where I is we

an unnamed interlocutor haunts my inner text.

I am now a gypsy career of personal insights.

reality becomes a ponzi scheme effectively presenting.

now my human experience 

is not the essential proof of my belonging.

I am the political enterprise of suspicion.

how I am my own trauma

is not solving a puzzle-in-a-box undertaking.

my impetus for freedom is just a selfish endeavor.

individual liberty is my false front of human existence, 

for there is nothing transcendent from freedom gained.

belonging is acceptance of an incomprehensible malaise.

any wardrobe of intelligence is an acculturation process,

for memory is just the derma of a time dimension.

all my tasks in life are just this wardrobe of a pragmatists.

these perspectives are only contentious in nature, 

but not truth of being, deeply visioned.

we are all a victimhood, 

noticed by colors, classes, convictions and creeds.

I am now endlessly 

this nanosecond of now,

as birth, life and death and beyond.

taken to expectations from birth,

flooded with the incomings,

impulse to sensate to sedating overwhelm.

for then, life has little to say, but be.

imminence, as if presence, is outgoing.

now embodied,

effortlessly forming as the beaming of being.

existence is relative attempts at focusing.

every now is so self-inclusive

of birth, life, death, 

and maybe, for some, beyond.

sensate is all too rigorous to stream.

time is an irrelevant free-fall in passing.

all impulses are eventually gone to dust.

each pulse filling, fulfilled and finalized.

input attempting to overtake its making.

nanos keep blizzarding by.

the onrush is ever-forth coming.

the sensate is short-termed unmuffled, then gone.

the wizardry of feelings are foremost.

there is a constancy of differences unknown,

a vacancy behind every face-full of frame.

somehow there is a rush of existence

without differences declared or known. 

we are the staying power, present, 

but not claimed.

the greatest gift that we are?

there is not language for it.

there is only the presence of it.

it comes through us,

off of us,

by us,

of us.

mastery is only an innocence claimed.

why do we go anywhere, 

when we take ourselves with us?

how long does it take 

for this experiential novelty to wear off?

our experience is a distortion, 

with memories there of.

for every now 

is already promptly beginning, 

to un-dimensionalize,

and the sense of self, 

to follow . . .