many musing trees
please themselves with leaf arrayseach and every year
Is the passage of timelessness
a way, outside of experience?
In all ways, is timelessness
to the experiential premise?
By all means, is timelessness
confined within a continuum
outside of its own definition?
Have we only set out to find
everything we can then name
and then have named,
as if all things
were that simple of a task
and the accomplishment is
just to check it off
of our previously precious
But what is this list
if but a step in the wrong direction?
And is this step
every time, then an error of decision?
As an error of itself
by being a false presumption to start?
What if looking
with presumptions of self identification
was entirely a false construction
from a false source within?
What if as a construction,
it is falsely reflective
of whom we are to be looking
into, at, or for?
This passage for us
of timelessness . . . . .
Apparently born as a concept,
mindful by intention and focus,
but thrives beyond identification.
Timelessness, really has no passage.
It is a contradicted descriptive,
yet living within us
by some kind of paradoxical means.
And so, what is the passage
of timelessness? (to you?)
What if your last breathe
before you die
comes in the form of a sneeze?
one of those slow builders,
a teaser kind, in the way,
an electrical thunderstorm builds,
way out on the horizon
in the late summer afternoons
in the Rockies,
and it is coming your way.
Yes, you know it’s coming
long before it gets there,
the inkling, then tickling and prickling,
long before all hell breaks loose.
Your first order of response,
you want to stop
everything happening before you,
essentially distracting you,
because, it’s coming.
You want to clear a sneeze lane
in front of you,
so that you don’t have to cover it
or muffle it or stifle.
You can just floor it, full throttle,
head tilted up and reared back.
It’s coming, it’s coming!
And you hurl from your heels,
like a cartoon character
exhausting its utterance.
Just launched a full out blast
in a hundred mile an hour gust
across the room,
there’s the plume,
and you are vanquished,
and your die
in one final mortal exhale (ex-hail)!
It circulates the planet seven times
in the direction it was released.
A period of mourning is
also seven times its revival
and then you are officially dead,
and fully vacated
from any further bodily response.
Done . . . !
. . . way gone!
Wow . . .
Gone . . .
If we could, would we?
Would we want to ignite
all of excited-ness
until there were no more
beginnings or endings,
until it was seamless?
So that there are no more peaks,
and it is all about endless glide.
So that there were no more
onsets and fanfare,
just wistful expanded fountaining.
Would we want to pounce on
and bring it to its feet of “clay” clarity?
Would we want to have it admit
its lackluster sidekick role
to the heart of the matter?
Would we want to vaporize
thought’s outlandish attachment
to results and conclusions?
Would we want an essence instead
and uniformly fills everything
without those thought filled summaries
or the blame filled naming of names?
If so, we would want memories
to give up their attention passports
and find their place more appropriately
in the visions vines rooted
rightfully in the here and now.
We would want our futures
to meet our ancients,
almost as a successful dating service
that smoothes their way
into a constant deja vu,
of calling up the present.
We would want all those last
laments and remarks,
the ones just before death
and also their bodyguards of circumstance
that will hold them up to us,
to forget about it.
Forget those summational deliveries,
forget all the references made
towards any indications of wealth,
love, sincerity, honesty, merit,
or consensual worth.
We want all of that blather
to not even show up
with that inferential speech
and think that it has any status
because it claimed
some distant presence
in recalling any
of our share of spirits’ past.
Find for us the deep core
that has contact with all of life,
that goes into the closet
of these appropriate personalities
from before and a new,
and tell us
it means something more than
these lives of now
are just of transit existence.
Would we then be ready
to bludgeon experience
for it brashness,
to attempt to consume our attention?
Would we want to strip away
about immediacy and temporality?
Would we want experience,
our current method of experience,
to back away from the table,
and to give back those presumptions
about accountability’s insistence
and desire’s needs?
we would want somebody to tell us
as we claim to know it,
really only exists
as our favorite shared disability
because of it’s consensual popularity
in a commonplace custodial kind of way.
We would want to ignite
beyond the moods of being up or down.
We would want to ignite
where there are no breaks or sighs,
no content floating to the surface,
no light and dark,
no stretch, no reach, no distance.
