no rhyme or reason
bumping heads with sudden thud
now ringing so loud
There is this reoccurring window in life.
I find myself standing there once again.
The views are always somewhat different
yet generally the premise is the same.
Looking out through this window
into the lives of ones near and dear.
They are there always wherever.
I am removed from their immediacy
but privy and aware as if I was with them.
And somehow this is so.
I am equipped with expectations for them.
I have anxiety for them.
I blurt out a fountain of common sense.
I could offer to help.
I could sort of step in.
I could take over
out of frustration, damn it.
But none of these options
or change my window view.
If I act out
then my window feature
might be eliminated all together.
I guess I am appreciative of it
from time to time.
Having this window at all
an unexpected knock at the door
or a phone call deep into the night
from a stranger’s voice
or a rollout identification
at the county morgue.
They have their lives
but still I have this window.
I have come to not only look through it
but also to look directly at it.
I have began to ask myself
about the window itself.
Where is it from?
Who made it?
What purpose does it really serve?
And why do I use it so often?
Is this where I come to worry?
To worry(?), worry about others, really?
Has worry become a window to my life?
If I am here that often
and it appears to be so,
then this window
slowly becomes a measure of me.
It is my construction.
Now, one of my private sacred rituals!
And yet, it undermines me.
Worry is not an action of support
Worry is in some ways a sabotage
to everyone involved.
It is an assertion
of a false sense of control.
It is a lack of true acknowledgment.
It does not allow for their spirit,
for any spirit to dance their dance
and fulfill their destiny in doing so.
If my destiny appears to be one of worry
then I am not addressing myself
but living through others to complete me.
If I incessantly worry
then I teach worry
as I distract myself
from the real worth of all of us.
I then am coveting them
as a commodity of my frame.
I want my best for them
as my expectations negatively infer,
as my projections falsely return
to complete me . . . ouch!
This is an avoidance,
a cultivation of fears
as my fears should be theirs
as they are an extension of me.
I blind my spirit
in an attempt to bind others.
Worry does not entitle me
to worth for my efforts.
As sincere as it could come,
is not the spirit buffed
by the adversities of life?
Is not character chiseled
Is not worth by presence
rather then possessiveness?
As worry layers and preoccupies
what is the gift?
If I worry as a first thought,
let that die of itself
in reminding me of spirit.
Reminding me to share
in the crazy wisdom as we are,
to permit myself
a deeper soul of silent sight
and the feel for a secret embrace
that sets us all free
so that worry is never the bind . . .
How to describe
a conscious being:
Giant paws of presence,
a fierceness about the head
without the display of teeth,
the quiet growling of primal soul . . .
all are a possibility
when eyes are sky cast and open,
revealing jaw lines of gentleness.
These embodied Kodiaks
of the Bodhisattvas
are as keepsakes of one’s remembrance.
Outside of the homespun of this life,
They are the one familiar collective.
Under the cast of these watchful eyes
that bear down upon the refinement
of us as a conscious species,
these are beings on the path.
They will take semi-domestic meals
of shared communion
out of dumpster’s humane with situation.
They are peripheral
to the temporal human beat,
always on the scent hunt of spirit.
Instinct before logic is in their eyes.
Voracious and predatory love
before the path of right or wrong.
They are ravenous but twice shy
defended by their hunting responses.
They are keen for the soul-light,
dwelling in each other’s den
by vibrational means
yet these as so called bears
live without winters.
Any two of this species
cross dressing their androgyny.
They are always effortlessly cellular
for the scent of another,
weaving through one another’s field
towards the one common soul.
Privileged to be a witness,
an escort, a mentor, a guide,
as it is . . .
A best description of them,
“loose but most excellent”.
They are electric
hyper-vigilant to a fault,
roaring in the silence
of each other’s company.
They are offensive by nature
to the night presence of lies.
Loose and most excellent . . .
Kodiaks of the Bodhisattvas,
giving of their presence
as a disguised blessing . . .
Somewhat randomly distributed
through the people array.
There seem to be more
than ever present from before.
Loose but most excellent . . .
Gathering towards the one . . .
This atmosphere of a sunken feeling
is always already upon me from within.
Everyone around here
has consensually agreed
that my eventual death
should be caused by my isolation.
It is being repeated continually
as a background murmur
easily within ear shot
but nothing said directly to my face.
There are no faces to face me in here.
The barometric pressure
in my solar plexus
is increasingly compressed
even though I feel like
I am being dragged
through a quicksand of sludge,
contributed by my own making.
There is movement in my person
as if the first response is to realize.
I am in
an emotionally spun straight jacket
though not for the first time,
for there is a closet full of like apparel.
There is my inner resistance
in almost every response
coming out of me.
