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Thursday, September 30, 2010

boredom with self-consciousness

It happens

either intended or not.

Eventually,

there are these passages

that carry an internal clue.

I wouldn’t say

they’re epiphanies

but it is louder than a whisper

and you know

you are talking to yourself.

Every once in a while,

you can hear your last remark,

not for what is said

but for who said it to you,

inside of you.

You almost watch it go off,

like a remark sent

in someone else’s direction.

It looks back at you,

with a smirk on its I-said-it ass

and you know.

You say to yourself

from deep inside

“I am so tired of hearing myself

talk from that place”.

That place is so overused,

over done, it is a beat down

and is useless to me and as me.

Why do I keep investing

in something

that I know is not really

any essential part of me at all!

I could hate myself

for coming from there,

and I am really bored

with this whole projection.

I don’t like being that person

or saying what I do

from that person-place within me

or getting agreement from others,

to that person’s authenticity as me.

It is not I!

It does not take me

where I want to go.

It is unpleasant to be there.

It closes me down.

I don’t like finding myself there

again and again.

It is a loadstone on my existence.

I am suffocating from within

and don’t know how to escape this.

Life is moving away from me.

Everything becomes repetitious

and dull.

I am hurting

but nothing is definite or obvious.

I am a muffled compliant

with nowhere to turn.

I am terrible and well meaning.

I silently ask for help

by aggressively denying

all of this is in disguise.

I want fate

to tap me on the shoulder

and call my number

as if this pretend were over

and life could continue

in a rich and rewarding way.

This is death by halitosis.

This is the way cancers start,

alone and sorrowful on the inside.

If I had inadvertent tears,

if I accidentally found the words

and spilled my guts,

even to a stranger,

it would be better than this.

I am in a wax museum

and there are no flames

within reason.

There are no excuses

to pardon myself back to life.

I am tethered to an existence

that pulls me along,

that invites my hidden doom.

All in all,

everyone is well meaning

and this is all so interior.

I have no one to turn to.

I act out more and more

in small but peculiar manners

with little habits

of obsessions that clamor

as in time delays

of empty mental preoccupation,

feeling sick to stomach

but not really.

I could have the flu or something

but not really,

just vitality and gloom.

Sometimes I look out

into another person’s eyes

before me and they shine.

They have waterfalls

or are a tranquil pool.

They are fluid and giving

and I secretly wonder and yearn

was I ever that way?

Did I loose it or what?

God, I have to turn away

from them.

I want to be dead

and yet the real gift would be

to wake up to right here, right now.

Can I bottom this out?

Can I hit something hard

and recover?

I guess I call it boredom

at the very least,

and it is sticky and slippery

at the same time

and I am too preoccupied

to figure it out.

What appears inside me

that wants to help

only secures more of the same,

an eventual dissatisfactory taste

of false hope anew.

This feels like my road to oblivion.

If I had a purpose

than I am faking it now.

If I had friends than it feels like

they are beating me to death

by knocking on all the wrong doors

that open to keep me hidden away.

I am an unknown child of myself

and I keep myself hidden

for no logical reason.

But I do know more and more

about myself, day after day.

I feel tongue-less and invisible

in a self-conscious way.

I eat table scraps away from myself.

I never make a sound

but I feel everything profoundly.

I just, of recent, got a name.

I call myself me

and I wander inside this other person

who masquerades through my life

as me.

I am recently discovered

as a prisoner of myself.

I don’t understand

how this happened.

I keep waking up

to gags and restraints

but I don’t remember them

as demanded or necessary.

I have movement

but no apparent expression.

I scream and it is silent

in what I see before me.

If I am truly captive

then I don’t know how to escape.

I am watched all the time

by other places within me.

They report to I don’t know who

but shit happens

and I am taken along for the ride.

They present me as myself

but do other than

what I really want to happen.

I don’t know how

to fake myself out.

I am trapped inside my behavior

by gestures and speech.

I am obliged into activity.

I am engaged

in appropriate response.

I appear

to genuinely account for myself.

I am an exact replica of me

dying my life alive.

I am a suicide of not living it.

I am a straight jacket

of self-consciousness

and a callous of boredom

for working it now,

in a time warp of double-speak,

“how spontaneous

does this fit I am in?”

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Hinting (haiku)

Say what you mean to

so clearly in your mind’s eye

you can stop hinting

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Don’t leave me here,

Don’t leave me here,

alone to answer:

What is the shape

that all shapes pass through?

What is the sound

that says all sighs?

What is the sight

when salivation is

from looking within?

Why is empathy

hooked on the phonics

of sufferings’ truth?

What is to be made

from the proof of being

either lost or found?

Is having more money

a grander scale

of the same lessons

stretched further over time?

Where exactly does one

actually get off

on anything?

How does any question

seduce towards an answer?

What is the quality

of self-permission

that makes a next moment rich?

What is so self selective

about being,

that doing anything

is a compromise?

