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Wednesday, August 31, 2011

musing trees (haiku)

many musing trees

please themselves with leaf arrays

each and every year

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

the passage of timelessness

Is the passage of timelessness

a way, outside of experience?

In all ways, is timelessness

a contradiction

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

cognitive list?

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?)

Monday, August 29, 2011

maybe confusing (haiku)

spouse intimately

speaks to you in foreign tongue

confusing or what?

Sunday, August 28, 2011

Death in a sneeze

Death in a sneeze

What if your last breathe

before you die

comes in the form of a sneeze?

You know,

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,

fully deflated,

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,

blessedly departed,

and fully vacated

from any further bodily response.


Done . . . !

. . . way gone!

Wow . . .

Gone . . .

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Memory (haiku)

memory’s presence

makes nowadays funny puns

humor shared from past

Friday, August 26, 2011

If we could

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

that graciously

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

its entitlement

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?

If so,

we would want somebody to tell us

that experience,

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 . . .

Thursday, August 25, 2011

kite string (haiku)

kite string in my hands

spreads wind-blown rumors upwards

the sky is all ears

Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Check list for: The Coma of an Active Life

Check list for: The Coma of an Active Life

[] the preoccupations away from being

[] the incessant recognition of details

[] the personal rituals that embellish self-isolation

[] the myopic methods of self sensed

[] the diminishment of self by relative context

[] the indecency of effort as a merit force

[] the illusion of singular achievement

[] the vessel as a separate entity

[] the existence as time mentored

[] the independent arrival of a next moment

[] the body as a nagging sidekick

[] the inner voices as self director

[] the character you play and the story you tell

Tuesday, August 23, 2011

maple syrup (haiku)

stowed between layers

on weekend morning waffles

hot maple syrup

Monday, August 22, 2011

The practice of expectations

Can you imagine

that expectation, as a process,

is really just a technique,

that humans learned to use?

And that we learned this

rather subversively

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

very thoroughly

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,

supposedly unfolding,

the reduction

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

without futures

based upon rigid frames?

What would life be

with a language

towards communing means,

without the current signatures

of eventfulness,

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

of re-visitation,

done by professionals

pleasantly performing

but simply put,

the precision of mental mime . . .

Sunday, August 21, 2011

light stories (haiku)

single lit candle

tells light stories to soft eyes

in a darkened room

Saturday, August 20, 2011

Lo these bygones

Lo these bygones,

they creep back into all moments.

They are of the same moment,

once again.

In the honor of memory,

it is what is said to me,

again and again.

For what I use to register this frame

somehow includes

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,

I suppose.

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,

and holding?

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 . . .

Friday, August 19, 2011

mufflers (haiku)

deep and low sounding

those purring dual car mufflers

rhythmic in idle

Thursday, August 18, 2011

A resolute view of disparagement

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

against extinction

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

lifestyle considerations.

Our governments, as caretakers,

take care of themselves

in their own form

of refined pillage and plight.

We, at best, by our methods

of governing,

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 . . .

Wednesday, August 17, 2011

idealism (haiku)

idealism’s main fault

expectation rides shotgun

outcome just story

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The eyes of truth

Can you give me a looking back

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,

Siamese like,

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,

newly scooped

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,

whole again

and always onward in expansion

through upward spirals ascending

upon this radiant cadence

beaming of reflection and return . . .