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Sunday, July 31, 2011

nose to nose

It was a fifty-foot statue

across from me.

Eight times my scale

yet nose to nose.

Can’t tell the gender

the face is too wide

for me to know quite yet.

Probably because I am standing

too close for that.

But nose to nose.

Some kind of porous material

makes for large pores

in comparison to mine.

An aquiline nose,

I guess you’d call it.

It makes me self-conscious

because the eyes look past me,

but would look through me

if I were standing back at all.

And if I were a person of stature

at that scale,

we would be locked

in some kind of conversation

of epic proportions

on a wide screen.

Camera close up

with a wide angle pan including us,

revealing thousands of soldiers

or loyalists of sorts,

intent upon response

to our any gesture

if offered their way.

Response by any movement

from our eyes or arms

but no,

now we are only nose-to-nose.

Supposedly human to stone.

My mind must be working overtime

and I think of this because of you.

Because of your presence

with me sometimes.

Maybe it is just the way

I feel for you.

But it seems to be

coming off of you

or out of you

when I am like this to myself.

I appreciate that you are here

in my life,

almost bigger then life.

So I reach out to touch you

and you are not stone,

not eight times my scale,

gendered in our conversation.

My face must be flush

at least on the inside to me.

In reality

only your concave cosmetic mirror

can make your nose look like that.

I reflect on that image

in the back of my mind.

Comparisons aside,

shape and body heat

and the shading of anatomy,

in light falling off the day

upon you now,

here I am again

with eyes as preemptors.

Voices inside me

that about those images

that seizes my eyes.

I am sitting too close to the screen

of my being of me.

The clothes of my experience

feel unusually tight.

I have forgotten my m.o.

about casual wear.

I am a first time visitor here.

Every moment is again and again

in this meeting.

Why is what is coming off of you,

coming off of your field

being absorbed by me?

What ethereal fluid is this

that seeps into me

as if I were a sponge

coming on to it

from the dead of dry?

Is it a thirst or a compliment

or a necessity

that another side of me

is compelling in this absorption?

Are we but conduits

for the savants of us within

to engage each other,

to step through without notice,

as if they were a Candida

upon our appetites

and kibbutz in general?

And on occasions, like this one,

are voracious with loud mouths

and resolute to stage themselves,

dismissing us

as a wardrobe of bodies

to act out on their own behalf.

I was there.

I mean we,

have been there for that.

We have been that

before each other.

We have been there before,

there beyond meaning.

We have acted out as them

and thought it was surreal.

We have considered it very primal

while they thought it quite sweet.

We felt it was abrasive

while they found it

to be without seams.

We scared each other through it

and they seemed amused.

Are we made of it?

Is it an it not to be objectified?

An it without boundaries?

An it of some type of spiritual means?

A sacrilegious it of our two persons,

not knowing precious from peat moss?

What to do?

And here I am originally,

nose to nose.

Assuming it is / was

my metaphor for you.

Saturday, July 30, 2011

bodily response (haiku)

feeling very chilled

to your teeth-chattering core

from the wet and cold

Friday, July 29, 2011

the heart is a mind

The heart is a mind

outside of time.

The heart does not use the senses

as a paging service,

for there are no nanoseconds

used in its customary delivery.

Only the heart,

in parallel to the brain,

takes to recognition

from a brain style approach.

Otherwise the heart is one with all,

without the requirement of time

as an escort to function.

From a mindset standpoint,

this is all dismissible,

for the mind features bleachers,

and bystanders’ positions

and stories for the telling in time,

while the heart has oceans and fields

and expansions beyond claim-ability.

The mind has compassion

sent from the heart

by order of the brain,

while the heart has empathy,

oneness, and grandness of being.

The mind communicates.

The heart immerses and conveys.

The heart has a quantum method

of speech

while the brain requires a language

of insulation, isolation and separation

to encourage agreement

dependent on these methods above.

The heart pulses with celebration

across all mediums and inner space.

The mind generates thoughts,

fashions motivations,

seeks recourse, enunciates callouts,

declares and articulates positions,

pronounces unions

and watches for experience

to unfold its expectations.

The heart has no pain in radiance,

any logic or demand to define.

The mind longs for a secret life

mentored by the heart.

The heart does not seek

to speak to another

for there is no distance,

no real separation,

no comeback need.

One heart is all hearts

as the mind would conceive of it

to satisfy and justify itself

in its mindful way.

Heart is ever the advance

while the mind is ever the conceive,

the identify, the certify,

and the retentive account.

The heart metaphorically

is an aquarium

that has no exterior walls.

There is no outside looking in.

The heart has no audience perspective.

The mind is a long journey,

step-by-step, leap-by-leap,

the story expanding,

as the audience becoming the stage.

The heart is a mind outside of time.

The brain is a mind inside of time.

So where in your living

does your life

come from for you?

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Blessing (haiku)

blessing in disguise

for without details from then

own version rings true

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

The rhapsody of yawn

There is an impending spellbind,

rising up from within.

It may come from living

in the unevenness of life’s

stimulations and responses,

from the savage activity of metabolism,

to the draining burden of expectations.

Nature extols a tension

and extracts a stress as consequence

in taxing the body

at its own consciousness.

Under the mother ship of gravity

and the grand collage of culture

together with peer group and circumstance

and the bafflement of relative experience

together with dodging the downsides

of comparative truth and inner self-diatribes,

there invisibly lies an electrical lacework

across the physical body’s fluidity

of subtle activity.

All in praise of extenuating self-circumstance.

And within this ocean,

these rivers of electrical meridians pass

as a continuous momentum

of reordering the etheric body

into the subtle shape shifting of self.