We would want feelings and thoughts
to be like busy water bugs,
on the surfaces
of these deep swims of soul,
where our whole bodies
were filled with a fluidity
that is the sweet sound
of evident coming to the surface.
We would want to ignite this existence
as our constant embrace.
We would want where space is
to be the only invitation we need,
and our movement,
our movement of any kind,
to be the endless kiss
of this space-embrace.
That’s what we would,
if we could,
want to ignite . . .
 the character you play and the story you tell
that expectation, as a process,
is really just a technique,
that humans learned to use?
And that we learned this
like below our true attention means.
But mostly, we learned
to focus through it
and certainly not at it
because we were too preoccupied
with content to notice this as handling.
Like who would study expectation
as if it were a method
for something else?
Yet we were still learning
through an almost endless usage
of applied practice.
And that the use of this practice
was insisted upon
by almost all the people in our lives.
We rehearsed a thousand times
before the age of three.
And this technique
was eventually taken up
into the unconsciousness of habit
as acceptable behavior,
as part of our vast support wardrobe
for our retentive minds at play.
And it was based on an arsenal
of remembrances as resources
to recall and re-embrace.
And that this technique
was intended, for us
to launch into frames of anticipation
about other humans
as well as circumstance.
Then, one upon another,
filling the moments of our experience
with these exceptional expectations,
to totally perceived as viable,
became our next moment’s enterprise.
This process was possibly in cahoots
with desire from the start
and therefore propositioning for how
next moments should naturally come.
As if frame by frame,
from each moment’s sacred means
became ear marked
to be perceived as repeatable acts,
as a short hand for our experience
to pronounce expectancy’s surmise.
The introduction of familiarity’s position
of leverage on now
has the momentum
to seek towards common elements,
to duplicate and account for now
as if we were primarily audience,
by what already was
expectation’s “supposedly so”.
How contradicted would it be
for expectation to perceive
a world that never was
before this moment,
to come to know of it
in shared transition beyond
by what it’s not.
It would be the constant world
of ever changing-ness
yet veiled by the platitudes
of participatory appearances
in the grossest symbolic sense.
If a future is possible by this means,
then find for us symbols of animation
that have no origins
from meaning in static expectancy ways.
Give us a stasis
of ever changing-ness
in and as our flow.
Opt for us the unrepeatable journey
as our ongoing lives.
Take us to where
no moment knows much of another,
where no moment bares the burden
or extends the concluded worth
to the very next moment at hand.
Find for us where we fail
all examinations of past to present
to future and back, in principle
yet this life of ours goes on.
What if nothing ever
did essentially repeat itself?
And our method of “notice” itself
was the result
of a lack of full attention?
Is “expectation” a diminishment
of the “now” embrace?
And is desire, a lack of presence
brought fully forward in to the now?
What would life be
based upon rigid frames?
What would life be
with a language
towards communing means,
without the current signatures
without the full blown expectancy story
or the meeting of expectations
in the often told?
What if free fall were time for us
and the perturbations of nine gravities
were in our constant breath?
If in the cycles of our cells
and the stir of our senses,
we were also our participants
as well as our listeners
and this perfection was a sense
for us of surrender
and composure vitally combined?
If the mixed mediums of our sentience
provided for a oneness
without expectations to proceed?
And the practice of expectations
was really just a hall
of dissipated fame.
And this practice called expectations
was really just a high art form
done by professionals
but simply put,
the precision of mental mime . . .
they creep back into all moments.
They are of the same moment,
In the honor of memory,
it is what is said to me,
again and again.
For what I use to register this frame
each previous moment’s rehearsals.
So as from before,
a match in sequence,
possibly with refinement’s sum,
internal but in place,
that sees this moment
by its repetition of frame,
although cynical or refining
is from then to now.
This is so to every then,
Layered upon layering
is a composite from then.
It is, as remembered,
towards what now could have been
if freely embraced.
Is but now,
only comparatively so,
Is anything outside this syntax
of unconscious method
oh so precious
and yet not to be embraced?
Is it as if possession
were to be of value gained
but a fresh face
from outside this self-intimacy
is so very lost
without containment’s approval?
It is a prisoner
of under representation
since it is not tied
to a distant redeeming past
that sanctions or denies?
