionism, we verify

by the means of memory, that we contain.

any other mindful slippage 

is rendered as irrational.

from the dawn to the dusk 

we are enveloped 

yet, what is the steadfast meaning of life

continues to be the carrot of the gods

and the god is evidentially somewhere else,

other than that which allows itself 

to be presented

as our meaning of life.

if understanding was the claim

than impotence is the preoccupation 

of comprehension.

knowing is only actuational 

as that understanding. 

all of doing is an act-out process.

all questions have to fall into that range 

of presentation as linear 

and rational explanation.

what is the meaning of life,

asks of itself in a formate 

that is rhetorical in essence.

any answer assumes a myopia 

of this comprehension

and the discovery that meaning 

is not a driver of our existence. 

for any medium that can be ascertained

positions us as the means 

of our own self-victimization,

present within the confines 

we self administer.

in contemplation, 

all is metaphorical as out-breath,

as if asking, 

by that which we intimately breathe, 

where does our breath go after it leaves us?

and in doing so, does it take us with it,

further into or way beyond

this so called meaning of life? . . .

monotony (haiku)

the monotony 

of uniqueness, is its frame

it stands out from what?

now is only a skinny-dip away

 

now is always out of time.

can't bum a minute for afterthought. 

can't steal a second's chance.

can't ask for some loose seconds to spare.

now has no audience of it,

no front row seats,

no special passes for pit or backstage,

don't bother with a camera 

or a recoding device,

even experience is unqualified to be there.

how did something so imminently close

become so profoundly far away?

I want to believe it's out there

but I keep stumbling on my method 

of inclusion itself.

I want to take the binoculars of experience.

I want to have memory retention.

I want it to fit into my storied account

but no, nothing of that kind works.

I certainly have a feel for its absence.

maybe that's all pseudo kinesthetic 

but if real was not so burdened with intake,

then now would be more in-me present.

eternity is just an inside joke.

infinity won't even bate me 

with a 'consider this'.

life, as a thought-form, 

is a prosthetic of awareness.

it's like reality is a stand up comic,

with an endless supply 

of one-liners about time.

now is the patron saint of pronto,

the invisible angel of duly present

and the extinct fragrance of timeless.

now is the mirror 

that guarantees no reflection,

that dismisses 

experience's presentation attire,

that calls out to the spirit of me,

before the burden 

of being human addresses.

now may find me endlessly quizzical,

but I find it incredulous but charming.

if I could only take off 

all of the excess of being,

now might turn out to be, 

only a skinny-dip in waiting . . .