This process attempts to survive

the onslaughts of coffee,

the lack of sleep, deadlines,

appropriations of self-character in action,

details and the endurances

of physical discomforts,

the inattention to healthy habits,

the lack of fruitful tears and deep breathing,

inadequacies of laughter,

as well as insufficient cardio exercise.

A payment is extracted for this through time.

But there is a camouflage

to all these elements co-mingling,

yet there comes a yielding time

from the depths within oneself.

And it comes in the form of a spellbind.

Like a disabled ship’s final sink

into an ocean of abound,

a precipitous and rewarding yawn does come.

It comes on like that final spin of fluids

washing over the last tip’s departure

of the upturned hull.

There is no more the fanfare

of buoyancy or surface resistance,

no more the rendering of unwavering denial.

Submission rears itself

in an upward formalized,

almost sword swallowing, act.

Eyes defocalizing towards a shimmering.

Jaws mightily tremble in a flex.

There is a quivering from the back of the mouth,

possibly pronouncing an elegance spritz

of fluids from below the high arching tongue.

This act reaches abnormally far

towards some unified discharge of tension

and then, in a downward repose,

the rest of the torso follows

into an out-breath discharge.

The contoured surfaces of the face and neck are then beckoned by gravity

spreading the rumor of relaxation downward

in waves of yawn after yawn.

The top of the eyelids would tell you,

It feels like it is post crying.

There is a trickledown onto the rest of the body.

All of this is then smothered by overt gestures

of personalized behavioral response.

A yawn is a subtle cosmic storm.

It is for the purpose

of rebalancing the body’s electrical circuitry.

And it essentially ends

in this rhapsody’s final note

at the very tip of the tongue.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

being right

for me, being right

shuns the illogical source

of sorrow within

Monday, July 25, 2011

As anvil as known

Experience is itself pain filled

in its truncation towards words.

Language stands facing me,

expecting understanding

to be my first forthright gesture.

I supposed experience

as a series of stills,

is brought to life

by being handed to me, aware.

Now how does my genius

for living apply?

The stream of being

has been interrupted

by boundary-ness.

Even the concept of boundary

offers a false respect.

Order is as first a reprisal.

Experience, as we know of it,

is extenuating,

a living adjunct-ness,

a wardrobe for weathering time,

excerpts of put-upons,

as life’s journey.

There is the pain of awareness

as touch meets up with objectification.

The techniques of sensibility

are as the laundering of life.

What has mind justified?

What with the sweep of retention,

there is a permanent callous

of subjectivity,

as anvil as known!

Sunday, July 24, 2011

The moon

broken reflection

the moon upon the ocean

so easily mends

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Each Moment . . .

Each moment’s essence

is such a deep journey.

It was easy, as a hand me down.

It was a given as assumptions go,

much like gravity or breathing.

Each moment,

so much the constant

as the work room,

the sweatshop of experience.

Each moment is presenting,

at least as postcards from the edge.

Assembled as a collage of stimulus

combined with

an inner dialogue monologue,

displayed as a construction

and an account of behavior’s activity.

It is interfaced with people and props

that fill the space with attachment

to names and meaning and usage.

Each moment is as a garment,

worn out in a short amount of time.

It is worn but really how?

What is so slippery as to slip through?

So substantive yet vaporized and gone.

So the microscope would tell of fibers

and methods of woven-ness.

The fibers would be revealed

eventually as chemistry behind motives.

Chemistry, until there was none.

And still there would be some essence,

even beyond the electrical.

Each moment’s underside

when turned upon itself,

would yield to what to tell the truth?

Would that be attention,

focus or the power of concentration?

What would have to happen

to break the code,

to eliminate false entry,

to gain access to each moment

as an essence?

Would there be a strata,

as a complex

of interdependent elements,

a flux and flow

somehow propositioned by physics,

as a subjective of words

that invocated the truth?

Would this be the dangling of topic

to study the mechanistic tendencies?

Would every or any moment,

ever really consent to such conspiracy?

Would this journey of discovery

be so compelling yet complex

that return with essence in hand

could never occur?

That each moment,

when fully discovered,

would require a complete transformation

of passage, so much so,

that language and cognition and perception

would have been effectively displaced

as seconds away and for the real cause?

Would each moment,

as our humble assistant,

been revealed in some other way

as some other means?

A means that is

beyond reproach or question,

or even separation as distinction?

If so, then each moment

would steal from itself

to be in our being,

explore the countenance

of self-consciousness

in self-reflection,

epitomize the pathos

of comparison and contrast,

display the stretch marks

of time taken seriously,

wager an aging of doing

cross-purposed to being,

just to make this point perfectly clear.

That whatever baggage

of inquiry and concern,

that was brought upon this journey,

that whatever as possessed

of skills or talents,

effective as bloodhounds

of insights or inner wisdom,

would become needlessly gathered

for the task at hand,

as in, each moment in passing.

Still and instilled,

sighted and inspired,

there in lies,

each moment . . .

Friday, July 22, 2011

being aware (haiku)

aware of spirit

this transition is treated

with subtle caring

Thursday, July 21, 2011

two sky butts parked on a bench

I feel like sunlight

straightforwardly streaming

through inviting space

but you ask me not to bend

not to look back

or look through

just keep on going

towards light years by

and don’t even think about

circle round or bathing

the gravity of your world.

But I have to ask.

When is it that sky as light,

is ever beside itself?

Well here we are,

on a park bench,

sitting as bent light familiars,

pretending to be strained

as somehow strangers.

You point out weather

that is not in my sky.

And yet I am here weathering it

as if it were a wardrobe,

a disguise for when we meet.

And I ask in sky dialogue,

“and where are we going

that we are not already there?”

Scratching my sky in wonderment,

yet seemingly sitting here,

bound by this conversing

as if we are two sky butts

parked on a bench . . .

Discussing how we matter

to each other?