Even a quickening of intent
as my thoughts find me more remote
and more tightly bound.
I am reduced
to claustrophobic thoughts
of a repetitious nature.
No more striking back at the events
that introduced this.
But there is an undercurrent
preoccupied with unnamed doom
that is pouring in to submerge me.
There is a cast of gloom
meeting me all around
to internally grapple with.
My muffled pleading
is for a kind of suffocation
to take me away,
to end this frame by snapping it.
soon becomes goop.
A goop that separates me,
a goop that surrounds me,
a goop that closes in from all directions,
a goop that floods to overwhelm me,
a goop that comes out as my feelings,
a goop that maybe I discover is mine,
a goop and no self-thoughts that impede it,
no life-vest of a thought
to save me from sinking
ever yet compressing me from within.
I am going nowhere
with shallow breathes.
This is a life and death
of apparent circumstances in paradox.
All attempts at any other familiarity
other than this, fail.
Here I am,
my numbing constant
with no distinct handle
to pull myself out of . . .
This child cries
into a dense fog of agony.
This sorrow is suffocating
amidst all the outpouring
that has sound.
There is no comfort
from an abound of alien self.
I am myself that foreigner within.
I am amnesia to a face saving past.
I am comatose to a person
I used as myself to face others.
This is redundancy.
Did I just say that?
I am licking deep interior wounds
as a small self-gesture of comfort.
I am in shock
but without the physical evidence
to impress others.
The buckle-down confinement
of a simple pseudo conscious breathe
and I am looking for what comes
as first thoughts to follow
yet still unconnected.
Frozen in a stillness
of serious inner attention
as a hope for distraction.
This is the way a deer,
I would imagine,
after fatally being struck by a truck
alive yet still dying.
But I lack the hard evidence
for empathy or medical attention.
enough said . . .
(and then it recycles)
Who cares to know this first hand?
And to what degree
of trust rudder ship
does it have influence
on the course of your life?
My every moment is asterisked
by human’s referential world.
I am further set aside
by an advocate of and for them
that intercedes on my behalf,
and a social network
who will orient and leverage
to fill me as a projection
and pretend my current
second to second status.
It is as if
my agent is meeting with your agent,
my broker conferring with yours.
Yet I am as dormant
as a garden bulb
in an endless season
between winter and spring.
I am then the burlap
over inner conversations
often muted to myself in passing
and basically unheard
by other moments in their passing.
I am layers removed
from the surface of sunlight stimulation
and the face of earth
stares back at me in my essence
as if I am a decomposing billboard
underground in passing.
They have dressed me up
in inference and implication,
and refer to me
by vacant and sketchy memory
as coming back to belonging here.
I dry-lick at the air near by
in hopes of the impending
through a state of expressive permission,
but in other scattered moments,
I am only an isolated beach
within an hourglass of you.
The repetition of these grains
as perceived in bottleneck passage
only instills monotony’s ceaseless act.
I am a burning candle
in a sightless style
where by the life among shadows
infers un-confirmable truths.
Messages do come
but not hand delivered
yet mutely displayed in the shades
of darkness before and after me
in solemn and silent passing.
I am the innocent hands
of a mischievous child
in mittens of restraint,
shaking the hand of every human,
maybe sometimes it will be yours
in well-meaning mittens in return,
for the mouths of our hands
are gagged and bound
in attempts to
reach out to each other’s.
We are always ships departing
yet looking back for response
to cut through this curtain of time.
I know of spirit to spark and ignite
towards where there is a life-path
besieged by opportunity’s mirth,
yet when for now, my ever now,
there is only the flood basin
of expectation in representation
and the gut check
of a potential symbolic transference.
I come at you as spattered blood.
I am never dry to that task.
If I was bludgeoned
then know of me as seconds passing
by the fading body heat
and close quarters, still in the air.
If instead I am dripping
of vital juices
far beneath the spatter
then call up your spirit through me
and raise your eyes towards that source.
Even a timely glance may have the force
to set me free to assists you.
Please, send no sympathy
as your agent
that trick has been tried before.
Send me soulful kinship aligned.
Send me the D.N.A.
of how and when
you were lead into the light through me.
Laugh out loud to break the curse
of a well rehearse reality on demand
as I have fallen through
the mesmerizing cracks
to only resemble to you what I miss.
I am thirsty for an in-breath
of steep waterfall or thick forest air.
I am as starved as a recycle dump
for native ground to present me.
I am as heavenly as any religion
could invent for its future,
but I am only every moment,
displaced by symbology,
by the load bearing momentum
of symbolic animated gestures
crawling inside of you as me,
this laborious measure called time.
Yet, and freshly so,
I am only, as you refer to me,
your every moment,
basking in your presence
and yet, constantly bathing you . . .