What if pain

Was a regulatory system

rather than just an alert?

How is it that we share air

but guard our possessions?

How can you make the most

of something

and not be self-conscious

about it?

What is it essentially

that ever starts

or ends a mood?

And can the experience

of rapture

ever be required?

Am I alone to answer?

Monday, September 27, 2010

Word (haiku)

Open word with meaning

eat energy that feeds your mind

then throw word away

Sunday, September 26, 2010

My ears were needy hands

My ears were needy hands.

I am offered a bounty of words.

Listening is this seduction.

The larger world becomes an enabler.

Response is animation inside me.

These words are to my face.

They bear hidden meaning.

This eventfulness remembered

washes over me.

Brain pollen freely given to the bee.

Attention of this kind

is unconditional love.

Unsaid responses are a backfill.

My eyes look out in a keying way.

I do not say

with either mouth or eyes.

My lips are a muted tension

said to myself.

I hear the inner voices

but not as muttering.

I am comforted in this distortion.

I answer with further silence.

I am a walled room without echoes.

What I hear are laments

but not really.

I am not a ready response.

I do not appear as a listener.

I am not identified by my say.

I am always hours later

that I am finding my voice.

I am where I am,

away from the heat of that moment,

away from the hurl of the impulse,

away from the deliverance

too revealing,

at the heart of the matter of feelings,

at the backside of meaning

senselessly so.

Strip away my first person innocence.

I would rather decode then respond.

The delivery is not now an entrapment.

My responses for then

would have imprisoned me,

made me a custodian to what I said.

Spontaneous spoken words heard

are a retention contract

weighting me down.

But my ears were needy hands

and I fidget with the meanings.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Asking for what I want

I wanted to hear

behind the questions,

to know where

they came from.

I wanted to understand

the construction

of the questions themselves,

to decode the language used,

to see what it really represented.

I wanted to go

into that environment

before it had words.

I didn’t want

the comfort of meaning

or the security

from how calmly it was spoken.

I wanted it

before it was tethered

to sensibility.

I wanted the initial smack

of impressions

before reassembly,

be it primal and raw.

I wanted to be at the level

where the sympathetic

and parasympathetic

nervous systems

take the first hit,

where the smallness

of one's self overloads.

I wanted to empathetically sit

in these little places

and feel

for the strategic flashpoints

that set them off.

I wanted to learn

that first person alphabet

however irrational

it has been life long forged.

I wanted to meet the self-guardian

and sense what it does

to protect

and yet interact with the world.

I wanted to find the engine room

however undisclosed,

somewhere between birth and death,

before their personality as wardrobe,

before self imposed rules as overlay,

before polite and proper,

where presence is,

before it is energetically complex.

I guess

I wanted to meet the spirit

of the being

rather than the self-consciousness

as being.

Was that asking too much?

Friday, September 24, 2010

Everyone’s actions (haiku)

everyone’s actions

discreetly speak for the whole

what are we saying?

Thursday, September 23, 2010

However you’re holding

However you’re holding

whatever that is

as it appears to be.

Your presence pertains to it.

Your self-conscious records it,

all of it

into a subjective record.

The story, as it is unfolding,

has copy in the mind.

Positions of defense

are always forming.

Stress has your true identity

cleverly withheld.

Your being is compressed

and yet compelled.

All of experience

has these hidden labors.

This journey, as yours,

has a life of its own.

And well,

we all share in that,

however you’re holding . . .

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Words (haiku)

in doubt of meaning

then love the words you are with

by speaking your heart

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

Addicted to the meta-questioning

The beckoning

as if a silent scream.

The murmur . . .

beholding a whisper.

The bellow

beneath a muffled yowl.

The shrill

buried within a distant roar.

The shriek

igniting the source of a howl.

The solicitation coming on

as a subterranean summons,

always the invitation

back into the drawn-ness.

The reckoning with everything

turning into a call.

This portend

spells a prophecy . . .

You’re addicted

to the meta-questioning.

The lure of a frame

just outside of your focus.

The shared residence of spirit

behind the personifications.

The ‘why animals generally know

before we do’.

The secreted

subtle internal environment

for inner voices to speak.

The draw of a shadow

beyond the projector’s bright.

The deducible alignment

launching chaos’s maul.

The vast vacancy

that understanding

ultimately refills.

The always unsaid

motivational driver

yet to be revealed.

The basking at the scene

without interpretation’s filters.

The ‘forest for the trees’

mock-challenging how I see.

The child essence of a person
in character projecting.
The vagrant life of clich├ęs
as if they lived on in the mind.

The why of habit

proposing unconsciousness

as efficient.

The shaping of words

that I know not

what I am saying.

The astral field’s broadcast

before the medical applies.

The flood of imaging

without a reference or setting.

These as Meta questions,

strangers yet friendly,

stalking by standing still,

inviting with indifference,

irresistible as breath,

and breathing on . . .