all about

So many moments of life are spillage.

Methods giving way to chaos.

Control falling apart as the cohesive.

That I thought it so

is little redemption.

Something more invisible is at hand.

Surely there is a momentum,

a carriage behind agony’s center stage.

A story that no one is telling

is getting told.

Some how, it is a richer story.

The lines of restraint have fallen down.

The script has faded

from its intended message.

Hardly anyone is bored with implications,

anymore.

Even the cynics are looking for a handout,

a self-administered real moment interlude

to break the tensions

of existence in resistance.

The collage of observation steps aside

to replace itself with an upgraded version.

The busy mind camouflage

of feigned interest and intention,

sees all the blather and bustle

and the unaccounted for movement,

yet knows more now

of the procession from within,

where the queen bee of karma

is quietly pheromone busy.

The faint cameos of bliss are gathered

from the gross disastrous occurrences

of apparent deceptions and disregard.

The subtle sips of evolution

transform the self-hive within.

There is growing constancy

as the feeding admits to frenzy.

So little of time is used

in the broad sweep of spirit.

There is so much debris

of miscommunication

and so much minutiae

within self-consciousness

that in the midst of all of this

appears unannounced

a sense of wonder.

The Milky Way seems to reflect

the hard facts as mystical evidence.

Tired minds sigh it

as the masked joy of exhaustion.

The spent-ness of a breast does it

as beyond deliverance.

The revival of deep sleep comes

as a wicked trust in being over doing.

Surely we all imbibe this

in daily private doses

but we don’t have to acknowledge it.

We don’t really have to

sort of share with it or in it.

We can all pretend to be

out there on our own.

It is just another day

of colluded self-importance,

living a truth in the style

of sensationalized denial.

No matter, no shadow

can out run its source.

There will be a knock at the door,

whatever the door composes itself

there of.

Even in a door-less world,

there will be a knock.

A sudden invention of safe ground

will render itself

as a hallow trumpet of release.

It will come as surely as ground

kisses up to figure.

It will reveal of itself

a gaping hole of heart-felt-ness.

It will pronounce the story

of conviction to complete

without the inclusion of compromise.

It will have its way

as surely as even a fisted sneeze

will still essentially complete.

Mind over matter falls off the ledge

as spirit has its way

with form and meaning agrees.

The crash can be anticipated

as inevitable

with the flush of integrity's innards

as its release.

Beyond contradiction’s ceaseless recant

is but a priceless still point mood.

The subtle physics of being

has a slight smile.

The hand of god

is a glove of you!

And you, deep down,

have blisters of joy

from shaking it,

all about . . .