experience and me

in one of the more intimate moments of the day,

I very quietly said to myself.

"experience, I think you're over rated."

you pride yourself on animation.

you'd use language to support your every cause.

you get understand to agree with you.

you pitch narratives all the time.

it's either quandary or inquiry, 

without hesitation.

you actually believe I am serviceable,

like we're best of friends,

and that I have agreed 

to live through your techniques of delivery.

I get your frame of focus and direction,

somehow mystified and perplex

at your delivery style.

sometimes there is an incessancy to your manner.

sometimes you pitch touchy-feely, 

like for real.

what you lack in depth,

you can't go out there and get.

you ride the senses as if they work for you.

no wonder they would love to take drugs,

just to mess with you every now and then.

hell, they would go with any kind of false stimulant,

just to get you to back off with your pertinence.

you relevance for granted.

I want a lighthouse 

without experience as an ocean surface gathering.

I want a wind 

that has no impact on the sensory.

give me eventual meaning 

that has no verbiage.

I want aliveness

but not from an audience perspective.

I want it coming out of me possessed,

but not experientially evident.

give me some other frequencies

that you can't preoccupy yourself with.

experience, you are like the big top

as a tented existence with sense all over it.

no, I want authenticity 

before experience proof reads,

before any of those framing techniques you use.

I am suspect about your version of aliveness.

I want an isness

that doesn't cater to your methods of engagement.

you make into a character of my own belief

and then boldly keep stuffing me

with more of the same.

experience, you are way over rated

why don't you get a real job?

oh, that's already your fall-back status claim.

experience, could you at least be

more of the inside out 

rather than the constancy 

of the outside in? . . .