The ever-change

There is this unceasing

muffled electric feeling

as a constant sensitivity

towards a kind of shedding

of an itchy

almost etheric skin,

steadily flaking off.

It is with every new thought

as old thought vacancy occurs,

with every next feeling

as old emotional space is emptied.

It is inside of every new gesture,

filling its recent form.

Movement is breaking free

from the last immediate motion.

This, as ever-change,

is always secretly happening.

It is so strong and persuasive

but hardly noticeable

as a by-product

of the way we sensorially experience.

We are a full body callous

of our own experiential style.

At best, we call out accounts

of events as the change

but it happens fluidly

deep inside of all those appearances,

beneath our attending

and far beyond our attention.

Our mass in the ever-manifest

is constantly changing.

Cells come and go in droves.

Heartbeats drum on through

all our canyons of soft tissue.

Breathing is on its own

as an unnoticed philanthropic deed.

There is a constancy

of chemical interactions

as well as electrical accompaniment.

We assume appearance

as if we are solids.

We somehow cannot grasp

how we indulge

the imminently recent past

and call it now.

It is a common

everyday in every way occurrence.

For we lack the tools of discreet perception

and steady witness focus

plus the physical acuity

to convey that that is so.

We live for any gross glimpse

from this river of change.

We fabricate enormous anecdotes

over the slightest slivers

of this flashing facet of being.

We are apparently captured and label encoded

by those slow moving observing parts of us

who labor at being a declaration of a person

as substance and animated

in our life reality play.

We long for those timeless moments

to blossom.

We try to recall

any that have occurred

and wish for the true reversal

where all is timeless and unceasing . . .

But on occasion,

there are these unbounded moments

in spite of time

and we all privately rejoice

in ineptly experiencing those . . .

Once in a while

so much is in so little

and worth is a bafflement for it.

Most of this real worth is illogical

and un-scaled by value.

It just is and just is so.

In having the personal freedom

to honor it as such,

crazy wisdom gives us a narrative

that we find hard to listen to.

We easily fall asleep

as if it were boring

before it is our turn

to let it speak through us for ourselves.

How did the scale of this

get so out of whack extreme

as to be so impossible

to account for

the disparity within living

as an ever-flow

in the ever-change ongoing?

I cannot have tears

of sadness for this,

for the time it takes

to conjure is so filled

with both joy and sorrow.

Before the delivery of one or the other

has occurred that I feel played out

to pretend the one over the other

and there by miss the ongoing to do so.

Even these words are lashing out

as babble-past to me.

I cannot say how it is

and be current with how it is.

I am somehow defending time-exhaust

yet filled with the embrace of timelessness.

I have hurt

over things that are gone

to interrupt me from a now

that could have a hurt.

I am not prepared to experience that

in the now

since that pain

is an after effect

from a now that has passed.

So most of the array

that we fill our lives with

has little to do with the now

but a lot to do with documentation

as crumb droppings along the way.

We are an endless procedure

of leaving and finding these crumbs

and calling it . . . life.

But on occasion . . . all that ceases,

for these rare nanoseconds’ worth

and we live into them

without holding back

even though there will be fall out

from having done so.

We will have had high points

and low points in review.

We will have seen far

and sensed squat.

The dynamics will be out

of the normal context.

But we will richly embrace

the impossible for sanity

and then possibly share the vapors.

For there is such a place in each of us

where even by vapor inference

or direct flash or unjustified expanse,

we all privately will wholly meet

with our deeper spirit of self,

even for the shortest possible time unit

we can bare.

We feel the significance enough

to beckon us on,

dumbly on,

densely on,

undignified on,

dynamically on,

paradoxically on.

For there is no off . . .

just painfully slow or full bore

and variations in between.

This would be change for some,

transcendence for others,

transformation for yet others.

Whatever the case,

we do not live in metaphor

that justifies it.

We certainly do not have the religion

to dwell in it.

But no matter what reality appears

as today’s offerings,

we all have the spirit

that never leaves the ever-change . . .