all of everything at once 6/4/12

Imagine this, for yourself,

all of everything at once.

No, really imagine,

a stampede of intimate blows

faster than

a guillotine severs response,

a slugfest of crescendos

bursting into kinesthetic shivers

both foreground and back,

before they can meet along your spine

as an atomic blast

at ground zero of your self,

eliminating even any forethought

into oblivion.

Sense this as all consuming,

in a boom,

revealing behind it,

a faint presence of a now,

that is without the benefit of recall,

without remembrance as refrain,

without resoundingness or significance,

and beyond any frail hunger for futility.

That’s all of everything at once,

in its stealth sentience.

It is a somewhat mythical stealth,

beyond the bumbling of labels,

beyond the fibers that fabric belief,

beyond the essential experiential weave,

beyond even the carbon dating

of recognition,

as this is entombing

whatever gasping would call out.

Hear me clearly,

all of everything at once . . .

So essentially uniform of itself

as to be unavailable for comparison.

This is rendering sensory accounts

as prejudicial and lackadaisical.

This is, is composed of essence that is

so incapable of being exemplary,

that by any bystander’s reference,

this is the mother tincture of is-ness.

But this is, is without containment

or receptacles of existence,

without methods like time or space

or palates of presumption

or the loiterings of language.

This is, is without the metronome

of breath insisting its existence,

without the cause worthiness of birth,

without seizures of sensibility.

This is, only the all of it all,

the all of everything at once.

Contemplation of this is

is as an exiled numbness,

enlightenment from this,

is as if it were exhaust.

This is, is before the inception of naiveté,

before self as self-consciousness

became of itself, the dis-ease.

This all of everything at once,

is without death or conjure

or positionality facing it.

This wears the soma posture of truth.

This is not even a chemistry at work.

Unflappably non-evident is this all.

This, all of everything at once,

is without seams or edges,

has nothing of notice or separation,

is never to be joined,

and is without a pretense

of a past or a future.

This is the suicide of language to say,

is without a psychology as means,

revelations in the mind of this,

gather dust.

No soul has full containment of this,

no ganglia of paradigm or desire,

no origins for which we have tears,

no black hole of spirit or gods,

are of this.

All, just all, as the all,

of everything at once is this.

Not in litany,

not by acknowledgment,

not eventuality

as substance towards symbol,

is this this.

But this this,

could never become an it.

Beyond the measurement of void,

beyond the palpitations of light-dark,

beyond

the sound current's deliverance,

is this this.

This is a bust to fathom,

for this all is,

before secretions became liquidity,

before synaptic became sensory.

This this is a falsehood

of vanity to objectify

as the universe.

All, of everything, at once.

The joyless joy of being

comes home!