the flutter and the throb

there is world out there,

between the flutter and the throb. 

to sense how truth weighs 

with only energetic display.

in the same frame, 

one is menial, 

the other magical.

both components undisclosed 

but yet functioning.

somewhere within,

an internal motherboard gets played,

one marginal, the other magical,

even deeper than display could exemplify,

as if all humans live 

between these two worlds,

ever transversing, 

as if fountaining is life.

the flutter has it contextual enterprise going.

the throb has resounding, 

off the inner walls of self.

each of us has the instrumentation of both,

the flutter having stall-point precision, unnoticed,

the throb, vast in early evening 

web construction's care,

the flutter 

with inner voice cacophony's exchange.

the throb reviving deep canyons 

of inner richness felt.

why is this so baffling, 

this is as human enterprise ongoing?

the faintness of restraint 

giving way to the rush,

the resounding river slowed 

into a dessert pond pause, 

the stall-point, 

considering the shadow it exposed 

or the pluckiness of trust, 

presenting as self coming through,

as the flutter and the throb 

are both presentational,

whatever as the inner palate, taken up, 

eventually occurs.

wisdom has its way 

of circumstantial expression.

aware and wary holds hands, 

secured in their passage.

either leads or follows.

both become the human enterprise ongoing.

either one, the palate, 

while the other is sounding forth,

behind the presence of expression.

they both express and endure 

as elements of being.

for we all eventually find 

for the essence of ourselves,

as living life, 

between the flutter and the throb . . .

feel as freedom

 

as emotions, 

I always feel captured,

like an octopus in a display tank,

a bird of long-flight in an aviary,

a domestic house-pet in a pound,

a farm animal in a corral, 

a creature bent on extinction,

inhabiting a zoo.

life has the feelings 

of these impositionals, everywhere.

yet my feelings yearn for free-spirited,

not the confines of containment, 

not for the measures portrayed in species,

not for the apparel of language addressing,

but for my emotions, 

without language as disclosure,

without identity 

or even a sense of objectified.

emotions, free and clear 

of any witness status,

not even emotion 

in the status of self-identified.

just feel, beyond embrace as realized,

within the immersive.

just feel, in its natural state,

before it became labeled, domesticated

and leveraged, 

as if languaged and motive-driven.

feel, as if vastness,

where recognition is but a sunrise.

feel, as before the birth of molecular,

as a sense of essence, 

given unto mass.

feel, that can sense 

to be a part of being,

at the isness end of the spectrum.

feel, that humbles itself, 

to be in the expression of time.

feel, that knows all of diversity, 

as a presence of oneness.

feel, that we, as humans,

would what to call,

the ultimate freedom . . .

off-line thinker

 

off-line thinker,

that is somewhat a part of me.

I never ride a train of thought,

not really topic bound,

couldn't carry a conversation 

from here to there,

as ever, on the search.

presented with oddities, 

during the course of mindfuls.

have doorways 

where there are no buildings 

apparently present.

sees flights take off from places underground.

yes, I personally possess 

a keyring of contradiction keys.

doesn't really take turns 

with other mind-mates.

plans to recapture my mindful runaways.

see perversion as a method 

of thoughtful insight.

sense my means to be helpful 

as much as in the way.

would beg, borrow or steal 

from the rest of my mind

but on a lending basis only.

could have been a photographer of oddities, 

but travels internally instead.

makes up solutions for problems 

that haven't asked for help.

but to all others,

off-liner thinkers seem to be

the kind of a person

that would give blood to put out a fire,

fashion doorstops 

to permanently keep doors open,

see people dancing in the flames of a fire,

drive a conversation 

in all kinds of odd directions

and basically do upkeep on the edges

and reweave the fringe of thoughtful things. 

off-line thinking, 

ever the distant scout,

never the wagon-train . . .

awake in my dreams

so what has the clarity of sleep brought, 

that will survive the next hour? 

streams of thought don't take selfies. 

the sky is forever conversation overheard 

from another nearby table. 

so much gaiety said, 

but muffled, 

yet tonally present,

as still very close by. 

so what event were they at? 

and how to put the toys 

in this sandbox of curiosity away 

and still not leave the sandbox itself? 

