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Thursday, January 10, 2013

to reverse engineer the now * 1/10/13


With every last dying breath of then,
we scribble in the mind sand,
notes to the vehicle of self.
Remember me,
from beyond my destiny to manifest.
I am, we are, it is,
before the confines
of time and space,
before cognition
was a method of constriction,
before think has a location
and the restraint of a story
in the telling,
before the pandemic fallout
of self-consciousness.
Aware where all answers
live as verbs
and questioning was
without sentience for source.
We have become tongue-tied
by the tortuous means
of understanding.
We are traveling bands
of complete compromise
and bountifuls of denial
basking in certitude.
Now has a progeny
which is not represented by time.
We are a stark raving
thought-provoked suddenness,
masquerading as if in that now.
Our apparent reality
is a manifest of chemistry
made up of reoccurring cartoons.
We are a meager means
by our own sensory survival.
We are the collective genius
of a reptilian brain trust.
We score high on suppositions.
We use an indelible ink
made from fear as our means
of testable self-documentation.
We are not confined
but we are vestiges of confinement.
We comprehend no faster
than the speed of thought.
We cannot code break
the sound barrier of logic,
nor the light barrier of being.
We are of a civilization
producing an SOS of isolation.
We are desolates asking for help.
What we have as a festering,
is a consciousness
of the incomplete.
We are of it but not with it
and desperate to be, soon.
For what we call “it”
is denigrative.
From where we call this “it’
is infantile.
We are blessed and cursed
with complete innocence
to moving on.
All our dignities of sincerity,   
all our divinities of comprehension,
all our mountains of momentum,
all our keepsakes as truth,
only measure up as pleas.
We have a concept
called “wherewithal”.
We have no clue
as to what is essentially means.
We don’t even know
if meaning itself
is the miracle.
We are all burdensome
but driven,
orphaned by familiarity’s demise.
We have horizon lines
as defining us.
We claim our heartbeat
from the rhythm of night and day.
We are all soil samples
and of recent, carbon dated.
These are our I.D.s
if you please,
that permits for us, a presence
for nowhere, we really want to be.
We present, as a compulsion
called by us, our sanity.
We are witlessly, us and them.
Our shackles speak loudly for us.
We are foreigners
in the woods of isness.
We pride ourselves
as standouts in the void.
Our truth is a pack of still shots,
we pass off as credible entry
into the now.
No registry of evolution
acknowledges us.
We are a costume party
of prison outfits
without an event to go to.
If there is a new language
for us to learn,
hurt would be our first utterance.
We are forever
in reference to the phrase,
“back in the day”.
Were we ever
“the tinkle in the cosmos eye”?
And by that means,
what was our directive?
And if so,
where have we taken ourselves?
All of mass, as our existence,
is our plaintive excuse.
We are fourth dimensionally
tongueless to speak it.
We are homelessly humming
of being,
but not in the now.
Forgive us
but be not of,
forgotten . . .
Yet, the universe,
as mostly dark matter,
has no mind of its own . . .

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