to play at the living game

surveillance, as if brought to experience,

has to start with the self in frame.

for how one senses

and to whom of oneself is served,

are early questions, 

asked in this the becoming-process.

what do eyes do,

when driven to specifics in sight?

those particulars, 

that come into focus,

that are those that get immediately named.

recognition seems to be directing this reveal.

the mental narrative takes from these offerings,

as if from the composition of mind.

clarity is the forthright goal.

yet there is,

for what the eyes truly see,

but do present into actual claim, 

as if to be of only that, 

as what is noticed.

as if foreground to back 

has the status of this, 

as its method of denial.

sure, there are the reasonings of worth

and their relatives of value.

I hurt from this pressure of placement.

awareness keeps serving me,

as if as a ceremony,

yet my sensory team magically stands for timing.

sipping is for the aftertastes of meaningfuls.

this method of ceremony 

eventually becomes 

the passage of self-judgment in time.

I am that self of and as props, 

presenting as mirrors reflecting.

where this is what I all have 

as my immediate statement of cause.

light is my show of legitimacy 

yet darkness is my every moment of means.

tragic is the casting of these shadows

and yet, comprehension continues to read.

it is as if my existence follows along,

word for word,

and yet script is spirit

from the pronouncement of soul.

but I take breaths 

as if page turn after page turn,

without adequate interruption.

destiny is reading on, line by line,

without previous pronouncement.

each of these lines is spoken. 

this is like a rope ladder of climbing

towards the onward of existence.

chapter headings are only memories remembered.

and the story is 

what the self of me is told.

but if you can find 

that place in memory,

where you can thumb-press it 

into a now,

then you can wake yourself up

from this dream of existence.

and become before 

line by line becomes the how.

that is how to escape 

the book made 

from the alibis of account.

to live in the dream 

of currencies in the making

and not be any more 

in the card game of what's drawn.

and for me to realize,

that all of the extremes 

on my easel of experience. 

still only amount to 

my audience perspective.

yet I live for

the animation from my play, 

to secretly and inwardly ascend me . . .