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Wednesday, September 30, 2009

I don’t know what to think

I don’t know what to think

is probably very true.

How to call up

what to think

before it is thought

is a conundrum.

Is there any intention

to think up what to think

since it is already on call?

I don’t know what to think

is a true statement

about how to get behind think

or the original inception of thought.

Isn’t that really our claim

as to the start place of awareness?

So what precedes thought

that beckons it into something thought?

Where does the pre-think begin

and how does that process work?

I don’t know what to think

is a baffling sense of being.

I am not sure I can say that

and mean to say what I said.

I do not catch the essence of it

but only give false examples.

I don’t know how to share pre-thought

as if it were a communication.

I sense that it is there as here

but what mindfulness helps to serve?

I feel for it

but am tongue-less in a mindful way.

Please, you can only know for yourself

because you are of the same circumstance.

Well actually, we are all of the same.

Maybe it is a one thing

beyond or before

separation or individuation.

That language and even thought

is pulling that oneness apart.

Therefore I have nothing to share

because I would have to be separate

to do so

and have a mind as my processor.

Therefore, I don’t know what to think

and we are one and the same

before doing so!

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Two voices

Two voices


has center-staged

our awareness.

Who of me

commissions observation

to occur?

In the residence of within

how does this as habit

claim such prominence?

What other force is there

to acknowledgement

beyond those cued

by memory retention?

Is emotionality

as some acquiescence

fighting invisibly

to participate

as in to prevail?

My mind wants

an alpha life

while my emotions

envisions a soothing

intimate sea.

There are at least two

distinct voices in this room

One of which

wants authorship

while the other edits

all of the above.

I am like a court reporter

caught between

wary and aware.

The ambience in the room

is of two voices

and I am not sure

if they are talking

to each other

and I am the covert

of overhear!

What does an overhear do

with two voices

in one body?

I am not

a two-person canoe!

If anything like that

I am the watery surface

touching the canoe



between murmur

and surface contact.

At least for now

tension is to tension

and everything along floats!

Monday, September 28, 2009

As now is

As now is

as now is as an observation

now appears to us

as a blur and a fury

we are

many nano-seconds removed

for that refinement of presence

now has no dimensional ingest

as the art-form of boundaries

as we know of them

has no efficiency for existing

even our style of knowing

is effectively inefficient

recognition in the now

is a faint report service

much like announcing the source

of an oncoming breeze

as miles away from here

the surface of now

for us is as symbolic

though it has no natural appeal

for where the spirit

of each of us feeds

our senses can take a holiday

and essentially

we would be more present

to be in the now

now has a practical



exterior interlude

and an extensive




uninterrupted interior

why ponder

when now is?

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Art has no audience

Art has no audience

as impetus has no time.

Art becomes documentation

as we all share in debris.

The tools of our craft of the mind

have become our prison.

We have no escape

for we take what we can claim

with us as method

and only as understood

and thus we are our own

house arrest.

We are our consequence coveralls.

We are our self-referential boundaries

without lifting an ounce in resistance.

Projection is our electric monitoring device.

We are our home confinement ongoing.

Everything we render

eventually contains us

as custodial laborers

of propagating ourselves.

As long as we agree

to collude with ourselves

we have the lives

we lead into oblivion.

We are terminal suicide

by collective agreement.

We only abide by judgment

but not by aliveness.

There are no words

that are not eventually

our obituary

set forth as self-doctrine

displacing us.

There is no ascension to certitude.

Defining is not disrobing

nor expansion to include.

Everything is all that is

left over.

Every day is always

Christmas day.

The floor of our lives

is a layer of toys.

None of them play any more

and have turned into a debris.

But we live in anticipation

as a form of evasion.

It is always Christmas day

as before.

Layer upon layer

of thought-form impressions

are laid down.

The floor is clutter-bound

and layered with reflections.

We are building a high-rise of heap.

Each life

is a geologic column of retention.

Upheaval soon will come.

We have avoidance and denial

as our liquidity

but no gravity of spirit

to embrace our deeds.

There is no art

to our living

just artifacts

as if cryptic breadcrumbs

would give us

a use of a sense

for return!

Where within us

we create as art

art has no audience.