I hate waking up, 

having to put the unfinished puzzle

back in the box 

for day-life to occur.

and I have tried to make my bed

while lying in it.

that just makes for tedium 

and I find myself majorly in the way,

waking up is take-aways

but also give-backs.

and I don't feel it is a fair exchange.

my day-person gets hand-me-downs. 

my sleep person seems satisfied, 

not to tell me anymore, for now.

it's like they are writing all of the time

and I am just awake, 

listening for the first words said to me.

it's like my day-life is training to be duller,

while my sleep life has permission 

at every turn presented.

sure, awake can be fun and exciting

but sleep is more magical 

and more deeply moving to me.

it's like my day body is luggage to take with

and my night body travels light.

day life has drumming, 

constant drumming of varying kinds,

while nightlife has open seas,

mixed media offerings, 

and self-sense in so many different lights.

the day life is an onrush, 

requires tending and approach.

night time is fall back in rest assured.

my awareness does all 

of the artwork needed.

I feel gifted and expressive.

can't I just become

awake in my dreams 

and live a normal life accordingly? . . .

it is what it is

it is what it is.

there's a philosophy to that

and a psychology to it also,

as well as a pre-emptiveness 

to its ever ongoing existence.

experience does all three of those things, 

at once.

the mind-work necessary 

is a constant practice, 

every waking moment

and then-some.

self-conscious-occupancy feeds on it.

the itness exists 

because conclusions of the mind reign.

we have summary, 

as if the world stands still

for our focus capacity to embrace.

we have stills as rules for function,

as that as a premise 

goes forward as a constant,

but not really.

in that it is only true, 

if we agree to agree.

but that works amazingly well

for mindsets of that kind.

humans pride themselves 

on those kind of mindsets.

we have our reality 

as a conclusionary art-form,

as if we capture motion 

by our means of understanding.

yet everything is in motion, 

but we define it 

to suit our means for this, 

as our needs.

is pragmatic really a winning philosophy?

does the psychology 

of separatism super-succeed ?

is control a means-end operative 

for function?

we seem to pursue brain styles 

as replicative means.

we have educative standards 

as wardrobe essentials.

we make language 

as if on a summary basis.

as a working premise,

everyone is to order their life

from the menu offered

or be inconsequential 

to the mainstream cause.

we allowed capitalism to become 

the psychology of manipulative success.

we invented ownership 

as if for act-out potential,

as a way of self discovery, 

taken to mean ownership as possession.

we are as nominal 

as long as we can continue 

to not realize it as such.

we have the makings 

of a lazy 'I' syndrome functioning,

in that, can't see beyond what seeing begets,

as it registers as self-consciousness 

as its focus means.

comparative truth is a contestable process,

a framing style that falsifies true measures,

for pseudo worth personified.

we are in need of planet dialogue.

we need a militia of planet-base personage

to reflect, respond and engender,

beyond the human-phobic state we are in. 

it is what it is,

reflects the terms, 

for planetary suicide to be written.

not for the planet itself

but for our means of participation.

we are so myopic,

that our own acne 

will eventually kills us off.

and the earth will go on 

to grow up

and grow old.

for now, we are only fireflies, 

at our own camp ground setting,

marveling in our self-wonder.

we had an original school for learning.

it was called earth.

our relationship required mentoring 

of need.

somehow we made it into a staging area

and now we just play-act ongoingly.

we need a military as activists

for planetary deeds,

to reinvent planetary service in needs.

plant trees, 

free us from oil dependencies as claimed,

cultivate clean water,

eliminate animal food base origins,

study the earth 

as conversationally speaking,

enhance and restore,

take back mind readiness 

from mindset disregard, 

for us to truly be.

it is what we become,

not a product to be viewed

but a process to be lived.

and for humans,

put an end to all nouns, 

as over dignified

and give further life to all verbs.

to be lived 

from within us

into their ongoing human aliveness . . .