Does it then
thus slip through the current fingers
of now’s attention,
lost in a moment’s touch
but vacant of binding’s attachment?
Lo these bygones,
with their rules
and the leaps and bounds,
the free falls and a ha’s
that come up,
against their rules . . .
If mother earth were actually
just another human being,
I fear that she would experience
most other humans as sociopaths
with very limited regard for others
as well as the planet herself.
It is not just the majorities of people
that are and live this way,
but their cultures and politics
that encourage this to be so
under some grand notion
of human consciousness entitlement.
The impotency of humans’ agreement
to agree with themselves
has created great waves
of denial and plunder
as if the planet were a stage
for juvenile act outs to be
the species total self-involvement
and painfully so unto itself.
There is somehow a broad based belief
that we, as a species,
have a platinum card to play
and an endless supply of options
to continue in much the same way
as we have in the past.
Our insularity impresses us.
Our inefficiencies are called
Our governments, as caretakers,
take care of themselves
in their own form
of refined pillage and plight.
We, at best, by our methods
exhibit classless sibling rivalries
as posture, pomp
and inexplicable circumstance.
As our own green house experiment,
we have permanently damaged
the green house itself
and we are now hybrids to the cause,
not native to the soil much anymore.
At best, we have weed personality traits
in a feast and famine way
and we are hardly eatable
in any cosmic sense
either as a main course
much less even as a side dish
to something else.
We have been feasting for a long time
and now we can become
the feast offered
on a much larger table
in which we will not be
the honored invited guests.
Somewhere on the food chain theory,
we may discover that earth itself,
is not and was not,
an eventual vending machine
in which we are soon out of quarters,
then also out of bills,
where no one is restocking,
with no deliveries coming,
and then finally,
no more biting the hand that feed us.
Reality, for humans,
is a form of blatant dyslexic myopia,
made prominent by a species
bent on self and confoundedly
bent over on self-destruction . . .
that answers all my unsaid questions?
Find for me these silent words
I have secretly sent your way.
I want to see from your gaze,
answers in a grander scale.
For I asked,
what I have not grasped by thought,
yet deeply feel.
You have answered
by living through my question
and beyond that moment into now.
You had taking note
of what and where and how
it came to me to ask of you.
For I only have the sum of these words
forced out of me
from the lack of insight,
and lost composure from within.
For me, it is a broken riddle,
felled from a forgotten forest within
that rings true
yet now lying there
burning to represent a light
against my darkness.
The light of it opens
to say it to me in flames
and you by that gaze,
are both the laughter without cause,
and a landscape of persistent patience,
for growth to not know of its yield,
for rotting to migrate into results,
for light and dark to sibling the same story,
for confinement to express expansion,
for questions to become implements,
for feelings to arrange
precipitously as willing thoughts,
for a reversal of ground figure
to undress these secrets,
for silence to be found decoded
and not mute in residence,
for all the unsaid-ness of these tenants
invisibly woven in a confounding elixir
within the alchemy of my truths.
They pass on to me
through your eyes,
these beams, without color or space.
The feeling to me
is for us to be of the same lungs,
yet split locations of outward exhale.
While we have the same breath returning,
the same cadence upon reflection,
the same feel sharing space,
coming on together to the brain trust
from the surge of oxygen.
There is a snug of hysterical closeness
where molecules with emotional lips
are in the awe of funny awkward kisses,
like a big bucket of grubs,
from their constant diet of nutrients
but as for me appear as kissing lips.
We as those lips are hardly distracted
by relocation or the light of day.
We are, for right now,
the lungs of choice.
These are the lungs of us,
coupled and confirmed
by body heat generated between us
and the distinct wake up call
of our fulcrum physical closeness.
Oh bring on the recluse spider bites
to common our pool of separateness
into that one festering smile,
the one decomposing soup of bliss,
that rot of joy
leaving behind the distraction
of separate bodies facing up,
eventually into one evaporative means
of shared soul,
confirmed through the humor of exodus,
relinquishing then all forms of excuses,
we, to phantom the one being
in the eyes of truth,
and always onward in expansion
through upward spirals ascending
upon this radiant cadence
beaming of reflection and return . . .