to be where

 

to be so, the drug of emptiness,

that there is no experience of edges.

to be able to dwell in the pearl essence 

of the fiercest harrowing growl.

to be that baseline blue of any flame 

as my eyes, heat-soaked, 

outwardly pondering.

to be the water in a waterfall

that leaves the descending river-flow 

by so evaporatively ascending.

to be those specific wing feathers 

on a perigean falcon

traveling at its highest descending top speed

that feel the most face-on impact 

of this onrush.

to be that one center-point molecule

on a high speed saw blade

that covers no distance 

in its absolute center while circling.

to be the essential presence of myself

that senses no difference 

in my being post death or eminently alive, 

either way as ongoing.

to be that line-point on a razor blade edge

that has no experience of left or right, falling away

but lives on the oncoming of its passing.

so wanting, to be 

where essence is indescribable,

where being is before its manifest,

where the ware of location 

takes up no space at all,

where the labor of essence is nonexistent, 

where migratory is first sacred 

before it becomes ritualized,

where pencil-lead lives 

the secret environment of passion 

for the upcoming scrawl,

where force gives up its surface tension

to becomes one within the might,

where edge, of its own volition, 

sacredly bows and blends,

where hurt heals of itself 

and pain becomes its passionate admirers,

where go-no-further gives up 

on its determination

and allows destiny to be as an embrace,

where the torture of knowing

surrenders to the pleasantries of undefined, 

where 'how' articulates its own becoming 

and 'why' becomes the art of because . . .