In dualism,
language is always a pimp mentality.
Meaning itself, is a hustle in process.
Certitude is a satisfied customer.
The mindscape is an erogenous zone.
There are no answers for urges.
We supposedly live
between one act to another.
Based upon attention-span hormones,
we are a new thought every six seconds,
and for some, as a gender assignment!
Aren’t most thoughts
a context without a future?
What thought, on its own,
would ever be open to the source
of being?
A humble thought, a pure thought,
a childlike thought?
A thought without extravaganza,
one that is inopportune,
one that got away, one,
empty of content per se,
one without self-consciousness, or one
that never started and never ends.
Where in the thought process
is there an ongoing, an ever-last,
a generative beyond images,
somewhere beyond cognition’s request,
beyond self-consciousness’s grasp?
Where, in the trickledown of experience,
is the dance of thought to exist?
Before tissue, before molecular,
before synaptic in receivership?
Where in the manifest,
from the bleed out of thought exposed
does thought have the vastness
to have no origin and yet be?
Go there. And open that door,
from the another side of being . . .
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