Saturday, September 26, 2009

the blessing

The blessing

At the start of the blessing

quite innocently looking out

from my eyes

as what is out there

forms to look into me

there is an unsaid incantation

of intention between us

as any two people might do

we agree to ourselves

in this un-said-ness

there is a formal absence

in releasing

towards common intention

it is a settling

more as a clearing

and begins

a space is provided

without preconception

a pronouncement rolls forward

through her lips

a declaration is explained

as to how this will occur

last visual images are gathered

my eyes are resting

with this

as lids come down

a vacant visual sky

converts itself inwardly

other kinds of sensors

receive a permission

the emptiness is filled

with other dimensions

a mantra is lilting


and inwardly sung

a kind of a dial up

on the sound current

a creature of flight

materializes yet formlessly

an alignment reveals

an energetic avowal

a bird made of all-sky

lands upon my head

the talons are bundled

in crown cupping mittens

there is no grip

as if gravity were in the mix

as my need

but there is contact

as embrace and exchange

another dimension relaxes itself

into my brain

this transport appears

as a soft molasses by contact

a highly agitated liquid

of deep soothing proportions

there is surface

but more importantly seepage

all that is as surround

is migrating

towards my inner core

there is weightiness

as space becoming occupied

it is a gravity of animation

on the move

it is warm without heat

in greetings

it is unrevealing

in the trickledown

into my sensory range

space now appears

to have an unfamiliar intimacy

about it

at some point

I realize it

as a beneficent muted salvo

yet accompanied

by a three tone harmonic

as a background constant

it has reached placement

as if a bulb were planted

and fertile ground

were made ready

with this process

I recognize these elements

as from before the before

I am both on the outside

and the inside

at the same time

the balance of dimensions

is familiar and comforting


where there was no reference

to space occurs

her hands on my head

are softly removed

without vacancy as results

nothing of notice

has been disturbed

the hard wire is fully functional

in the normal mode

yet the carriage

of being is different

the source of presence

is altered to a deeper residence

a season

of immediate unfolding

has begun

reality will proceed

with its attention demands


with needed involvement

and the necessity of attention

yet in simultaneity

a process will dance itself alive

it will preoccupy

without distraction

it will consume

without destruction

it will lend and blend

without deference intended

a time tunnel

will have been my interpretation

when looking back four days later

as words surface to reveal

there is carriage

as if a different source point

for gravity

experience is so much

just the surface of it

. . . for what else is

. . . abounds

I have no declaration

about the differences

there is little to say

about it as a shift

it is more like

an expansion to include

without reference

“it all is as it flows’

of prominent trust

ongoing as ocean

is its own wisdom

as nurturance needs

no recognition of its service

as space is the petal path

for is-ness

to provide perception

so much of objectification

is expressed in a yawn

as I yawned

an energy correction

and then

there is this bottle

as a bottle in an ocean

the note within the bottle

had been written

ten thousand times

this particular life

is to live it

as a script

and now

in an ocean of dissolve

to eliminate the bottle

and allow the script

an operative means

without restraint

to become . . .

not a ship

upon the many seas

but a seamanship of service

to an ocean wise

there is a viscosity to being

living through it all

where like attracts like

and oneness professes itself

without dimensional display

movement is then blessedly so

without wonder . . .

without witness . . .

without time means

this is everywhere

. . . and there

thriving as an undisclosed

yet deeply supporting now


as the inner tides . . .

Friday, September 25, 2009

Presence has no answers.

Presence has no answers.

You cannot document the ‘now’

and be there.

There is no dialogue

to this ‘now’.

Now is the only chorus

of ongoing harmonics

and its design

has no audience.

Cacophony is a localized scale

of immediate myopic observation.

Expand the scope of this dismay

and all is as one.

‘Now’ is not a reactive position.

There is no objectification

in the ‘now’.

Any carriage

from one moment to another

is distraction from the ‘now’.

Retention is a distraction

to the integrity of being.

A thought becomes

a complicated act of labeling.

All particulars lack towards

the refinement of oneness.

The medium

of the way we generally think

is a reconstruction

by deconstruction

of the ‘now’.

Thought is humans

taking a ‘timeout’

from the ‘now’.

Our process with life

is to suppress the ‘now’

and activate

an equivalency for the ‘now’.

We live the life

of interpreters

unto a blend

of interpretive culture.

The smallest tidbit of a ‘now’

can become a topic of fury

unto then.

Everything we have in time

is remains.