trance me when you get there

trance is as the invisible hand, 

that signs.

as the writing 

that leaves the chalkboard,

that leaves that contact surface, 

that attends to it,

then that leaves the physically manifested

to scribes itself 

as fluids for thought, 

that takes off its wordiness,

that becomes 

an emotional environment of being,

then that becomes that part of breathing,

that triumphs as aliveness for living,

yet does not make belief stand up, abandoned,

or walk out of the self door.

it just exudes, 

beyond what belief can garden.

lives in a deeper chemistry, 

than language can go.

offers up itself in attention-smoke, 

for what dances in spirit's idle-enterprise,

for that of a deeper truth, 

that does not take to permission

from a lessor god of self in occupancy,

but moves in a medium 

beyond a state of what blend has to offer,

speaks, as common soul of a collective,

whose theme has no conclusions to reach

but lives for the sounds

that find instruments of presentation,

as both their cover 

and presentation for being,

but knows of authentic life, 

without that effort being made.

what trace,

eventually, no audience is aware of,

it leaves no trails, 

no method of evidence,

will not descend into cognitive presence,

is unframable 

as if we could converse about it.

for we are hostage, 

held in space

and presently doing our time.

so when we get out,

was there ever really a crime?

is history all criminal in nature

and memory the mandate of guilt?

trance and breath,

when were they ever not deeply involved?

yes, breath is the drug,

but trance as the outcome?

one has to play this instrument so adeptly,

as to subsequently disappear to reappear,

where the brain is the flute, so to speak,

and the melody is ethers above 

an octave range,

where experience can go riding shotgun.

trance,

tell me your story,

until your breath, 

takes you there . . .