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Tuesday, September 30, 2014

Urgency (haiku) 9/30/14

urgency demands
overrun with deadlines due
gather inner strength

Monday, September 29, 2014

Sound 9/29/14

Sound, whether hearable or not,
is the glue of solids and their shape.
What you see as mass
is what you can’t hear
manifested in a holding pattern.

Sunday, September 28, 2014

time’s interlude 9/28/14

Time as an interlude
is a self-glitch in consciousness.
Attention on the time
is the exactitude of distraction.
It is a false measure of timing
and a compression
on the true momentum of being.

Saturday, September 27, 2014

Philosophy 9/27/14

A few hundred years from now,
topically, philosophy will be regarded
as a form of metaphorical proper penmanship,
scripts seen on postcards from the distant minds
about their self-consciousness,
quoting on, from the far-flung past . . .


Friday, September 26, 2014

amplitudious 9/26/14

Fear is a long wave of low amplitude.
Love is a shorter wave 
with much much higher amplitude.
Your emotions want to surf love 
and paddle through fear.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

blindspot love 9/25/14

It drives me and it draws me, bursting through with burning needs, this third arm, reaching out from under my nose, with no excuses, no reasons. Me, alluding to hidden agendas, to save face. I hear my mouth say what it says. Embarrassment, thinly shielded by chin lifting arrogance. Who is this, who reaches through, hidden from my senses, lunging and barbarous in the action of my deeds? Not ever to know what starts it or completes it. Not to know from where it comes or goes. It, hungrier than I, whenever the feast. I am captive, never to meet this creature, who takes for itself through me, who gives me no purpose, leaves no bloodstains, launches no stares. Clueless, I am caught in the eye of its passion. Brazen through the dust of my circumstance. Smacking me in the face with timeless moments. Blurring me, looking for a reality floor to land upon. Daring me to stand up and take another blind hit. Me, sacred as sour, dulled into an indifferent fool. It says its lines, does its deeds, where-I-who-would-take-to-understanding cannot hear nor see. Who is this, who is left on the outside as though I were saying this to you? Feeling pedestrian and numb and yet claimed as an appropriately upstanding community member, wearing my lost-ness with ease, when this that touches through me weaves love with its contact, then gone, while I am left to settle up with the differences. It lives off the backside of what I make of life, pierces through me, as a mule of behavior. I fuss and fury to no avail. Dumbly playing into its next deeds, a blindspot rogue taking me to task, I am a bystander witness to this blindspot love. It dreams yet I have only faint feelings.      
It loves and I am cocoon, an apprentice, as if a pawn, serving as the emissary, messenger, projection or fool. This metamorphosis, misnamed as life, is a self-generative shadowy hush of strike and recoil and I, a three dimensional mannequin to the medium of its embrace, lovingly though vacantly sipping the liquid of this, within my blindspot love . . .

Wednesday, September 24, 2014

Vulnerability 9/24/14

Vulnerability is candid transparency revealed.
Sharing the wealth of your being requires it,
so that others may gain permission by your presence
to be more wholly of who they really are.
Presence advocating for presence in response.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Too deeply (haiku) 9/23/14

so what can I say
I feel too deeply inside
to bring myself words

Monday, September 22, 2014

what size tiptoe 9/22/14

Each of us, with our lit candle,
how we do tiptoe around the others of us
in the dark dream-closeness of each night?
What great thoughts have we shared,
stolen away from being closeted in books?
What emotions of ours have passed
beneath that place within each of us
that we fill with constant gaze?
What light was shed from our shared words,
when our barnacles of wisdom are laid bare
accessible to others of out emotive water, openly?
How many thoughts of the others
do we take out for a long walks
in the lucidity of our awakeness in dreams?
What part of us is sippable
into our afternoon warm-us-up tea,
that in the tasting, we find each other
fully present, there to be?
Are we the harmonics of soul
by these same breaths
in the tent of nearness we make around us
that we inadvertantly breathe?
What of us that slips inside of what we notice
that is only at the rim
of our future lives of shared intimacy?
What size tiptoe do you make of yourself,
to live into the blessedness
of your own light of lucidity . . . ?