the be in the ever-pour

I dreamed of a fountaining 

that had no source for the pour.

the gushing was continuous 

but gravity was not rewarded.

if evaporative had tears to give,

the mood unspoken was of laughter.

yet, if it was humorous,

there were no punchlines delivered.

nowhere of evidence has been presented

but something behind mystical was evidential.

I have a sense for wondering

but this is, of itself,

is dumbfoundingly over pronounced.

maybe this is all a dream, 

as if living it, 

is what is aliveness,

that mindfulness chases after.

for once, I saw how attraction works.

how harmonics is a form of chemistry.

we are all harps,

buried deep within these corpse overlays.

if I was truly sound worthy straight away,

why would I take on the body of mass 

as substance to broadcast as if to display?

I could want stream-speak,

in which we all sing as one.

audience would call it harmonic.

but from within it,

it would be life as accord,

experience as downplay,

and living as the ever-ness of now,

without account 

or any notion of deliverance,

just the be of all of us

in the ever-pour . . .